A WOUNDED HORSE--SHRAPNELL SHELLS--CHARGE ON THE INTRENCHMENTS--FEARFUL
FIRING.
One evening I noticed one of the horses tied in the ravine, acting very
strangely--writhing and struggling as if in pain. One of the soldiers went
to him and found that he was very badly wounded in the flank by a Minie
ball. The poor creature's agony was dreadful: he would reach his head up
as far as possible into the tree to which he was tied, and cling with his
mouth, while his neck and body quivered with the pain. Every motion,
instead of being violent, as most horses would have been when wounded, had
a stately grace of eloquent suffering that is indescribable. How I wanted
to go to him and pat and soothe him! The halter was taken off, and he was
turned free. Going to a tree, he leaned his body against it, and moaned,
with half closed eyes, shivering frequently throughout his huge body, as
if the pain were too great to bear.
Then, turning his head entirely around, he would gaze at the group of
soldiers that stood pityingly near, as if he was looking for human
sympathy. The master refused to have him shot, hoping he would recover;
but it must have been evident that this day was the last of his strong,
proud life: the noble black was doomed. After the gentle faithfulness of
his service, it was cruel to prolong his suffering: after the simple meals
of mulberry leaves, with scarcely sustenance enough to maintain life, why
should this pain and agony be permitted to rack his already weakened body?
These truths were set aside, and the master looked with pity; yet, it
seemed, a selfish pity.
Becoming restless with the pain, the poor brute staggered blindly on. And
now my eyes fill with tears; for he has fallen, with a weary moan, between
the banks of the little rivulet in the ravine, his head thrown on the sod,
and the bright, intelligent eye turned still upon the men who have been
his comrades in many a battle, standing still near him.
Poor fellow!--those low and frequent moans and trembling limbs tell them
that death has stricken you already--that you are far beyond human
sympathy. In the midst of all the falling shells, cannot one reach him,
giving him peace and death? I see an axe handed to one of the bystanders,
and turn suddenly away from the scene. The quick, soft stroke! I know it
must be over. Again I look, and the glossy, black body is being taken out
from our sight, to be replaced by new sufferings, and to be forgotten in
new incidents.
There is one missile, were I a soldier, that would totally put me to
rout--and that is a shrapnell shell. Only those who have heard several
coming at a time, exploding near, and scattering hundreds of small balls
around them, can tell how fearful the noise they make--a wild scream--a
clattering and whizzing sound that never fails in striking terror to my
heart! It seemed sometimes that as many as fifty balls fell immediately
around our door. I could have sent out at any time, near the entrance of
our cave, and had a bucketful of balls from shrapnell and the Minie rifle,
picked up in the shortest possible time.
One old, gray-headed, cheerful-hearted soldier, whom I had talked with
often, was passing through the ravine for water, immediately opposite our
cave. A Minie ball struck him in the lower part of the leg; he coolly
stooped down, tied his handkerchief around it, and passed on. So
constantly fell projectiles of all descriptions, that I became almost
indifferent to them. Only the hideous noise of numerous shrapnell could
startle me now. Generally at four o'clock in the morning the shrapnell
were thrown more furiously than at any other time through the day. At
about seven, the Minie balls began falling, accompanied by Parrott,
canister, solid shot, and shrapnell shells; and through every minute in
the day this constant play of artillery and musketry was kept up from the
Federal lines. General Pemberton had ordered the Confederate batteries to
remain silent, unless particular orders were given to fire, or an assault
was made on the works.
One afternoon I remember so vividly! One of the surgeons of the staff was
chatting with M----, when I heard a rushing and peculiar sound, as if some
one were rapidly cutting through the air, near and around me, with a
sword.
Both the doctor and M---- sprang to their feet, as the sound grew more
confused, seeming as if the sudden rush of a volume of water was pouring
down the hill. I saw M---- turn to the doctor and say: "They're coming!" I
dared not ask any questions; yet, I at first supposed the intrenchments
were taken. M----, without a word, drew on another coat and threw the
linen one he had worn to me, with a laugh. I suppose I must have looked
rather wild; for I could not tell or imagine the meaning of the confusing
and singular noise around us. Taking his sword, M---- started immediately.
I feared every moment that he would fall, for the balls fell like hail. I
turned to the doctor, questioning: "Are they coming over the hill?" He
laughed, and said:
"Oh! no; they are only making a charge on the intrenchments; and the
rushing in the air you hear is the numerous small balls flying over us."
The strange, bewildering sound lasted for some time. The doctor soon took
his leave, saying that the wounded would be brought in for him to attend.
I sat for half an hour hearing the constant rushing and surging around me,
and the quick dropping of balls; the ground trembled from the frequent
discharge of the Confederate cannon. What was likely to be the result, I
could not tell; for the ravine below, lately so full of animation, seemed
to be totally deserted, save now and then the rapid gallop of a courier
through the shower of balls along the road. Soon there came a gradual
cessation, quieting more and more down to the old interval of a minute
between the discharges; soon M---- came home, reporting one or two wounded
and one killed. It seems miraculous to me that, amid such a shower of
balls, so few persons should be injured.