CHAPTER XVI

MEDAL-OF-HONOR MEN

To-day in the world-war that is being waged in two hemispheres among

twelve nations, we hear much of the Victoria Cross and the Iron Cross,

and the decoration of the Legion of Honor, those tiny immortal symbols

of achievement for which men are so willing to lay down their lives and

which are cherished and passed on from father to son as a heritage of

honor undying. Not since gunpowder sent armor, swords, spears, arrows,

bows, catapults and a host of other outworn equipment to the scrap-heap

has the method of warfare been changed as it was in the year 1914.

Battles are now fought in the air and under the water and armies move

forward underground. Automobiles and power-driven cars, trucks and

platforms have succeeded the horse. Aeroplanes have taken the place of

cavalry. Vast howitzers carried piecemeal on trucks, which can run

across a rougher country than a horse, have made the strongest fortress

obsolete. Bombs which kill every living thing within a circle one

hundred and fifty yards in diameter, vast cylinders of gas which turn

the air for miles into a death-trap, airships which can drop high-power

explosives while invisible beyond the clouds, aerial and submarine

torpedoes which can be automatically guided by electric currents from

vessels miles away, guns that send vast shells a mile above the earth

to carry death and destruction to a point twenty miles away, concealed

artillery equipped with parabolic mirrors and automatic range-finders

which can shoot over distant hills and mountains to a hair's breadth,

and destroy concealed and protected bodies of men, rifles which shoot

without noise and without smoke, machine-guns that spray bullets across

a wide front of charging men as a hose sprays water across the width of

a lawn, wireless apparatus which send messages thousands of miles

across land and sea, all these and hundreds of other devices would be

more of a mystery to Grant and Lee and the other great commanders of

the Civil War than the breech-loading magazine rifles and artillery and

iron-clads of their day would have been to Napoleon. The warfare of

to-day is farther removed from the period of the Civil War of half a

century ago than the Napoleonic wars were from those of Hannibal over a

thousand years before.

Methods have changed, but men are the same to-day as they were when

they first built that great tower on the plain of Shinar. The

eternities of life are still with us. Brave deeds, acts of

self-sacrifice, truth, honor, courage, unselfishness still stand as in

the days of old. Every man or woman or child, small or great, can

achieve such deeds. At the end of this chronicle of the brave deeds

wrought by our fathers and grandfathers in a war which was fought for

an ideal, it is most fitting that the boys and girls of to-day should

read what was done by commonplace men as a matter of course. From the

great list prepared by the War Department of the United States of those

whom their country have honored have been selected a few stories of the

way different men won their Medal of Honor.

In 1864 General Sherman was in the midst of his great march to Atlanta.

Grant had begun the campaign against Lee's army which was to end at

Richmond, while to Sherman was given the task of crushing his rival,

Joseph E. Johnston. Inch by inch the whole of that march was fought out

in a series of tremendous battles. One of these was the hard battle of

New Hope Church in sight of Kenesaw Mountain. The battle was fought as

a successful attempt on the part of Sherman to turn the flank of

Johnston's position at Alatoona Pass. During the battle, Follett

Johnson, a corporal in the 60th Infantry, did not only a brave, but an

unusual deed. While his company was awaiting the signal to take part in

the battle which was raging on their left, they were much annoyed by

the deadly aim of a Confederate sharp-shooter concealed in an oak tree

a quarter of a mile away. Every few minutes there would be a puff of

smoke and the whine of a minie bullet, too often followed by the thud

which told that the bullet had found its billet. When at last the sixth

man, one of Johnson's best friends, was fatally wounded through the

head, Johnson made up his mind to do his share in stopping this

sharp-shooting permanently. Unfortunately he was only an ordinary shot

himself, but he crawled down the line and had a hasty conference with

one of the best shots in the regiment.

"You get a good steady rest," said Johnson, "and draw a bead on that

oak tree. I'll kind of move around and get the chap interested and when

he gives you a chance, you take it."

The Union sharp-shooter agreed to carry out his part of the bargain.

Johnson suddenly sprang to his feet and ran in a zigzag course to a

position farther down the line. A bullet from the watcher in the tree

shrieked close past his head.

"Lie down, you fool," shouted his captain. "Are you trying to commit

suicide?"

"Captain, we're fishing for that fellow over in the tree," returned

Johnson. "I'm the bait."

"Well, you won't be live-bait if you keep it up much longer," said his

captain as Johnson again took another run while a bullet cut through

his coat hardly an inch from his side. Johnson did keep it up, however.

Now he would raise his cap on a stick and try to draw the enemy's fire

in safety. Again he would suddenly spring up and make divers

disrespectful gestures toward the sharp-shooter in his tree. Sometimes

he would lie on his back and kick his legs insultingly up over a little

breastwork that had been hurriedly thrown up. One bullet from the

Confederate marksman nearly ruined a pair of good boots for Johnson

while he was doing this, taking the heel off his left boot as neatly as

any cobbler could have done. The hidden marksman, however, commenced to

show the effect of this challenge by this unknown joker. Little by

little he ventured out from behind the trunk of the tree in order to

get a better aim. By the captain's orders no one fired at him in the

hopes that he would give the watching Union sharp-shooter a deadly

chance. At last his time came. Johnson started his most ambitious

demonstration. He suddenly stood up in front of the breastworks in an

attitude of the most irritating unconcern. Yawning, he gave a great

stretch as if tired of lying down any longer, then he kissed his hand

toward the sharp-shooter and started to stroll down the front of the

line, first stopping to light his pipe. The whole company gave a gasp.

"That will be about all for poor old Folly," said one man to his

neighbor and every minute they expected to see him pitch forward. His

indifference was too much for the Confederate. Emboldened by the

absence of any recent shots, he leaned out from behind the sheltering

trunk in order to draw a deadly bead on the man who had been mocking

him before two armies. This was the chance for which the Union

sharp-shooter had been waiting. Before the Confederate marksman had a

chance to pull his trigger there was the bang of a Springfield rifle a

few rods from where Johnson was walking and the watching soldiers saw

the Confederate sharp-shooter topple backward. The rifle which had done

so much harm slipped slowly from his hand to the ground and in a minute

there was first a rustle, then a crash through the dense branches of

the oak as the unconscious body lost its grip on the limb and pitched

forward to the ground forty feet below. Johnson's captain was the first

man to shake his hand.

"It takes courage to fish for these fellows sometimes," he said, "but

it takes braver men than I am to be the bait."

Nearly thirty years later this occurrence was remembered and Corporal

Johnson awarded the medal of honor which he had earned.

Another man who drew the enemy's fire in order to save his comrades was

John Kiggins, a sergeant in one of the New York regiments. It was at

the battle of Lookout Mountain on November 24, 1863. The terrible

battle of Chickamauga had been fought. The Union Army had been reduced

to a rabble and swept off the field, except over on the left wing where

General George H. Thomas with twenty-five thousand men dashed back for

a whole afternoon the assaults of double that number of Confederates

and earned the title which he was henceforth to bear of the "Rock of

Chickamauga." The defeated army, followed afterward by General Thomas'

forces, withdrew to Chattanooga, that Tennessee battle-ground

surrounded by the heights of Missionary Ridge and Lookout Mountain.

Here the Union forces were invested on all sides by the Confederate

Army under General Bragg. The supplies of the Union Army gave out. The

Confederates commanded the Tennessee River and held all of the good

wagon-roads on the south side of it. The Union Army was nearly starved.

General Rosecrans had never recovered from the battle of Chickamauga.

Not only was his nerve shattered, but he seemed to have lost all

strength of will and concentration of purpose. General Grant, who had

just been placed in supreme command of all the military operations in

the West, decided to place Thomas in command of the Army of the

Cumberland in place of the dispirited Rosecrans. He telegraphed Thomas

to hold Chattanooga at all hazards.

"We'll hold the town until we starve," Thomas telegraphed back.

When Grant reached Chattanooga on October 23d, wet and dirty, but well,

he realized as he saw the dead horses and the hollow-cheeked men how

far the starving process had gone. Although he was on crutches from

injuries received from a runaway horse, yet his influence was

immediately felt throughout the whole army. He was a compeller of men

like Napoleon and, like him, had only to ride down the line and let his

men see that he was there in order to accomplish the impossible. He at

once sent a message to Sherman, who was coming slowly along from

Vicksburg. His messenger paddled down the Tennessee River in a canoe

under a guerrilla-fire during his whole journey and handed Sherman a

dispatch from Grant which said, "Drop everything and move your entire

force toward Stevenson." Sherman marched as only he could. When his

army reached the Tennessee River he laid a pontoon bridge thirteen

hundred and fifty feet in length in a half day, rushed his army across,

captured all the Confederate pickets and was ready to join Grant in the

great battle of Chattanooga. General Hooker marched in from one side on

November 24th and fought the great battle of Lookout Mountain above the

clouds, through driving mists and rains and on the morning of November

25th the stars and stripes waved from the lofty peak of Lookout

Mountain. The next day eighteen thousand men without any orders charged

up the almost perpendicular side of Missionary Ridge and carried it,

and the three-day battle of Chattanooga was ended in the complete

defeat of Bragg's army and the rescue of the men whom he thought he had

cornered beyond all hopes of escape.

It was during this first day's battle in the mist on Lookout Mountain

that Kiggins distinguished himself. The New York regiment, in which he

was a sergeant, had crawled and crept up a narrow winding path,

dragging their cannon after them up places where it did not seem as if

a goat could keep its footing. They had already come into position on

one side of the higher slopes when suddenly a battery above them opened

fire and the men began to fall. Through the mists they could see the

stars and stripes waving over this upper battery, which had mistaken

them for Confederate soldiers. They were shielded from the Confederate

batteries by a wall of rock, but it was necessary to stop this mistaken

fire or every man of the regiment would be swept off the mountain by

the well-aimed Union guns. Sergeant Kiggins volunteered to do the

necessary signaling. He climbed up on the natural wall of rock which

protected them from the Confederate batteries and sharp-shooters and

waved the Union flag toward the battery above him with all his might.

They stopped firing, but evidently considered it simply a stratagem and

wigwagged to Kiggins an inquiry in the Union code. It was necessary for

Kiggins to answer this or the fire would undoubtedly be at once

resumed. Unfortunately he was a poor wigwagger and as he stood on the

wall, he was exposed to the fire of every Confederate battery or

rifleman within range. The perspiration ran down his face as he

clumsily began to spell a message back to the battery above. Over his

head hummed and whirled solid round shot and around him screamed the

minie balls from half-a-dozen different directions. Once a shot pierced

his signaling flag right in the middle of a word. He not only had to

replace the flag, but he had to spell the word over again which was

even worse. The whole message did not take many minutes, but it seemed

hours to poor Kiggins. His life was saved as if by a miracle. Several

bullets pierced his uniform, his cap was shot off his head and when the

last word was finished, he dropped off the wall with such

lightning-like rapidity that his comrades, who had been watching him

with open mouths, thought that at last some bullet must have reached

its mark. Kiggins, however, was unharmed, but made a firm resolve to

perfect himself in wigwagging. We have no record whether he carried out

this good resolution, but his unwilling courage saved his regiment in

spite of his bad spelling and won for himself a medal of honor.

It was at the end of that terrible Wilderness campaign of Grant's which

in a little more than a month had cost him fifty-four thousand nine

hundred and twenty-nine men, a number nearly equal to the whole army of

Lee, his antagonist, when the campaign was commenced. Grant's first

object in this campaign was to destroy or capture Lee's army. His

second object was to capture Richmond, the capital of the Confederacy.

A special rank of Lieutenant-General had been created for him by

President Lincoln with the approval of the whole country. His victory

at the dreadful battle of Shiloh, his successful siege of Vicksburg and

his winning above the clouds the battle of Chattanooga, had made the

silent, scrubby, commonplace-looking man, with the gray-blue eyes, who

never talked but acted instead, the hope of the whole nation. In this

campaign, Grant's one idea was to clinch with Lee's army and fight it

as hard and as often as possible. He fought in the wilderness, tangled

in thickets and swamps. He fought against strong positions on hilltops,

he fought against entrenchments defended by masked batteries and

tremendous artillery. He fought against impregnable positions and

although he lost and lost and lost, he never stopped fighting. Lee had

beaten McClellan and Pope and Burnside and Hooker, all able generals,

who had tried against him every plan except that which Grant now tried,

of wearing him out by victories and defeats alike. Grant's army could

be replenished. There were not men enough left in the Confederacy to

replace Lee's army. It was a terrible campaign and only a president of

Lincoln's breadth of view and only the supreme confidence which the

American people have in a man who fights, no matter how often he is

beaten, kept Grant in command. If, after the bloody defeats in the

Wilderness and at Spottsylvania or at Cold Harbor, he had turned back

like any of his successors would have done, undoubtedly his past record

would not have saved him the command. It was like the celebrated battle

between Tom Cribb, the champion of England, and Molineaux, the giant

black, in the eighteenth century for the championship of the world.

Again and again and again Cribb was knocked down by blows so tremendous

that even his ring generalship could not avoid them. Battered and

bloody he always staggered to his feet and bored in again for more.

Molineaux at last said to his seconds, "I can't lick a fellow like

that; the fool doesn't know when he is beaten." It was so with Grant

and Lee. Grant never knew when he was beaten. Lee's generalship could

knock him down, but could not keep him back, and the Confederate leader

realized himself that sooner or later some chance of war would give

Grant the opportunity for a victory from which the Confederate Army

could not recuperate.

Cold Harbor was the last of this series of defeats which helped wear

out Lee's army and ended in its capture and the occupation of Richmond.

At the time, however, it was bitter to be borne by the millions of men

and women and children who were hungering and thirsting for a victory

of the Union arms. Marching and fighting and fighting and marching

every day for a month, Grant was almost in sight of the spires of the

Confederate capital. About six miles outside the city Lee had taken his

last stand at Cold Harbor. He held a position of tremendous natural

strength and had fortified and entrenched it so that it was practically

impregnable. Grant tried in vain to flank it. On June 30th he ordered

an assault in front. Against him was the flower of the Confederate Army

commanded by the best general of the world and securely entrenched in a

position than which no stronger was ever attacked throughout the whole

war. Grant first gave his command to attack on the afternoon of June

2d, but then postponed it until the early morning of June 3d. Officers

and men alike knew that they were to be sacrificed. All through the

regiments men were pinning slips of paper, on which were written their

names and addresses, to the backs of their coats, so that their dead

bodies might be recognized after the battle and news sent to their

families at the North. The battle was a short one. The second corps of

General Hancock, one of the bravest and most dashing of all of Grant's

generals, was shot to pieces in twenty-two minutes and fell back with

three thousand of its best men gone, including most of its officers.

All along the line the story was the same. At some places the Union men

were beaten back without any difficulty and at other spots they

penetrated the salients, but were driven back. Attack after attack was

in vain against the generalship of Lee, the bravery of his men and the

almost impregnable strength of his position.

Eugene M. Tinkham, of the 148th New York Infantry, was in that corps

directly under the eye of Grant himself which attacked and attacked the

Confederate position throughout that bloody morning, only to be driven

back each time with tremendous losses. The 148th Infantry, in which

Tinkham was a corporal, charged right up to the very mouth of the guns.

Flesh and blood could not stand, however, against the volleys of grape

and canister which ripped bloody, struggling lanes right through the

masses of the charging men. As the corps of which Tinkham's regiment

was a part was stopped by the wall of dead and wounded men piled up in

front of them, the Confederates with a fierce Rebel yell charged over

the breastworks on the confused attackers. For a minute the New York

regiment held its own, but were finally slowly forced back fighting

every foot to the shelter of their own rifle-pits. There they made a

stand and the Confederate sally stopped and the men in gray dashed back

to their own fortifications. In this charge, Tinkham received a bayonet

wound through his left shoulder while a jagged piece of canister had

ripped through his left arm. Not until he found himself back in the

rifle-pit, however, did he even know that he was wounded. His bayonet

and the barrel of his rifle were red clear up to the stock and he did

not at first realize that the blood dripping from his left sleeve was

his own. It was only as he lay on the dry sand and saw the red stain

beside him grow larger and larger that he realized that he was hurt.

One of the few men who had returned with him stripped off his coat, cut

away the sleeve of his shirt and made a couple of rough bandages and

extemporized a rude tourniquet from the splinters of one of the wheels

of a battered field-piece which had flown into the pit. When that was

over, Tinkham lay back and shut his eyes and felt the weakness which

comes over a man who has lost much blood. To-day there was not the

tonic of victory which sometimes keeps even wounded men up. He had seen

his comrades, men with whom he had eaten and slept and fought for over

two years, thrown away, as it seemed to him, uselessly. He was yet to

learn, what the army learned first and the country last, that Grant was

big enough and far-sighted enough to know that some victories must be

wrought from failure as well as success. This was one of the

hammer-strokes which seemed to bound back from the enemy's armor

without leaving a mark, yet the impact weakened Lee even when it seemed

that he was most impervious to it. It was absolutely necessary to

Grant's far-reaching plans that Lee be fought on every possible

occasion. Whether he won or lost, Grant's only hope lay on keeping Lee

on the defensive. None of this, of course, could a wounded corporal in

a battered, beaten and defeated regiment realize. All he knew was that

his friends were gone, that he was wounded and, worst of all, had been

forced to again and again retreat. He shut his eyes and there was a

sound in his ears like the tolling of a great bell. It seemed to swell

and rise until it drowned even the rattle and roar of the battle which

was still going on. When Tinkham opened his eyes everything seemed to

waver and quiver before him. Suddenly there came a short, thin, wailing

sound which cut like a knife through the midst of the unconsciousness

which was stealing over him. It was the cries of two wounded men lying

far out in the field over which he had come. Tinkham raised his hand

and strained his eyes. He could recognize two of his own file, men who

a moment before had been by his side and who now lay moaning their

lives away out on that shell-swept field. Tinkham listened to it as

long as he could. Then he set his teeth, scrambled to his feet and in

spite of his comrades who thought that he was delirious, climbed

stiffly over the edge of the rifle-pit and began to creep out between

the lines toward the wounded men. At first every motion was an agony.

He was weakened by the loss of blood and he could bear no weight on his

left arm, yet there was such a fatal storm of bullets and grape-shot

whizzing over him that he knew that, if he rose to his feet, there

would be little chance of his ever reaching his friends alive. Slowly

and doggedly he sidled along like a disabled crab. Sometimes he would

have to stop and rest. Many times bullets whizzed close to him and cut

the turf all around where he lay. As soon as he had rested a few

seconds, he would fix his eye on some little tuft of grass or stone or

weed and make up his mind that he would crawl until he reached that

before he rested again. It was a long journey before he reached his

goal. On the way he had taken three full canteens of water from silent

figures which would never need them more. When at last he reached the

men, they recognized him and the tears ran down their faces as they

called his name.

"God bless you, Corporal," said one; "it's just like you to come for

us."

Tinkham had no breath left to talk, but he gave each wounded man a

refreshing drink from the canteens. Both of them were badly, although

not fatally, wounded. One had a shattered leg and the other was slowly

bleeding to death from a jagged wound in his thigh which he had tried

in vain to staunch. Tinkham bandaged them up to the best of his ability

and started to drag them both back to safety. With his help and

encouragement, each of them crawled for himself as best he was able. It

was a weary journey. During the last part of it, however, he was helped

by other volunteers who were shamed into action by seeing this wounded

man do what they had not dared. All three recovered and lived to take

part in the latter-day victories which were yet to come.

Tinkham was but one of the thousands of brave men who risked their

lives to save their comrades. There was Michael Madden who at Mason's

Island, Maryland, was on a reconnaissance with a comrade within the

enemy's lines. His companion was wounded. A number of the enemy's

cavalry started out to cut off the two men who were at the same time

exposed to concentrated fire from the enemy's sharp-shooters. Madden

picked his comrade up as if he had been a child, hoisted him to his

back and ran with him to the bank of the Potomac, and plunged off into

the water. Swimming on his back, he kept his comrade's head up and

crossed the river in safety with the bullets hissing and spattering all

around him.

Then there was Julius Langbein, a drummer-boy fifteen years old. In

1862 at Camden, N.C., the captain of his company was shot down.

Langbein went to his help, but found that unless he received surgical

treatment, he could not live an hour. Unstrapping his drum, he ran back

to the rear and found a surgeon who was brave enough to go out to the

front with him and under a heavy fire give first-aid to the wounded

officer. Then the two carried the unconscious captain back to safety.

It is a brave man that can rally himself in a retreat. Usually men go

with the crowd. Once let the tide of battle begin to ebb and a company

or a regiment or a brigade commence a retreat, it takes not only

unusual courage, but also unusual will-power for any single man to

stand out against his fellows and resist not only his own fears, but

theirs. Such a man was John S. Kenyon. At Trenton, S.C., on May 15,

1862, the whole column of his regiment, the 3d New York Cavalry, was

retreating under a murderous fire from the enemy. Kenyon was in the

rear rank. The retreat had started at a trot, had increased to a gallop

and finally the whole column was riding at breakneck speed away from

the shot and shell which crashed through their ranks. At the very

height of their speed a man riding next to Kenyon was struck in the

right shoulder by a grape-shot. The force of the blow pitched him

headlong from the saddle. He still held to his reins with his left hand

with a death-grip and was dragged for yards by his plunging, snorting

horse. Kenyon was just ahead and knew nothing of the occurrence until

he heard a faint voice behind him calling breathlessly, "Help, John,

help!" He looked back and saw his comrade nearly fifty yards behind

lying on the ground. Already his fingers were loosening their grip on

the rein and the blood was flowing fast from the gash on his shoulder.

Behind him the Confederate cavalry came thundering along not a quarter

of a mile away while the massed batteries behind them swept the whole

field with a hail of lead and steel. John hesitated for a minute and

for the last time he heard once more the call of help, this time so

faint that he could hardly hear it above the din of the battle. With a

quick movement, he swung his horse to one side of the column.

"Don't be a fool, John," shouted one of the men ahead; "it's every man

for himself now. You can't save him and you'll only lose your own

life."

It was the old plausible lie that started when Satan said of Job, "Skin

for skin, all that a man hath will he give for his life." It was a lie

then and it is just as much a lie to-day.

"Greater love hath no man than that he lay down his life for his

friend," said our Master. Every day when the crisis comes we see men

who will do that. Kenyon was one of these men. As he said afterward, "I

should never have been able to get Jim's voice out of my mind if I

hadn't stopped."

It only took an instant to cover the distance from the column to the

wounded man. Kenyon reached him just in time to catch the riderless

horse which had at last freed his bridle from the weak grip of his

wounded master. Kenyon swung himself to the ground and holding the two

plunging horses with his right hand, pulled his friend to his feet and

with a tremendous effort finally hoisted him into his saddle again. By

this time the pursuing cavalry was within pistol-shot and the revolver

bullets began to sing around the heads of the two men.

"You hang on to your saddle, Jim," said Kenyon, "and I'll take care of

your horse."

Bending low in his saddle, he dug his spurs deep into his horse's

sides, at the same time keeping his grip on the reins of the other

horse and in a few minutes the two were back again in the rear of the

retreating column. All through the retreat Kenyon stuck to his comrade

and finally landed him safely in the field-hospital in front of which

the Union Army had thrown up entrenchments which stopped all further

pursuit.

War, like everything else, is always a one-man job. It was the one man

Hannibal that took a tropical army of sunburned Arabs, Carthaginians,

Abyssinians, Berbers and soldiers from half a score of other southern

nations and cut and built and tunneled his way through the ice and snow

and cold of the Alps. Not only did his indomitable will carry his men

through an impossible and unknown region, but it was this one man who

for the first time in the history of the world marched elephants up

over the Alps. Over two thousand years later it was one man again who

took a ragged, battered, beaten army and marched over the same route

and through the avalanches and snow-covered peaks and blinding

snow-storms of the Great Bernard Pass. When the men turned trembling

back from the brink of immeasurable precipices and before cliffs which

seemed as if they could be climbed only by the chamois, Napoleon would

order the drums and bugles to strike up the signal for a charge and up

and over his soldiers went. It was this one short, frail, little man

that fused this army into a great fighting machine, marched it over

impossible mountains and swept down into Italy to win as great

victories as did his fierce predecessor twenty centuries before.

The records of the War Department are full of instances where men

singly did seemingly impossible things. There was Patrick Ginley, a

private in a New York regiment. At Reams Station, Virginia, the command

in which he fought deserted important works which they occupied and

retreated under the tremendous fire of the advancing enemy. Patrick

remained. It seemed impossible that only one man could do anything

except throw away his life, but Patrick made up his mind that he would

accomplish everything that one man could. Accordingly as the enemy

surged up to occupy the works with cheers and laughter at the sight of

the retreating bluecoats, they were suddenly staggered by receiving a

tremendous cannonade of grape-shot which cut down the entire first two

ranks of the approaching company. It was Private Ginley who,

single-handed, had loaded and sighted the gun and coolly waited until

the enemy were within pointblank range. The Confederates were thrown

into confusion. They suspected a Yankee trick and thought that the

retreat had been made simply to lure them into close range. In the

confusion they fell back, although they could have marched in without

any further opposition, for as soon as Ginley had fired the gun, he

escaped out of the rear of the earthworks and hastened to another Union

regiment which was holding its ground near by. Waving his arms over his

head and shouting like a mad-man, he rushed up to the astonished men

and grabbed the colors out of the hands of the bewildered

color-sergeant.

"Come on, boys!" he shouted. "I've got some good guns and a nice bit of

fortification just waitin' for you. Look at the way I drove them back

all by myself."

And he waved the colors toward the shattered Confederates who were

slowly forming into line again preparatory to an assault, and started

back for the works as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Come on, you fellows," he yelled over his shoulder; "do you want me to

drive them back twice?"

His example was all that was needed. There was a cheer from officers

and men alike and close behind him thundered the charge of the

regiment. With a rush they swept up over the earthworks, drove the

Confederates, who had just entered from the other side, out headlong,

manned the whole works and in a minute were pouring charges of grape

and canister from the retaken guns which completed their victory. A

defeat had been changed into a victory, eleven guns and important works

had been retaken from the enemy and a regiment of Confederates

disorganized and driven from the field. One man did it.

The deeds that most appeal to our imagination are single combats--one

man against a multitude when daring and dash and coolness and skill

take the place of numbers. History is full of such stories. We love to

read of that great death-fight of Hereward the Wake, the Last of the

English, when with sturdy little Winter at his back, he fought his last

fight ringed around with hateful, treacherous foes. At his feet the

pile of dead and wounded men grew high and higher until no one dared

step within the sweep of that fatal sword. At last when Winter had

fallen, some treacherous coward thrust a spear into Hereward's

defenseless back. As he lay fallen on his face, apparently dead, one of

his foemen stepped over to rob him of his sword when Hereward struggled

to his knees and struck forward with his shield so fiercely, the last

blow of the last Englishman, that he laid his man dead on the field.

Then there was the death-fight of Grettir the Outlaw which Andrew Lang

calls one of the four great fights in literature of one man against a

multitude. No boy should ever grow up without reading the Grettir Saga

which tells how after being unjustly driven into outlawry Grettir

finally took refuge on a rocky island which could only be climbed by a

rope-ladder. There with his brother and a cowardly, lazy servant he

lived in safety until his enemies hired a witch-wife to do him harm. At

midnight she cut grim runes into a great log of driftwood and burned

strange signs thereon and stained it with her blood and then after

laying upon it many a wicked spell, had it cast into the sea by four

strong men. Against wind and tide it sailed to Drangy, Grettir's island

of refuge. There he found it on the beach, but recognized it as

ill-fated and warned the servant not to use it for fire-wood. In spite

of this the lazy thrall brought it up the next day and when Grettir,

not recognizing it, started to split the accursed log, his axe glanced

and cut a deep gash in his leg. The wound festered and the leg swelled

and turned blue so that Grettir could not even stand on it. When he was

at last disabled, the witch-wife raised a storm and under her direction

a band of his bitterest enemies went out to the island and found that

his servant had left the rope-ladder down. One by one they climbed the

sheer cliff and made a ring around the little hut where Grettir and his

young brother slept. They dashed in the door. Grettir seized his sword

and shield and fought on one knee so fiercely that they dared not

approach him. Some of the attackers tried to slip behind his watchful

sword.

"Bare is the back of the brotherless," panted Grettir and his

boy-brother stood behind him and fought over him until they were both

overborne by the sheer weight of heavy shields, and Grettir killed,

although not until six men lay dead in front of the great chieftain.

Illugi, the brother, was offered his life if he would promise to take

no vengeance on the murderers of his brother. He refused to do this

because they had killed Grettir by witchcraft and treachery and not in

fair fight. So they slew him, trying in vain to avoid the vengeance

which came to them all many years later at the hands of another of

Grettir's kin.

We read also of battles won against what seem to us impossible odds.

The Samurai stories of old Japan have several instances where

chieftains defeated whole armies single-handed by their wonderful

swordsmanship. The Bible contains several such stories. There is the

story of Jonathan and his armor-bearer who together captured a

fortress. Jonathan said to the young man that bare his armor, "Come and

let us go over unto the garrison. It may be that the Lord will work for

us." And his armor-bearer said unto him, "Do all that is in thine

heart, behold I am with thee." Then they agreed to wait for a sign. If

when they came before the garrison the men should invite them to come

up, then they would go. If not, they would not make the attempt. The

account goes on to say that when they both discovered themselves unto

the garrison of the Philistines, the men of the garrison cried out to

Jonathan and his armor-bearer and said, "Come up to us and we will show

you a thing." And Jonathan said unto his armor-bearer, "Come up after

me for the Lord hath delivered them to us." And Jonathan climbed up

upon his hands and upon his feet and his armor-bearer after him and

they fell before Jonathan and his armor-bearer slew after him. In a

half-acre of ground which a yoke of oxen might plough, these two fought

and slew and cut their way back and forth until the band that held the

fort broke and fled and the stronghold was captured by the two.

Then there was Jashobeam the Hachmonite, one of the first three men of

David's body-guard of heroes who slew with his spear three hundred men

at one time. There was Eleazar, who with David fought in that bloody

barley field when these two warriors single-handed dispersed a company

of Philistines. There was Abishai who slew three hundred men. These

were the three mighty men who were besieged with David in the cave of

Adullam in the midst of a parched and burning desert and David longed

and said, "Oh, that one would give me to drink of the water of the well

of Bethlehem that is at the gate." The three heard what their captain

said and alone they broke through the ranks of the Philistines, drew

water out of the well of Bethlehem and brought it back to David. And

David did not drink of it, but poured it out to the Lord and said,

"Lord forbid that I should drink the blood of these men that have put

their lives in jeopardy for me."

When we read these and other hero-stories, we are apt to think that the

time for such deeds is past and that the men of to-day can never equal

the accomplishments of the fighters of olden time. Yet the Civil War

shows stories just as stirring and accomplishments seemingly as

impossible. There was George Wilhelm, a captain in the Ohio Infantry.

At Bakers Creek he was badly wounded in the breast and after he had

fallen was captured by a Confederate, forced to his feet and though

faint from loss of blood marched to the Confederate camp. As he saw

himself farther and farther away from his own army a Berserkir rage

came over him which made him forget his wound and his weakness. With

one tremendous spring he caught his captor around the neck, wrested his

drawn sabre from out of his hand, slashed him over the left shoulder

and then picking up the loaded revolver which had dropped from the

disabled hand faced him around and marched him back to the Union lines

a prisoner although, toward the end of that journey, Wilhelm was so

weak that he had to lean on the shoulder of his unwilling attendant.

There was William G. Whitney a sergeant in the 11th Michigan Infantry,

at the battle of Chickamauga who, just as his men were about to face a

fierce charge from the Confederates, found that their ammunition had

given out. Outside the Union works was a shell-swept field covered with

dead and wounded men. Whitney never hesitated. He leaped over the works

and ran back and forth over that field, cutting off and loading himself

down with cartridge-boxes, although it did not seem as if a man could

live a minute in that hissing storm of bullets and shell. Just in time

he brought back the ammunition which enabled his men to beat back the

charge and hold their position.

At Rappahannock Station, Virginia, J. Henry White, a private in the

90th Pennsylvania Infantry, like David's men brought back water to his

thirsty comrades at the risk of his own life. The enemy had

concentrated their fire on the only spring from which Union men could

get water, but White crawled through the grass like a snake, covered

from head to foot with canteens, filled them every one and crawled back

under a fire which seemed as if it must be fatal. The Union forces were

able to hold out and win the fight through his brave deed.

On May 12, 1864, Christopher W. Wilson, a private in the 73d New York

Infantry at the battle of Spottsylvania in a charge on the Confederate

works, seized the flag which the wounded color-bearer had dropped, led

the charge and then for good measure cut down the color-bearer of the

56th Virginia Regiment, captured the Confederate colors and brought

back both flags in safety to the Union lines.

Another color-bearer who won his share of battle-glory was Andrew J.

Tozier, a sergeant in the 20th Maine Infantry at the battle of

Gettysburg. Tozier believed that it was the duty of a color-bearer

having done all to stand fast. At the very flood-tide of the fight when

it was a toss-up which side would be the victor of that crisis-battle

of the war, Tozier's regiment, which was in the forefront, was borne

back leaving him standing with the colors in an advanced position.

Tozier stood there like a rock and coolly picked off with his musket

every Confederate that attacked him until his ammunition gave out. He

then pushed forward a few yards until he reached the body of one of the

soldiers of his regiment who had fallen and stooping down, still

keeping his colors flying, he managed to loosen some cartridges from

the dead man's belt. With these he recharged his rifle and fought a

great fight alone. Again and again he would stoop for a minute to get

more cartridges, but the flag never went down. From all over the field

the officers from the scattered regiment rallied their men and hurried

toward the colors and just as a Confederate troop thundered down on

Tozier, intending to ride over him and carry away the precious flag,

from every part of the field little squads of fighting men reached him

in time to pour in a volley that saved the colors which Tozier for many

minutes had been protecting single-handed. That was the turning-point

of this part of the battle. The Maine regiment pressed on and never

retreated a foot again through all those days of terrible fighting.

Tozier was one of the many men who saved that day for the Union by

being brave in the face of tremendous odds.

Freeman C. Thompson of the 116th Ohio Infantry won his medal of honor

at Petersburg, Virginia. On April 2, 1865, the Union forces were

storming Fort Gregg. Both sides had poured in murderous volleys at

short range and then had rushed to close quarters, fighting desperately

with bayonet and butt. Thompson scrambled up on his hands and knees,

but had no more reached the parapet when he was knocked off it headlong

by a tremendous blow on the head from a clubbed musket. When he

returned to consciousness he found himself lying in the ditch with two

dead men on top of him. Thompson made up his mind that this was not the

kind of company which he ought to keep and springing to his feet, he

started again for the parapet. This time he was more fortunate for he

gained a footing and managed to bayonet the first man who attacked him,

but before he could withdraw the bayonet, once again he received a

tremendous smash full in the face from a clubbed musket and went clear

over backward with a broken nose. He struck on the heap of bodies from

which he had just emerged and though not unconscious, lay for a few

minutes unable to move. Finally he managed to wipe the blood out from

his eyes and spit out the blood and broken teeth from his battered

mouth. Some men would have felt that they had had enough, but not so

with this one. For the third and last time he scrambled up and as he

reached the edge of the parapet caught sight of the man who was

responsible for his battered face. Thompson rushed at him and there was

a battle royal between the two, bayonet to bayonet, but Thompson at

last by a trick of fence which he had learned, suddenly reversed his

musket and smashed the heavy butt down on his opponent's right forearm,

breaking the latter's grip on his own weapon. Before he could recover,

Thompson's bayonet had passed through his throat and Thompson himself

had gained a foothold within the works. Shoulder to shoulder he fought

with the rest of his comrades in spite of the streaming blood and only

stopped when the garrison surrendered.

It is a brave man in civil life that will give up his vacation and it

takes a hero to relinquish a furlough, that precious breathing spell

away from battles and hardships back at home with his dear ones. Martin

Schubert, a private in the 26th New York Infantry, had gained this

respite and had paid for it by his wounds. Hearing that his regiment

was about to go into battle again at Fredericksburg, he gave up his

furlough, hurried back to the front and fought fiercely through all

that brave day. Six men of his regiment, one after the other, had been

shot down that fatal afternoon while carrying the colors. Schubert,

although he already had one half-healed and one open wound, seized the

flag when it went down for the last time and carried it to the front

until the very end of the battle, although he received an extra wound

for doing it. Thirty-one years later he received a medal of honor for

that day's work.

It is easier to save a wounded friend or wounded comrade than a wounded

enemy. He who dares death to save one whom he is fighting against shows

courage of the highest type. Such a deed occurred during the battle of

Chancellorsville. Those four fatal May-days were filled as full of

brave deeds as any days of the Civil War. Though General Hooker, the

Union general, flinched and lost not only the battle, but forever his

name of Fighting Joe Hooker, his men gave up only when they were

outflanked and out-fought and unsupported.

Elisha B. Seaman was a private in one of the regiments which was

surprised and attacked by the twenty-six thousand infantry of Stonewall

Jackson, the best fighters in the Confederate Army. The Union men were

not suspecting any danger. Word had been sent a number of times both to

Hooker and to General Howard who commanded the eleventh corps under him

that Jackson was crossing through the woods to make a flank-attack.

Neither general would believe the message. Both were sure that Jackson

was in retreat. When the attack came the Union troops were attacked in

front and from the flank and rear at once. They held their ground for a

time, but they were new troops and even veterans could not have long

sustained such an assault. At first they attempted to make an orderly

retreat, but the Confederates pressed on them so close and fought so

fiercely that the retreat became a run and the corps of which Seaman's

regiment was a part was not rallied until they met reinforcements far

over in the wilderness and gradually came to a halt and threw up

defenses. There they were too strong to be driven back further by the

Confederates and managed to hold their ground although attacked again

and again. After the last attack the Confederate forces withdrew and

took up a strong position on the Union front, brought up artillery and

opened up a tremendous rifle-fire mingled with the cannonade from all

their available batteries, hoping to throw the Union forces into

disorder so that they would not stand another charge. During the

fiercest of the fire while every man was keeping close under cover,

Seaman's attention was caught by the sight of a Confederate officer who

lay writhing in terrible agony not a hundred yards outside of the Union

lines. He had been shot through the body in the last charge and had

been left on the field by the retreating Confederates. The pain was

unbearable. Seaman could see his face all distorted and although not a

sound came through the clenched teeth, the poor fellow could not

control the agonized twitching and jerking of his tortured muscles.

Seaman tried to turn his face away from the sight, but each time his

eyes came back to that brave man in torment out in front of him. At

last he could stand it no longer. He slipped back to the rear and got

hold of a surgeon.

"Doctor," he said, "there's a fellow out in front pretty badly wounded.

If I get him to you, do you think you can ease his pain?"

"I certainly can," said the surgeon, "but judging from the noise out

there in front, you'll lie out there with him if you go beyond the

breastworks."

"You get your chloroform ready," said Seaman, "and I'll get the man."

A few minutes later Elisha was seen by his astonished comrades crawling

along the bullet-torn turf on his way to the wounded man.

"Hi there, come back, you lump-head!" yelled his bunkie. "Don't you see

the fellow is a Reb? You'll get killed."

"I wouldn't let a dog suffer the way that fellow's suffering," yelled

back Elisha, waddling along on his hands and knees like a woodchuck. He

finally reached the officer, forced a little whiskey into his mouth and

prepared to lift him up on his back.

"Cheer up, old man," he said. "I've got a good surgeon back there who

says he can fix you up. If I can only get you on my back, we'll be safe

in a minute."

"You'll be safe enough," gasped the other somewhat ungratefully, Seaman

thought, "but there will be a dozen bullets through me."

There seemed to be something in that statement. Elisha decided that it

would be a cruel kindness to turn this man into a target for the

bullets which were coming across the field and make him act as his

involuntary shield.

"I'll tell you what I'll do, General," Seaman said finally; "I'll get

you up and then I'll back down to our lines. If any one gets hit, it'll

be me.

He was as good as his word. Although the wounded officer was a large

man, Seaman got a fireman's-lift on him, swung him over his shoulders

and then facing the Confederate lines, slowly backed his way toward

safety. At first the Confederate fire redoubled as the men in gray

thought that he was simply effecting the capture of one of their men.

When, however, they realized that he was protecting one of their own

officers from their fire with his own body, all along the line the

fusillade of musketry died down and there came down the wind in its

place the sound of a storm of cheers which swept from one end of the

Confederate position to the other. Seaman covered the last fifty yards

of his dangerous journey without a shot being fired at him except the

shot and shell from the batteries which were being worked too far back

for the gunners to know what was going on. The surgeon with whom he had

spoken had been attracted to the front by the shouts and cheers both

from the Confederate lines and from Seaman's own comrades and was the

first to help him over the breastworks.

"You're a great fool," he said. "I thought you were talking about one

of our men, but so long as you brought this poor Reb in at the risk of

your life, I'll certainly cure him."

And he did.

Another man whose courage flared up superior to wounds and mutilation

and who was brave enough to do his duty in spite of the agony he was

suffering, was Corporal Miles James, who on September 30, 1864, at

Chapins Farm, Virginia, with the rest of his company was attacking the

enemy's works. They had charged up to within thirty yards of the

fortifications when they were met by a murderous storm of grape and

canister, the enemy having held their fire until the very last moment.

A grape-shot cut through Corporal James' left arm just above the elbow,

smashing right through the middle of the bone and cutting the arm half

off so that it dangled by the severed muscles. The force of the blow

whirled James around like a top and he fell over to the ground, but was

on his feet again in an instant and started for the Confederate line

like the bulldog that he was.

"Go back, Corporal," shouted one of his men. "Your arm's half off and

you'll bleed to death."

"No I won't," yelled James; "my right arm is my fighting-arm anyway."

"Let me tie you up then," said the man, pulling him to the ground where

the rest of the regiment lay flat on their faces waiting for the storm

to pass so that they might charge again. "There's plenty of time."

An examination of the arm showed that it was past saving.

"Corporal," said the other, "you had better let me take this arm right

off. I can make a quick job with my bowie-knife and bandage it. If I

don't you'll bleed to death."

"All right," said Miles; "go ahead."

A minute later the amateur surgeon tied the last knot in the bandage

which he had made out of a couple of bandanna handkerchiefs which had

been contributed by others of the file.

"Now, Corporal," he said, coaxingly, "let me get you back where you can

lie down and rest."

"No," said Corporal James, "the only resting I'm going to do will be

inside those works."

He reached back for the Springfield rifle which he had dropped when

first struck and fitting it carefully to his right shoulder, fired a

well-aimed shot at a Confederate gunner who was serving one of the

cannons on the breastworks. As the man toppled over the corporal smiled

grimly and in spite of offers of help from all sides, loaded and fired

his gun twice again. By this time the fire had died down and the

corporal suddenly sprang to his feet and started for the breastworks.

"Hurry up, fellows," he shouted to his men; "don't let a one-armed man

do all the work."

With a tremendous cheer the whole force sprang again to their feet and

swarmed over the ramparts in a rush which there was no stopping. James

was right with them, two of his men hoisting and pushing him up, for he

found that although he could shoot, it was more difficult to climb with

one arm. As the last Confederates who were left surrendered, James sat

down against one of the captured cannon and smiled wanly at the man who

had helped him and said:

"Now I'll take a rest and later on I'll go to the rear with you if you

like."

This he did and a regular surgeon completed an operation which he said

had, under the circumstances, been most efficiently performed. Corporal

James always said that the medal of honor which the government gave him

was worth far more than the arm which he gave the government.

In the days of David there came a great famine. Year after year the

crops failed and the people starved. At last the priests and

soothsayers told David that this doom had fallen upon the nation

because of a broken oath. Many centuries before Joshua, one of the

great generals of the world, was fighting his way into the Promised

Land. He was contending with huge black giant tribes like the Anakim,

and against blue-eyed Amorite mountaineers with their war-chariots of

iron, whose five kings he was to utterly destroy on that great day when

he said in the sight of the host of Israel, "Sun, stand thou still upon

Gibeon and thou Moon in the valley of Ajalon," and the sun stood still

and the moon stayed until the people had revenged themselves upon their

enemies. He had captured the fortified city of Jericho and had razed it

to the ground and laid that terrible curse which was afterward

fulfilled on the man who should again lay the foundation and rebuild

the city. He had destroyed the city of Ai, little but inhabited by

fierce fighters who had hurled back even the numberless hordes of

Israel. The terror and the dread of the invaders had spread through the

length and breadth of the land. On the slopes of Mount Hermon lived the

Hivites. They were not great in war, but like the men of Tyre they

asked to be let alone to carry on the trade and commerce in which they

were so expert. Not far away from Ai was their chief city of Gibeon and

the elders of that city planned to obtain from Joshua safety by

stratagem. They sent embassadors whose skin bottles were old and rent

and bound up and whose shoes were worn through and clouted and whose

garments were old and worn and their provision dry and mouldy. These

came to Joshua pretending to be embassadors from a far country who

desired to make a league with them. Not knowing that their city was in

the very path of his march, Joshua and the princes of the congregation

made peace with them. Later on they found that they had been deceived,

but the word of the nation had been passed and the sworn peace could

not be broken. So it happened from that day that the Gibeonites became

hewers of wood and drawers of water for the congregation and lived in

peace with the Israelites under their sworn protection. The centuries

passed and at last Saul, the first king of Israel, began his reign. In

spite of the oath of his forefathers, he slew the Gibeonites and sought

to root them out of the land. It was this broken oath that had brought

upon the nation the years of famine and suffering. Under the advice of

their priests David sent for the remnants of the Gibeonites and asked

them what atonement could be made for the cruel and treacherous deed of

King Saul who had long been dead, but whose sin lived on after him. The

Gibeonites said that they would have no silver or gold of Saul or of

his house, but demanded that seven men of the race of Saul be delivered

unto them. It was done and they hung these seven prisoners as a

vengeance on the bloody house of Saul. Two of them were the sons of

Rizpah whom she bore unto Saul, the king. When they were hanged, she

took sackcloth and spread it on the rocks and guarded those bodies

night and day and suffered neither the birds of the air to rest upon

them by day or the beasts of the field by night. Sleeplessly she

guarded all that was left of her sons until the news of her

faithfulness was brought to David, who gave back to her the bodies for

burial and for the last rites of sepulchre and sanctuary which mean so

much to all believers.

In the Civil War at Cold Harbor, Virginia, Sergeant LeRoy Williams of

the 8th New York Artillery, like Rizpah, saved the body of his dead

colonel and brought it back at the risk of his own life for honored

burial. During that terrible battle in one of the charges of his

regiment, his colonel was shot down close to the enemy's lines. When

the shattered remnants of the regiment rallied again after they had

been driven back by the entrenched Confederates, it was found that the

colonel was missing. Williams had a profound admiration and affection

for his colonel. When he found he was missing, he took an oath before

the men that were left that he would find him and bring him in dead or

alive. All the rest of that weary afternoon he crept back and forth

over the battle-field exposed to the fire of the enemy's

sharp-shooters. Again and again his life was saved almost by a miracle,

so close did the well-directed bullets strike. Finally just at twilight

close to the enemy's lines he found his colonel. He lay as he had

fallen, facing the entrenchments which he had fought so hard to win,

with a bullet through his heart. Within a few feet of where he lay the

Confederate pickets were stationed who watched the field and fired at

the least suspicious movement. Just as Williams identified the body, he

saw one of the sentries approaching in the dusk and had just time to

throw himself down with outstretched arms beside the dead officer when

the guard was upon him. Something in his attitude aroused the man's

suspicions and he prodded Williams in the back with his bayonet.

Fortunately the sharp steel struck him glancingly and only inflicted a

shallow wound and Williams had the presence of mind and the fortitude

to lie perfectly quiet without a motion or a sound to indicate that he

lived. The sentry passed on convinced that only dead men lay before

him. Williams waited until it became perfectly dark and started to drag

in the dead body of his officer. Inch by inch he crept away from the

enemy's lines in the darkness until he was far enough away so that his

movements could not be seen. All that weary night he dragged and

carried the rescued body of the dead officer until just at dawn he

brought it within the Union lines to receive the honors of a military

funeral.

Space fails to tell of the many brave deeds which gleam through the

blood of many a hard-fought field and shine against the blackness of

many a dark defeat. There was David L. Smith, a sergeant in Battery E

of the 1st New York Light Artillery, who, when a shell struck an

ammunition chest in his battery, exploding a number of cartridges and

setting fire to the packing tow, instead of running away from the

exploding cartridges which threatened every minute to set fire to the

fuses of some of the great shells, had the coolness and the courage to

bring a bucket of water and put out the flames as quietly as if he were

banking a camp-fire for the night.

There was Isaac Redlon, a private in the 27th Maine Infantry, who

shortly before the battle of Chickamauga was put under arrest for a

gross breach of discipline. Isaac saw a chance to wipe out the disgrace

which he had incurred. Instead of staying at the rear with the wounded

and other men under arrest, he managed to get hold of a rifle and

fought through the two terrible days of that disastrous battle. So

bravely did he fight, so cool was he under fire and so quick to carry

out and to anticipate every order that was given, that when the battle

was at last over, his captain decided that not only had Redlon wiped

out the memory of his former misdoing, but that he had earned the medal

which was afterward awarded to him.

Another man whose bravery wiped out his mistakes was Colonel Louis P.

DiCesnola of the 4th New York Cavalry. On June 17, 1863, he was under

arrest when the battle was joined at Aldie, Virginia. It was the

bitterest day that the colonel had ever known when in the guard-house

he watched his regiment go into action without him. He felt that he had

ruined his whole career and that his life through his folly and

hot-headedness was a complete failure. There was granted to him,

however, as there is to all of us, the opportunity to make amends.

While he was still moodily watching the progress of the battle,

suddenly he saw the men, whom he had so often led, waver. Then

stragglers began to slip back through the lines and suddenly the whole

regiment was in full retreat. Colonel DiCesnola did not hesitate a

moment.

"Open that door," he said to the guard. "I'll show those fellows how to

fight and I'll come back when it's all over."

Without a word the sentry unlocked the door and the colonel rushed out

just in time to meet the first rank of the flying men. Almost the first

man that he met was the officer who had taken his place, riding the

colonel's own horse. DiCesnola gripped the animal by the bridle.

"Get off that horse," he shouted, "and let some one ride him who knows

which way to go. He's not used to retreating," and before his

bewildered successor could answer, he was hurled out of the saddle and

Colonel DiCesnola was on the back of his own horse.

"About face, charge!" he thundered to his men. Most of them recognized

his voice and the familiar figure that so often led them and without

hesitating a moment, wheeled about and followed him toward the front.

Every few yards his troop was increased by men who were ashamed to ride

to the rear when they saw him charging to the front unarmed but waving

his hat and cheering them on. Before the Confederates could realize

what had happened they were fairly hurled off their feet by the

tremendous rush of hurtling men and horses. Of all the attacks which

are hard to withstand, the charge of a body of men who have rallied and

are trying to wipe out the shame of their retreat is most to be feared.

It was so here. Although the Confederates fought hard nothing could

hold back the rush of this cavalry regiment. They were led by their own

colonel who though unarmed stayed in the forefront of the battle. As

they finally broke through the Confederate line, a burly cavalryman

slashed at him with his sabre. Colonel DiCesnola stooped low to avoid

the cut, but the point of the sabre caught him on the right shoulder

and ripped deep into his chest while almost at the same moment he

received a pistol shot in his left arm which broke it. Unable to hold

the reins, he slipped forward and would have fallen to the ground, but

was held in his saddle by his first assailant who forced his horse up

close beside the colonel's and dashed back through the Confederate

lines carrying DiCesnola and his magnificent horse. There the colonel

was made prisoner, but was carefully nursed and by the time that he had

recovered his strength, was exchanged and rejoined his old regiment. He

reported to his general as still under arrest.

"You are mistaken," said the latter. "I saw the way you rallied your

men that day and when you were reported missing, we thought you had

been killed. The charges against you are dismissed and your record is

just as clean as it ever was and your old regiment is waiting for you."

The story of William W. Noyes, a private in the 2d Vermont Infantry,

and his charmed life is still told by the veterans who fought at

Spottsylvania. On that day the madness of battle came over him. When

that happens, life has no value except to spend it for the cause for

which one is fighting. Noyes' regiment had charged up to the

breastworks of the enemy from which was poured into the attacking

forces tremendous volleys. Noyes had charged with the others, but when

they stopped to rally at the breastworks preparatory to forcing them,

Noyes never paused. Right up the parapet he scrambled and stood on top

of the breastworks with his musket in full range of a thousand men.

Taking deliberate aim he shot the man just below him who was aiming his

gun at him not more than two yards away. In full sight of both armies

he stood there and loaded and fired no less than fifteen shots. Not one

of them missed its mark. It was in vain that the men all around him who

were exposed to his fire shot at him. The bullets cut through his

clothing, carried off his cap and one stripped the sights off his rifle

and ricochetted off the hammer itself, but not a wound did he receive.

His example spurred his comrades on and in a few minutes the whole

regiment struggled over the earthworks and drove out the garrison.

Joseph von Matre, a private in the 116th Ohio Infantry, did the same

thing at Petersburg on April 2, 1865, during the assault on Fort Gregg.

He climbed up the parapet and fired down into the fort as fast as his

comrades could pass up to him loaded guns. No bullet could harm him and

single-handed he drove the men out of that embrasure after killing

several and forced a gap which was filled by the men who climbed up

when he shouted down to them what he had done.

This chronicle of brave deeds would not be complete without the stories

of the men who were brave enough to disregard all odds either in

numbers or in circumstances. There was Delano Morey, a private in the

82d Ohio Infantry, who at McDowell, Virginia, found himself, after the

charge of the Confederates had been repulsed, with an empty gun and no

ammunition. Just in front of him were two of the enemy's sharp-shooters

who had been picking off the Union officers all through the charge.

Each of them was a dead shot and each of them had a loaded gun.

Menacing them both with his empty piece, Morey rushed forward and

called on them to surrender. The superb confidence of the man was too

much for them and without a word each of them handed him his loaded

rifle and walked meekly back with him as prisoners to the Union lines.

There was Frank W. Mills, a sergeant in a New York regiment, who while

scouting at Sandy Cross Roads in North Carolina, with only three or

four men under him, suddenly came upon a whole troop of the enemy.

Without orders and seemingly without the possibility of succeeding,

Mills charged down upon the Confederates at the head of his regiment,

consisting of four men. Courage took the place of numbers. The

Confederates scattered like sheep and Mills and his men rounded up no

less than one hundred and twenty prisoners who stacked their arms and

marched obediently into the Union lines.

Augustus Merrill, a captain in the 1st Maine Infantry, performed a

similar feat at Petersburg when with six men he captured sixty-nine

Confederate prisoners and recaptured and released a number of Union

soldiers whom they had made prisoners.

The 4th of May, 1863, was a great day for John P. McVean, a corporal in

the 49th Infantry. On that day at Fredericksburg Heights, Virginia, he

fought at the forefront of his company and when the order to charge was

given, outstripped them all, reached the Confederate lines entirely

alone, shot down the Confederate color-bearer, seized the colors and

fought back all attempts to retake them until his comrades could come

to his assistance. Later in the day he showed that he could be just as

brave away from the inspiration and excitement of battle. Between the

lines stood a barn which was occupied by a number of Confederate

sharp-shooters who were greatly annoying the Union forces by picking

off men at every opportunity. McVean's captain finally ordered his men

to charge on the barn and drive them out.

"Wait a minute, Captain," said the corporal; "I believe I can make

those fellows surrender without losing any men. Let me try anyway."

Without waiting for the captain to reply, the corporal laid down his

gun and alone and unarmed and beckoning as he walked with his hand

toward the barn, started for the sharp-shooters. Seeing that he was not

armed they allowed him to come within speaking distance.

"I have come to take you men prisoners," he said positively; "we don't

want to kill you, but if you don't come now, we are going to charge and

this is your last chance."

The men inside hesitated a minute, but there was such an air of supreme

confidence about McVean that first one and then another and then the

whole band of twelve men marched out and followed him back to the Union

lines. Once more a brave man had accomplished the impossible.

There were no braver men in all the Union Army than were found in the

ranks of the different batteries whose guns did so much to bring about

the final victory of the Union arms. The courage of our cannoneers, men

who saved the guns in spite of every attack and who often saved them in

many a defeat, has never been surpassed. The affection of a gunner for

the piece which he has manned and served in many a hard-fought battle

is like that which a cavalryman has for his horse. Like the rider, the

crew of a battery will risk all to save their gun. At Wilson's Creek,

Missouri, on August 10, 1861, Nicholas Broquet, a private in one of the

Iowa batteries, showed the spirit that was in him when the gun that he

was serving was disabled. The battery-horses had been shot down, all

the crew except himself had been killed by the tremendous fire of the

enemy and across the field appeared a detachment of the enemy's forces

sent to capture the gun. Broquet cut the traces of the dead horses,

rushed out between the lines in the face of a fierce fire and succeeded

in catching a riderless horse. He rode the animal back to the gun, made

him fast to it and just as the enemy's detachment was close upon him,

rode off in safety, trundling the rescued gun behind him.

John F. Chase was a cannoneer of the same stamp. At Chancellorsville he

was serving as a private in a Maine battery. A shell from one of the

enemy's guns struck down the officers and killed or disabled every man

of the battery except Chase and one other. They manned the gun, sighted

it as best they could and fired three rounds at the approaching enemy.

Then as the horses had been killed and it was certain that the gun

would be captured in a few minutes, they fastened themselves to the

traces and tugged away until they got the gun in motion. Although it

was a heavy one which ordinarily took two horses to drag it, yet these

two actually pulled the gun across the rough field safe to the main

line of the Union forces and saved it from capture.

Three of the most spectacular deeds of the whole war were those of

Lieutenant Thomas W. Custer, Private Samuel E. Eddy and Adjutant Eugene

W. Ferris. Custer was a lieutenant in the 6th Michigan Cavalry and was

present at the spirited engagement at Sailors Creek, Virginia, when the

Union forces attacked the entrenched Confederates. Custer's company

charged in the face of a heavy fire on the enemy's works. When they

reached the entrenchments the order was received to dismount and to

continue the charge on foot. Custer was riding a thorough-bred and

preferred to continue the charge on horseback. Spurring his horse up to

the lowest part of the ramparts, he actually leaped him over and landed

in the very midst of the astonished defenders. Making a dash for the

color-bearer, Custer cut him down, seized the colors and wheeled and

galloped right through the demoralized men to the other end of the

works, intending to capture the colors displayed there. As he broke

through the ranks of the defenders for the second time, a volley of

straggling shots was fired at him. One bullet pierced his thigh and two

more struck his horse, killing the latter instantly. Custer rolled over

and over with the struggling animal, managed to pull himself loose and

still clinging to the captured colors, with the blood streaming down

his leg, rushed at the last color-bearer, shot him down with his

revolver and seized his colors and with his back to the rampart, fought

off all attempts to rescue them. A moment later his companions climbed

over the earthworks and rescued him just as he was on the point of

fainting from loss of blood.

Eddy was a private in the 37th Massachusetts Infantry and on April 6,

1865, was present at the battle of Sailors Creek, Virginia. While his

regiment was fighting desperately to hold their position, Eddy saw that

his adjutant lay wounded far out beyond their lines. A little

detachment of Confederate soldiers approached and to Eddy's horror, he

saw them deliberately shoot down several of the wounded Union men. One

of them approached the adjutant to whom Eddy was much attached. He

could not bear to see him killed without at least attempting to rescue

him and he at once rushed out beyond the protection of his own line. As

he approached the adjutant, he saw the leader of the Confederate

attachment in the act of taking aim at the wounded officer. Eddy was an

excellent shot and at once knelt down and took rapid but accurate aim

and killed the Confederate just as he was on the point of firing. He

ran forward to his adjutant, but there he encountered three

Confederates and had a hand-to-hand bayonet fight with them. Eddy was a

man of tremendous strength and reach and managed to kill one of his

assailants and severely wound another. While he was so engaged,

however, the third ran him through the body with his bayonet and pinned

him to the ground. While the enemy was struggling to disengage his

bayonet for another fatal thrust, Eddy, by a last desperate effort,

managed to slip a cartridge into his gun and just as his opponent was

aiming a deadly stab at his throat, shot him through the body. Then

wounded as he was, he staggered to his feet and half-carried,

half-dragged the wounded adjutant back to the safety of the Union lines

where they were both nursed back to health and strength.

Ferris was an adjutant in the 30th Massachusetts Infantry. On April 1,

1865, at Berryville, Virginia, accompanied only by an orderly, he was

riding outside the Union lines when he was attacked by five of Mosby's

guerrillas. It was not the custom of Mosby's men either to ask or give

quarter or to take prisoners. Ferris who was well mounted could

probably have escaped, but would have had to leave his orderly behind,

as the latter's horse was a slow one. Accordingly, although both the

men were armed only with sabres, Ferris made up his mind to fight to

the death. Without waiting to be attacked, he spurred his horse at the

guerrilla-leader and suddenly executing a demi-volte which is only

effective when performed by a good sabre and a trained horse, he

whirled like lightning and caught his opponent such a tremendous

back-handed slash that he cut him almost to the saddle. As the man

toppled over, Ferris slipped one arm around his waist and managed to

unbuckle his pistol-belt and seize both of his pistols. He then at once

engaged with another one of the band and while parrying and thrusting,

saw out of the tail of his eye a third man aiming a revolver at him

only a few yards away. Parrying a thrust from his opponent in front,

Ferris simultaneously fired with the other hand. Although Ferris was

shooting with his left hand, his bullet killed his opponent while the

Confederate's fire struck Ferris just above the left knee, inflicting a

painful but not dangerous flesh-wound. Ferris pressed his opponent in

front still more vigorously and finally succeeded in wounding him so

severely that he turned and bolted, leaving Ferris free to go to the

rescue of his orderly, who had been putting up a good fight against the

other two of the band. Ferris reached him just in time. He had been

wounded twice and though fighting bravely, one of his antagonists had

managed to reach a position in his rear. There was not much time for

Ferris to do anything with his sabre. Everything must depend upon a

pistol shot. Stopping his horse, he drew his remaining pistol, took

careful aim and shot the man behind his orderly through the body just

as the latter had his sabre uplifted for a last blow at the

hardly-pressed Union officer. The remaining guerrilla, who had already

been slightly wounded by the orderly, wheeled his horse and rode off

leaving the two Union men in possession of the field and the spoils of

war, consisting of two capital pistols and a magnificent riderless

horse which they brought back with them.

One of the most devoted deeds of courage in the war is chronicled last.

On July 21, 1861, the first great battle of the war was fought at Bull

Run, Virginia, not far from the federal capital. It was a disastrous

day. Unorganized, commanded by inexperienced officers, that battle soon

became the shameful rout which for a long time was the basis of the

belief throughout the South that one Southerner could whip four

Northerners.

Charles J. Murphy was quartermaster on that day in the 38th New York

Infantry. It was not his business to fight. He was there to feed and

look after his men and it was no more his duty to join the battle than

that of the surgeons, the band, or any of the other non-combatants

which accompany a regiment. When, however, he saw the masses of beaten,

discouraged, panic-stricken men straggling back, Murphy made up his

mind that the rear was no place for him. Seizing a rifle which one of

the retreating men had thrown away, he rushed forward and did all that

one man could to stop the retreat, fighting as long and as hard as he

could. It was beyond his power. His regiment were bewildered, confused

and broke and fled like sheep, leaving hundreds of wounded men on the

field. Murphy made up his mind that he would have no part or lot in

this rout and also that he would not desert his wounded comrades, for

in those days there were terrible tales rife of how the Confederates

treated wounded soldiers. The Union fighters had not yet learned that

their antagonists were the same brave, fair fighters that they were.

Murphy stayed behind. When the victorious Confederate forces marched

down the field, they found it held by one man who was giving water to

the wounded and doing his clumsy best to staunch the flowing blood from

many a ghastly wound.

"Do you surrender?" shouted the first officer who approached him.

"Not if you are going to hurt these wounded men," said Murphy, bringing

his bayonet into position.

"We will take just as good care of them as we will of our own," the

officer assured him, and only on this assurance did Murphy surrender.

He spent years in Rebel prisons, but no prison could ever take away

from him the recollection that he alone had refused to retreat on that

disastrous day and that he had risked his life and given up his liberty

to save his wounded comrades.

So ends, with these little stories of sudden hero-acts wrought by

commonplace men in a matter-of-fact manner, this chronicle of a few of

the many, many brave deeds done by our forefathers in a war that was

fought for an ideal. Read them, boys and girls, in these war-days that

we may remember anew the lessons which the lives and deaths of our kin

hold for us. If the day ever comes when we too must fight for ideals

which other nations have forgotten or have trampled upon, may we show

ourselves worthy of the great heritage of honor which our forefathers

have handed down to us.

End of Project Gutenberg's Brave Deeds of Union Soldiers, by Samuel Scoville