groped his way along the river side, keenly looking for some means of
conveyance on its waters. He soon found what he wanted in the shape of a
small log canoe, tied to a tree on the river bank. Pressing this into
his service, and disposing himself and his burden safely within, he
paddled down the stream, hoping to reach the Mississippi and drift down
to the city front before break of day.
Success was not to come so easily. A sound of puffing steam came from
down the river, and soon a trio of gunboats loomed through the gloom,
heading towards Yazoo City. These were avoided by taking shelter among
a bunch of willows that overhung the bank and served to hide the boat
from view. The gunboats well past, Fontain took to the current again,
soon reaching Snyder's Bluff, which was lighted up and a scene of
animation. Whites and blacks mingled on the bank, and it looked like a
midnight ball between the Yankee soldiers and belles of sable hue.
Gunboats and barges lined the shore and the light was thrown far out
over the stream. But those present were too hilarious to be watchful,
and, lying flat in his canoe, the scout glided safely past, the dug-out
not distinguishable from a piece of driftwood. Before the new day dawned
he reached the backwater of the Mississippi, but in the darkness he
missed the outlet of the Yazoo and paddled into what is called "Old
River."
The new day reddened in the east while he was still vainly searching for
an opening into the broad parent stream. Then his familiarity with the
locality showed him his mistake, and he was forced to seek a
hiding-place for himself and his boat. He had now been out two days and
nights. The little food he brought had long been devoured, and hunger
was assailing him. Sleep had also scarcely visited his eyes, and the
strain was growing severe.
Getting some slumber that day in his covert, he set out again as soon as
night fell, paddling back into the Yazoo, from which he soon reached the
Mississippi. He was here on a well-peopled stream, boats and lights
being abundant. As he glided on through the gloom he passed forty or
fifty transports, but had the good fortune to be seen by only one man,
who hailed him from the stern of a steamer and asked him where he was
going.
"To look after my fishing-lines," he replied.
"All right; hope you'll have a good catch." And he floated on.
Farther down in the bend of the stream above Vicksburg he came upon a
more animated scene. Here were the mortar-boats in full blast,
bombarding the city, every shot lighting up the stream for a wide space
around. But the gun crews were too busy to pay any attention to the
seeming drift-log that glided silently by the fleet or to notice the man
that lay at full length within it. On he went, trusting to the current
and keeping his recumbent position. The next day's dawn found him in the
midst of the Confederate picket-boats in front of the city. Here, tying
a white handkerchief to his paddle, he lifted it as a flag of truce, and
sat upright with a loud hurrah for Jeff Davis and the Southern
Confederacy. As may well be imagined, his cheers were echoed by the
boatmen when they learned his mission, and he was borne in triumph
ashore and taken to General Pemberton's head-quarters. He received a
warm welcome from the general, alike for the message he brought and the
very desirable supply of percussion caps. It was with no little
admiration that Pemberton heard the story of a daring feat that seemed
utterly impossible for a cripple on crutches.
During the next day the scout wandered about the beleaguered city,
viewing the animated and in many respects terrible scene of warfare
which it presented,--the fierce bombardment from the Federal works,
extending in a long curve from the river above to the river below the
city; the hot return fire of the defendants; the equally fierce exchange
of fire between the gunboats and mortars and the intrenchments on the
bluffs; the bursting of shells in the city streets; the ruined
habitations, and the cave-like refuges in which the citizens sought
safety from the death-dealing missiles. It was a scene never to be
forgotten, a spectacle of ruin, suffering, and death. And the suffering
was not alone from the terrible enginery of war, but from lack of food
as well, for that dread spectre of famine, that in a few weeks more was
to force the surrender of the valiantly defended city, was already
showing its gaunt form in the desolated streets and the foodless homes.
Fontain was glad enough after his day and night among the besieged to
seek again the more open field of operations outside. Receiving a
despatch from General Pemberton to his colleague in the field, and a
suitable reward for his service, he betook himself again to the canoe
which had stood him in such good stead and resumed his task of danger.
He was on a well-guarded river and had to pass through a country full of
foes, and the peril of his enterprise was by no means at an end.
The gloom of evening lay on the stream when he once more trusted
himself to its swift current, which quickly brought him among the craft
of the enemy below the city. Avoiding their picket-boats on both sides
of the river, he floated near the gunboats as safer, passing so near one
of them that through an open port-hole he could see a group of men
playing cards and hear their conversation. He made a landing at length
at Diamond Place, bidding adieu to his faithful dug-out and gladly
setting foot on land again.
Hobbling with the aid of his crutch through the bottom-lands, the scout
soon reached higher ground, and here made his way to the house of an
acquaintance, hoping to find a mount. But all the useful horses and
mules on the place had been confiscated by the foe, there remaining only
a worthless old gelding and a half-broken colt, of which he was offered
the choice. He took the colt, but found it to travel so badly that he
wished he had chosen the gelding.
In this dilemma fortune favored him, for in the bottom he came upon a
fine horse, tied by a blind bridle and without a saddle. A basket and an
old bag were lying close by, and he inferred from this that a negro had
left the horse and that a camp of the enemy was near at hand. Here was
an opportunity for confiscation of which he did not hesitate to avail
himself, and in all haste he exchanged bridles, saddled the horse,
turned loose the colt, mounted, and was off.
He took a course so as to avoid the supposed camp, but had not gone far
before he came face to face with a Federal soldier who was evidently
returning from a successful foray for plunder, for he was well laden
with chickens and carried a bucket of honey. He began questioning
Fontain with a curiosity that threatened unpleasant consequences, and
the alert scout ended the colloquy with a pistol bullet which struck the
plunderer squarely in the forehead. Leaving him stretched on the path,
with his poultry and honey beside him, Fontain made all haste from that
dangerous locality.
Reaching a settlement at a distance from the stream, he hired a guide to
lead him to Hankerson's Ferry, on the Big Black River, promising him
fifty dollars if he would take him there without following any road.
They proceeded till near the ferry, when Fontain sent his guide ahead to
learn if any of the enemy were in that vicinity. But there was something
about the manner and talk of the man that excited his suspicion, and as
soon as the fellow was gone he sought a hiding-place from which he could
watch his return. The man was gone much longer than appeared necessary.
At length he came back alone and reported that the track was clear,
there being no Yankees near the ferry.
Paying and dismissing the guide, without showing his suspicions, Fontain
took good care not to obey his directions, but selected his course so as
to approach the river at a point above the ferry. By doing so he escaped
a squad of soldiers that seemed posted to intercept him, for as he
entered the road near the river bank a sentinel rose not more than ten
feet away and bade him to halt. He seemed to form the right flank of a
line of sentinels posted to command the ferry.
It was a time for quick and decisive action. Fontain had approached,
pistol in hand, and as the man hailed he felled him with a bullet, then
wheeled his horse and set out at full gallop up the stream. A shower of
balls followed him, one of them striking his right hand and wounding all
four of its fingers. Another grazed his right leg and a third cut a hole
through his sword scabbard. The horse fared worse, for no fewer than
seven bullets struck it. Keeling from its wounds it still had strength
to bear up for a mile, when it fell and died.
He had outridden his foes, who were all on foot, and, dividing his arms
and clothes into two packages, he trusted himself to the waters of the
Big Black, which he swam in safety. On the other side he was in friendly
territory, and did not walk far before he came to the house of a
patriotic Southern woman, who loaned him the only horse she had. It was
a stray one which had come to her place after the Yankee foragers had
carried off all the horses she owned.
Fontain was now in a safe region. His borrowed horse carried him to
Raymond by two o'clock the next morning, and was here changed for a
fresh one, which enabled him to reach Jackson during the forenoon. Here
he delivered his despatch to General Johnston, having successfully
performed a feat which, in view of its difficulties and his physical
disability, may well be classed as phenomenal.
_GORDON AND THE BAYONET CHARGE AT ANTIETAM._
In the opening chapter of General John B. Gordon's interesting
"Reminiscences of the Civil War" he tells us that the bayonet, so far as
he knew, was very rarely used in that war, and never effectively. The
bayonet, the lineal descendant of the lance and spear of far-past
warfare, had done remarkable service in its day, but with the advent of
the modern rifle its day ended, except as a weapon useful in repelling
cavalry charges or defending hollow squares. Fearful as their glittering
and bristling points appeared when levelled in front of a charging line,
bayonets were rarely reddened with the blood of an enemy in the Civil
War, and the soldiers of that desperate conflict found them more useful
as tools in the rapid throwing up of light earthworks than as weapons
for use against their foes.
Later in his work Gordon gives a case in point, in his vivid description
of a bayonet charge upon the line under his command on the bloody field
of Antietam. This is well worth repeating as an illustration of the
modern ineffectiveness of the bayonet, and also as a story of thrilling
interest in itself. As related by Gordon, there are few incidents in
the war which surpass it in picturesqueness and vitality.
The battle of Antietam was a struggle unsurpassed for its desperate and
deadly fierceness in the whole war, the losses, in comparison with the
numbers engaged, being the greatest of any battle-field of the conflict.
The plain in which it was fought was literally bathed in blood.
It is not our purpose to describe this battle, but simply that portion
of it in which General Gordon's troops were engaged. For hour after hour
a desperate struggle continued on the left of Lee's lines, in which
charge and counter-charge succeeded each other, until the green corn
which had waved there looked as if had been showered upon by a rain of
blood. But during those hours of death not a shot had been fired upon
the centre. Here General Gordon's men held the most advanced position,
and were without a supporting line, their post being one of imminent
danger in case of an assault in force.
As the day passed onward the battle on the left at length lulled, both
sides glad of an interval of rest. That McClellan's next attempt would
be made upon the centre General Lee felt confident, and he rode thither
to caution the leaders and bid them to hold their ground at any
sacrifice. A break at that point, he told them, might prove ruinous to
the army. He especially charged Gordon to stand stiffly with his men, as
his small force would feel the first brunt of the expected assault.
Gordon, alike to give hope to Lee and to inspire his own men, said in
reply,--
"These men are going to stay here, general, till the sun goes down or
victory is won."
Lee's military judgment, as usual, was correct. He had hardly got back
to the left of his line when the assault predicted by him came. It was a
beautiful and brilliant day, scarcely a cloud mantling the sky. Down the
slope opposite marched through the clear sunlight a powerful column of
Federal troops. Crossing the little Antietam Creek they formed in column
of assault, four lines deep. Their commander, nobly mounted, placed
himself at their right, while the front line came to a "charge bayonets"
and the other lines to a "right shoulder shift." In the rear front the
band blared out martial music to give inspiration to the men. To the
Confederates, looking silently and expectantly on the coming corps, the
scene was one of thrilling interest. It might have been one of terror
but for their long training in such sights.
Who were these men so spick and span in their fresh blue uniforms, in
strange contrast to the ragged and soiled Confederate gray? Every man of
them wore white gaiters and neat attire, while the dust and smoke of
battle had surely never touched the banners that floated above their
heads. Were they new recruits from some military camp, now first to test
their training in actual war? In the sunlight the long line of bayonets
gleamed like burnished silver. As if fresh from the parade-ground they
advanced with perfect alignment, their steps keeping martial time to the
steady beat of the drum. It was a magnificent spectacle as the line
advanced, a show of martial beauty which it seemed a shame to destroy by
the rude hand of war.
One thing was evident to General Gordon. His opponent proposed to trust
to the bayonet and attempt to break through Lee's centre by the sheer
weight of his deep charging column. It might be done. Here were four
lines of blue marching on the one in gray. How should the charge be met?
By immediate and steady fire, or by withholding his fire till the lines
were face to face, and then pouring upon the Federals a blighting storm
of lead? Gordon decided on the latter, believing that a sudden and
withering burst of deadly hail in the faces of men with empty guns would
be more than any troops could stand.
All the horses were sent to the rear and the men were ordered to lie
down in the grass, they being told by their officers that the Federals
were coming with unloaded guns, trusting to the bayonet, and that not a
shot must be heard until the word "Fire!" was given. This would not be
until the Federals were close at hand. In the old Revolutionary phrase,
they must wait "till they saw the whites of their eyes."
On came the long lines, still as steady and precise in movement as if
upon holiday drill. Not a rifle-shot was heard. Neither side had
artillery at this point, and no roar of cannon broke the strange
silence. The awaiting boys in gray grew eager and impatient and had to
be kept in restraint by their officers. "Wait! wait for the word!" was
the admonition. Yet it was hard to lie there while that line of bayonets
came closer and closer, until the eagles on the buttons of the blue
coats could be seen, and at length the front rank was not twenty yards
away.
The time had come. With all the power of his lungs Gordon shouted out
the word "Fire!" In an instant there burst from the prostrate line a
blinding blaze of light, and a frightful hail of bullets rent through
the Federal ranks. Terrible was the effect of that consuming volley.
Almost the whole front rank of the foe seemed to go down in a mass. The
brave commander and his horse fell in a heap together. In a moment he
was on his feet; it was the horse, not the man, that the deadly bullet
had found.
In an instant more the recumbent Confederates were on their feet, an
appalling yell bursting from their throats as they poured new volleys
upon the Federal lines. No troops on earth could have faced that fire
without a chance to reply. Their foes bore unloaded guns. Not a bayonet
had reached the breast for which it was aimed. The lines recoiled,
though in good order for men swept by such a blast of death. Large
numbers of them had fallen, yet not a drop of blood had been lost by one
of Gordon's men.
The gallant man who led the Federals was not yet satisfied that the
bayonet could not break the ranks of his foes. Reforming his men, now in
three lines, he led them again with empty guns to the charge. Again they
were driven back with heavy loss. With extraordinary persistence he
clung to his plan of winning with the bayonet, coming on again and again
until four fruitless charges had been made on Gordon's lines, not a man
in which had fallen, while the Federal loss had been very heavy. Not
until convinced by this sanguinary evidence that the day of the bayonet
was past did he order his men to load and open fire on the hostile
lines. It was an experiment in an obsolete method of warfare which had
proved disastrous to those engaged in it.
[Illustration: GORDON HOUSE.]
In the remaining hours of that desperate conflict Gordon and his men had
another experience to face. The fire from both sides grew furious and
deadly, and at nightfall, when the carnage ceased, so many of the
soldiers in gray had fallen that, as one of the officers afterward said,
he could have walked on the dead bodies of the men from end to end of
the line. How true this was Gordon was unable to say, for by this time
he was himself a wreck, fairly riddled with bullets.
As he tells us, his previous record was remarkably reversed in this
fight, and we cannot better close our story than with a description of
his new experience. He had hitherto seemed almost to bear a charmed
life. While numbers had fallen by his side in battle, and his own
clothing had been often pierced and torn by balls and fragments of
shells, he had not lost a drop of blood, and his men looked upon him as
one destined by fate not to be killed in battle. "They can't hit him;"
"He's as safe in one place as another," form a type of the expressions
used by them, and Gordon grew to have much the same faith in his
destiny, as he passed through battle after battle unharmed.
At Antietam the record was decidedly broken. The first volley from the
Federal troops sent a bullet whirling through the calf of his right leg.
Soon after another ball went through the same leg, at a higher point. As
no bone was broken, he was still able to walk along the line and
encourage his men to bear the deadly fire which was sweeping their
lines. Later in the day a third ball came, this passing through his arm,
rending flesh and tendons, but still breaking no bone. Through his
shoulder soon came a fourth ball, carrying a wad of clothing into the
wound. The men begged their bleeding commander to leave the field, but
he would not flinch, though fast growing faint from loss of blood.
Finally came the fifth ball, this time striking him in the face, and
passing out, just missing the jugular vein. Falling, he lay unconscious
with his face in his cap, into which poured the blood from his wound
until it threatened to smother him. It might have done so but for still
another ball, which pierced the cap and let out the blood.
When Gordon was borne to the rear he had been so seriously wounded and
lost so much blood that his case seemed hopeless. Fortunately for him,
his faithful wife had followed him to the war and now became his nurse.
As she entered the room, with a look of dismay on seeing him, Gordon,
who could scarcely speak from the condition of his face, sought to
reassure her with, the faintly articulated words, "Here's your handsome
husband; been to an Irish wedding."
It was providential for him that he had this faithful and devoted nurse
by his side. Only her earnest and incessant care saved him to join the
war again. Day and night she was beside him, and when erysipelas
attacked his wounded arm and the doctors told her to paint the arm above
the wound three or four times a day with iodine, she obeyed by painting
it, as he thought, three or four hundred times a day. "Under God's
providence," he says, "I owe my life to her incessant watchfulness night
and day, and to her tender nursing through weary weeks and anxious
months."
_THE LAST TRIUMPH OF STONEWALL JACKSON._
The story of the battle of Chancellorsville and of Jackson's famous
flank movement, with its disastrous result to Hooker's army, and to the
Confederates in the loss of their beloved leader, has been often told.
But these narratives are from the outside; we propose to give one here
from the inside, in the graphic description of Heros Von Borcke, General
J. E. B. Stuart's chief of staff, who took an active part in the
stirring events of that critical 2d of May, 1863.
It is a matter of general history how General Hooker led his army across
the Rappahannock into that ugly region at Chancellorsville, with its
morasses, hills, and ravines, its dense forest of scrub-oaks and pines,
and its square miles of tangled undergrowth, which was justly known as
The Wilderness; and how he strongly intrenched himself against an attack
in front, with breastworks of logs and an abattis of felled trees. It is
equally familiar how Lee, well aware of the peril of attacking these
formidable works, accepted the bold plan of Stonewall Jackson, who
proposed to make a secret flank movement and fall with his entire corps
on Hooker's undefended rear. This was a division of Lee's army which
might have led to disaster and destruction; but he had learned to trust
in Jackson's star. He accordingly made vigorous demonstrations in
Hooker's front, in order to attract his attention and keep him employed,
while Jackson was marching swiftly and stealthily through the thick
woods, with Stuart's cavalry between him and the foe, to the Orange
plank-road, four miles westward from Chancellorsville. With this
introductory sketch of the situation we leave the details of the march
to Von Borcke.
"All was bustle and confusion as I galloped along the lines on the
morning of the 2d, to obtain, according to Stuart's orders, the latest
instructions for our cavalry from General Lee, who was located at a
distance of some miles to our right. Anderson's and McLaws's
sharp-shooters were advancing and already exchanging shots with the
enemy's skirmishers--the line of battle of these two divisions having
been partially extended over the space previously occupied by Jackson's
corps, that they might cover its movements.
"This splendid corps meanwhile was marching in close columns in a
direction which set us all wondering what could be the intentions of old
Stonewall; but as we beheld him riding along, heading the troops
himself, we should as soon have thought of questioning the sagacity of
our admired chief as of hesitating to follow him blindly wherever he
should lead. The orders of the cavalry were to report to Jackson and to
form his advanced-guard; and in that capacity we marched silently along
through the forest, taking a small by-road, which brought us several
times so near the enemy's lines that the stroke of axes, mingled with
the hum of voices from their camp, was distinctly audible.
"Thus commenced the famous flank march which, more than any other
operation of the war, proved the brilliant strategical talents of
General Lee and the consummate ability of his lieutenant. About two
o'clock a body of Federal cavalry came in sight, making, however, but
slight show of resistance, and falling back slowly before us. By about
four o'clock we had completed our movement without encountering any
material obstacle, and reached a patch of woods in rear of the enemy's
right wing, formed by the Eleventh Corps, Howard's, which was encamped
in a large open field not more than half a mile distant.
"Halting here, the cavalry threw forward a body of skirmishers to occupy
the enemy's attention, while the divisions of Jackson's corps--A. P.
Hill's, Colston's, and Rode's, numbering in all about twenty-eight
thousand men--moved into line of battle as fast as they arrived. Ordered
to reconnoitre the position of the Federals, I rode cautiously forward
through the forest, and reached a point whence I obtained a capital view
of the greater part of the troops, whose attitude betokened how totally
remote was any suspicion that a numerous host was so near at hand.