A PRISONER.
The year 1862 passed, darkened by battle smoke, saddened by the groans
of the dying, the tears shed over the dead. Abner Tompkins had been
acting principally in Eastern Virginia, Maryland and Kentucky. His
regiment had suffered severely in some of McClellan's hardest fought
battles. His colonel had been killed at Fair Oaks on the 31st of May,
1862, and Captain Tompkins had been promoted to the vacant place.
It was the 2nd of May, 1863, and Abner and his command, now under
General Hooker, having crossed the Rappahannock and Rapidan rivers, were
advancing on Chancellorville, to meet a powerful Confederate force under
Stonewall Jackson.
Yellow Steve, who was still the sutler's steward on the morning of the
first day's fight at Chancellorsville, came to the Colonel's tent, just
as he was preparing to take charge of his regiment.
"Well, Steve," said Abner, "we shall have some work to do to-day."
"I should be surprised, colonel, if we don't," was the reply.
"Do you think those fellows over there will fight?"
"I think they will, their guns shine bright enough, and they look
dangerous. I went over there this morning before daylight, and I can
tell you, it will be nasty getting into that town."
"You over there, Steve? What do you mean?"
"I often go over to the rebel camp," said Steve, coolly.
"Do you know that is very dangerous?"
"I do not value my life very highly; it has not been worth a straw for
eighteen years; all that ever was good within me has been crushed out by
the very men who carry those bayonets over yonder. I have a feeling that
my time has come and that you will know my story when the fight is
over."
The long roll of the drum was heard calling to the field.
"I must be going now, Steve," said the colonel, buckling on his sword,
"but I will see you when the fight is over, if I live."
Colonel Tompkins mounted his horse, and took his place at the head of
his regiment. The order had been extended along the entire line to
advance, Abner was ordered forward to support a battery on the extreme
right, which was being thrown forward to drive a body of the enemy out
of the woods. The battery unlimbered when within point-blank range, and,
after the first three or four rounds, the enemy fell back. As the order
to advance had been countermanded, the intrepid young colonel pushed his
forces to the edge of the wood, pouring in a galling fire on the enemy.
By this time the Eleventh Corps, to which Abner's regiment belonged, was
fiercely engaged. The enemy poured forth twenty thousand strong and
hurled themselves on the Eleventh, which was composed in great part of
raw recruits. The attack was fierce, and the Eleventh, being somewhat
taken by surprise, were soon forced to fall back.
Colonel Tompkins' regiment had advanced three or four hundred yards
beyond the main body of troops, and the falling back of the corps was
not noticed until the enemy had them almost surrounded and were pouring
in showers of grape and canister, while the face of the earth seemed
ablaze with musketry.
"Colonel," cried the adjutant, galloping up to Col. Tompkins, "that
infernal Eleventh is routed. They are in flight."
Abner's glance swept over the field. He was loth to give up the ground
he had won, but they were almost surrounded. Things looked desperate.
They must cut their way through and fly with the others or surrender.
Rising in his stirrups, and waving his sword, the colonel shouted in
thunder tones which were heard by the entire regiment:
"Yonder is our army. To remain here is death. Cut your way through,
every man for himself!"
A wild cry went up, and the retreat commenced. As the colonel resumed
his seat in his saddle a shell exploded in his horse's face, and, with
one wild plunge, rider and steed fell to the earth, the horse struggling
in death, the master struck senseless by a fragment of the shell; in a
moment more rebel infantry were pouring over the place in quick pursuit
of the flying soldiers.
Abner was only stunned by the shock and fall, and his men were scarcely
driven from the field when he sat up and gazed around on the scene of
desolation. The roar of battle could be heard in the distance; beside
him lay his dead horse, and all the field was strewn with men and
horses, dead and dying.
He wiped away the blood, that was flowing from a wound in his forehead,
and tried to rise to his feet. A Confederate officer, seeing his
endeavor, advanced and said:
"Are you badly hurt, colonel?"
"I think it is only a scratch," replied Abner, holding his handkerchief
to his head, "but it bleeds quite freely."
"Let me assist you to bandage your head, and then we will retire to the
rear." He bound Abner's handkerchief about his head, assisted him to
rise, and offered him his arm.
"No, I thank you," said Abner, "I can walk alone; I am only a little
stunned."
"I shall be compelled to take your sword, colonel," said the lieutenant.
"I am glad," said Abner, handing it to him, "that if I must surrender,
it is to a gentleman."
Abner was conveyed to the rear of the Confederate army. During that day
and part of the next the battle raged, but Hooker was finally compelled
to fall back, with a loss of eleven thousand men; the enemy, however,
suffered an irreparable loss in the death of Stonewall Jackson, who was
mortally wounded and died in a few days after. The affair was kept
secret in the rebel army as long as possible, and there is yet a
difference of opinion as to how he met his death, some asserting that he
was accidentally shot by his own pickets, others that he was killed by
sharpshooters, while reconnoitering, and still others claim that he was
assassinated.
The fourth day after the battle, several hundred prisoners, Abner among
them, were brought before the provost-marshal, their names demanded and
placed on a large roll. As Abner was standing in the ranks he observed a
Confederate officer near him. There was something familiar about his
figure, and Abner, looking up quickly, recognized his brother. A swift
impulse swept over him, a longing to speak to him, to hear his voice, to
break down--to sweep away, with passionate appeal, this monstrous
barrier. But he smothered the impulse; his brother might think him
imploring clemency at his hands, and _that_ he would never do.
Oleah's look was only the indifferent glance of a stranger, and he
passed on and made no sign.
It was no jealous rivalry that held these brothers apart. Abner felt no
bitterness that his brother had won the gentle Irene's love; his feeling
for her had not been the one overpowering love of a lifetime, and now he
looked after Oleah with the brotherly affection, so long suppressed,
welling anew in his heart, and deplored their hopeless estrangement,
little dreaming that Irene had come to blame herself as the cause. But
Irene was wrong; it was a deeper and deadly passion than love of her
that had worked this evil miracle--a passion which had been roused in
one son by the father's words, in the other by the mother's, which had
grown in intensity, stirring up their very souls within them, and at
last overcoming all other feelings.
Colonel Tompkins' name was enrolled on the prison list, and he was
marched away with the other prisoners.