A NIGHT RIDE OF THE WOUNDED
It was a wild, rude scene without, yet in its way typical of a
little-understood chapter of Civil War. Moreover it was one with which
I was not entirely unacquainted. Years of cavalry scouting, bearing me
beyond the patrol lines of the two great armies, had frequently brought
me into contact with those various independent, irregular forces which,
co-operating with us, often rendered most efficient service by
preying on the scattered Federal camps and piercing their lines of
communication. Seldom risking an engagement in the open, their policy
was rather to dash down upon some outpost or poorly guarded wagon train,
and retreat with a rapidity rendering pursuit hopeless. It was partisan
warfare, and appealed to many ill-adapted to abide the stricter
discipline of regular service. These border rangers would rendezvous
under some chosen leader, strike an unexpected blow where weakness had
been discovered, then disappear as quickly as they came, oftentimes
scattering widely until the call went forth for some fresh assault. It
was service not dissimilar to that performed during the Revolutionary
struggle by Sumter and Marion in the Carolinas, and added in the
aggregate many a day to the contest of the Confederacy.
Among these wild, rough riders between the lines no leader was more
favorably known of our army, nor more dreaded by the enemy, than
Mosby. Daring to the point of recklessness, yet wary as a fox, counting
opposing numbers nothing when weighed against the advantage of surprise,
tireless in saddle, audacious in resource, quick to plan and equally
quick to execute, he was always where least expected, and it was seldom
he failed to win reward for those who rode at his back. Possessing
regular rank in the Confederate Army, making report of his operations to
the commander-in-chief, his peculiar talent as a partisan leader had won
him what was practically an independent command. Knowing him as I did,
I was not surprised that he should now have swept suddenly out of the
black night upon the very verge of the battle to drive his irritating
sting into the hard-earned Federal victory.
An empty army wagon, the “U. S. A.” yet conspicuous upon its canvas
cover, had been overturned and fired in front of the hospital tent to
give light to the raiders. Grouped about beneath the trees, and within
the glow of the flames, was a picturesque squad of horsemen, hardy,
tough-looking fellows the most of them, their clothing an odd mixture
of uniforms, but every man heavily armed and admirably equipped for
service. Some remained mounted, lounging carelessly in their saddles,
but far the larger number were on foot, their bridle-reins wound about
their wrists. All alike appeared alert and ready for any emergency. How
many composed the party I was unable to judge with accuracy, as they
constantly came and went from out the shadows beyond the circumference
of the fire. As all sounds of firing had ceased, I concluded that the
work planned had been already accomplished. Undoubtedly, surprised as
they were, the small Federal force left to guard this point had been
quickly overwhelmed and scattered.
The excitement attendant upon my release had left me for the time being
utterly forgetful as to the pain of my wounds, so that weakness alone
held me to the blanket upon which I had been left. The night was
decidedly chilly, yet I had scarcely begun to feel its discomfort, when
a man strode forward from out the nearer group and stood looking down
upon me. He was a young fellow, wearing a gray artillery jacket, with
high cavalry boots corning above the knees. I noticed his firm-set jaw,
and a pearl-handled revolver stuck carelessly in his belt, but observed
no symbol of rank about him.
“Is this Captain Wayne?” he asked, not unpleasantly, I answered by an
inclination of the head, and he turned at once toward the others.
“Cass, bring three men over here, and carry this officer to the same
wagon you did the others,” he commanded briefly. “Fix him comfortably,
but be in a hurry about it.”
They lifted me in the blanket, one holding tightly at either corner,
and bore me tenderly out into the night. Once one of them tripped over a
projecting root, and the sudden jar of his stumble shot a spasm of pain
through me, which caused me to cry out even through my clinched teeth.
“Pardon me, lads,” I panted, ashamed of the weakness, “but it slipped
out before I could help it.”
“Don't be after a mentionin' av it, yer honor,” returned a rich brogue.
“Sure an me feet got so mixed oup that I wondher I didn't drap ye
entoirely.”
“If ye had, Clancy,” said the man named Cass, grimly, “I reckon as how
the Colonel would have drapped you.”
At the foot of a narrow ravine, leading forth into the broader valley,
we came to a covered army wagon, to which four mules had been already
attached. The canvas was drawn aside, and I was lifted up and carefully
deposited in the hay that thickly covered the bottom. It was so
intensely dark within I could see nothing of my immediate surroundings,
but a low moan told me there must be at least one other wounded man
present. Outside I heard the tread of horses' hoofs, and then the sound
of Mosby's voice.
“Jake,” he said, “drive rapidly, but with as much care as possible. Take
the lower road after you cross the bridge, and you will meet with no
patrols. We will ride beside you for a couple of miles.”
Then a hand thrust aside the canvas, and a face peered in. I caught a
faint glimmer of stars, but could distinguish little else.
“Boys,” said the leader, kindly, “I wish I might give you better
transportation, but this is the only form of vehicle we can find. I
reckon you'll get pretty badly bumped over the road you are going, but
I'm furnishing you all the chance to get away in my power.”
“For one I am grateful enough,” I answered, after waiting for some one
else to speak. “A little pain is preferable to imprisonment.”
“After you pass the bridge you will be perfectly safe on that score,” he
said heartily. “Anything more I can do for any of you?”
“How many of us are there?” asked some one faintly from out the
darkness.
“Oh, yes,” returned Mosby, with a laugh, “I forgot; you will want
to know each other. There are three of you--Colonel Colby of North
Carolina, Major Wilkins of Thome's Battery, and Captain Wayne, ----th
Virginia. Let that answer for an introduction, gentlemen, and now
good-night. We shall guard you as long as necessary, and then must leave
you to the kindly ministrations of the driver.”
He reached in, leaning down from his saddle to do so, drew the blanket
somewhat closer about me, and was gone. I caught the words of a sharp,
short order, and the heavy wagon lurched forward, its wheels bumping
over the irregularities in the road, each jolt sending a fresh spasm of
pain through my tortured body.
May the merciful God ever protect me from such a ride again! It seemed
interminable, while each long mile we travelled brought with it new and
greater agony of mind and body. That I did not suffer alone was early
evident from the low moans borne to me from out the darkness. Once a
weak, trembling voice prayed for release,--a short, fervent prayer,
which so impressed me in the weakness of my own anguish that I added to
it “Amen,” spoken unconsciously aloud.
“Who spoke?” asked the same voice, faintly.
“I am Captain Wayne,” I answered, almost glad to break the terrible
silence by speech of any kind; “and I merely echoed your prayer. Death
would indeed prove a welcome relief from such intensity of suffering.”
“Yes,” he acquiesced gently. “I fear I have not sufficient strength to
bear mine for long; yet I am a Christian, and there are wife and child
waiting for me at home. God knows I am ready when He calls, but my duty
is to live, if possible, for their sake. They will have nothing left if
I pass on.”
“The road must grow smoother as we come down into the valley. Are your
wounds serious?”
“I was struck by fragments of a shell,” he answered, and I could tell he
spoke the words through his clinched teeth, “and am wounded in the head
as well as the body--oh, my God!” The cry was wrung from him by a sudden
tilting of the wagon, and for a moment my own pain prevented utterance.
“I hear nothing from the other man,” I managed to say at last. “Colonel
Mosby said there were three of us; surely the third man cannot be
already dead?”
“Mercifully unconscious, I think; at least he has made no sound since I
was placed in here.”
“No, friends,” spoke another and deeper voice from farther back within
the jolting wagon, “I am not unconscious, but less noticeably in pain. I
have lost a leg, yet the stump seems seared and dead, hurting me little
unless I touch it.”
We lapsed into solemn silence, it was such an effort to talk, and we had
so little to say. Each man, no doubt, was struggling, as I know I was,
to withhold expression of his agony for the sake of the others. I lay
racked in every nerve, my teeth tightly clinched, my temples beaded with
perspiration. I could hear the troopers riding without, the jingling
of their accoutrements, and the steady beat of their horses' feet being
easily distinguishable above the deeper rumble of the wheels. Then there
came a quick order in Mosby's familiar voice, a calling aloud of
some further directions to the driver, and afterwards nothing was
distinguishable excepting the noise of our own rapid progress.
Jake drove, it seemed to me, most recklessly. I could hear the almost
constant crack of his lash and the rough words of goading hurled at
the straining mules. The road appeared to be filled with roots, while
occasionally the wheels would strike a stone, coming down again with a
jar that nearly drove me frantic. The chill night air swept in through
the open front of the hood, and made me feel as if my veins were filled
with ice, even while the inflammation of my wounds burned and throbbed
as with fire. The pitiful moaning of the man who lay next me grew
gradually fainter, and finally ceased altogether. Tortured as I was,
yet I could not but think of the wife and child far away praying for
his safe return. For their sake I forced back the intensity of my own
sufferings and spoke into the darkness.
“The man who prayed,” I said, not knowing which of my two companions it
might be. “Are you suffering less, that you have ceased to moan?”
There was no answer. Then the loose hay rustled, as though some one was
slowly dragging his helpless body through it. A moment later the deep
voice spoke:
“He is dead,” solemnly. “God has answered his prayer. His hand already
begins to feel cold.”
“Dead?” I echoed, inexpressibly shocked. “Do you know his name?”
“As I am Major Wilkins, it must be Colonel Colby who has died. May God
be merciful to the widow and the orphan.”
The hours that followed were all but endless. I knew we had reached the
lower valley, for the road became more level, yet the slightest jolting
now was sufficient to render me crazed with pain, and I had lost all
power of restraint. My tortured nerves throbbed; the fever gripped me,
and my mind began to wander. Visions of delirium came, and I dreamed
dreams too terrible for record: demons danced on the drifting clouds
before me, while whirling savages chanting in horrid discord stuck my
frenzied body full of blazing brands. At times I was awake, calling in
vain for water to quench a thirst which grew maddening, then I lapsed
into a semi-consciousness that drove me wild with its delirious fancies.
I knew vaguely that the Major had crept back through the darkness and
passed his strong arm gently beneath my head. I heard him shouting in
his deep voice to the driver for something to drink, but was unaware of
any response. All became blurred, confused, bewildering. I thought it
was my mother comforting me. The faint gray daylight stole in at last
through the cracks of the wagon cover; I could dimly distinguish a dark
face bending over me, framed by a heavy gray beard, and then, merciful
unconsciousness came, and I rested as one dead beside the corpse of the
Colonel.