[Illustration: [See page 168
TO THE FRONT FROM WINCHESTER]
STRANGE STORIES
OF THE
CIVIL WAR
BY
ROBERT SHACKLETON, JOHN HABBERTON
WILLIAM J. HENDERSON, L. E. CHITTENDEN
CAPT. HOWARD PATTERSON, U.S.N.
GEN. G. A. FORSYTH, U.S.A.
AND OTHERS
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1907, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
Published May, 1907.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
I
A BOY’S IMPRESSIONS OF THE CIVIL WAR
BY WILLIAM J. HENDERSON
II
THE CAPTAIN OF COMPANY Q
_The Tale of an Unenlisted Soldier_
BY ROBERT SHACKLETON
III
MIDSHIPMAN JACK, U.S.N.
_The Action of Appalachicola_
BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE
IV
CAPTAIN BILLY
_Aid and Comfort to the Enemy_
BY LUCY LILLIE
V
THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER
_A Dangerous Prize_
VI
TWO DAYS WITH MOSBY
_An Adventure with Guerillas_
VII
THE FIRST TIME UNDER FIRE
_The Experience of a Raw Recruit_
VIII
HOW CUSHING DESTROYED THE “ALBEMARLE”
_One of the Bravest Deeds in Naval History_
CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON, U. S. N.
IX
PRESIDENT LINCOLN AND THE SLEEPING
SENTINEL
BY L. E. CHITTENDEN
X
THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE “MONITOR”
AND “MERRIMAC”
_Told by Captain Worden and Lieutenant Greene
of the “Monitor”_
BY L. E. CHITTENDEN
XI
SHERIDAN’S RIDE
_Told by his Aide_
BY GENERAL G. A. FORSYTH, U. S. N. (Retired)
XII
LEE’S SURRENDER AT APPOMATTOX
_Told by One Who was Present_
BY GENERAL G. A. FORSYTH, U. S. N. (Retired)
ILLUSTRATIONS
TO THE FRONT FROM WINCHESTER _Frontispiece_
THEN ZEBEDEE DASHED OUT ACROSS THE PLAIN _Facing p._ 20
“COULD THEY COME TO ATTACK US WHEN
THEY KNOW WHAT TROUBLE WE ARE IN?” “ 40
MEAN AS WERE THE SURROUNDINGS IT MADE A TRAGIC SCENE “ 56
CHASING A BLOCKADE-RUNNER “ 62
THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE “MONITOR” AND “MERRIMAC” “ 158
“SHERIDAN! SHERIDAN!” “ 178
DEPARTURE OF GENERAL LEE AFTER THE SURRENDER “ 216
INTRODUCTION
To the younger readers of the twentieth century the great war of
1861-65, fought to maintain the authority of the national government
and to preserve the union of the States, may sometimes seem remote and
impersonal. The passage of time has healed the bitterness and animosity
which an older generation can remember, and if proof were needed of the
real union of our country it was shown when South and North marched
side by side under the old flag in the war with Spain. It is well that
the passions of war should be laid aside, but the examples of heroism
on both sides and the lessons of patriotism are something always
to be kept in mind. Grant and Lee, Sherman, Sheridan, “Stonewall”
Jackson--figures like these are not to be forgotten--and personal
views of some of these leaders will be found in this book.
Of the great campaigns of those terrible four years, when vast armies
marched and countermarched and wrestled in battles of giants, there
are many accounts, and yet the necessarily limited space allotted in
short histories may well be supplemented by narratives alive with
human interest. That is the purpose of this book. Mr. Henderson’s
recollections, which serve as a prologue, will take the boy of to-day
back to these eventful years and make him realize what it was to live
in the days when North and South were summoning their sons to arms. Mr.
Shackleton’s dramatic story is the first of some imaginative tales of
the war which aim to preserve the atmosphere of those thrilling days in
the guise of fiction. The stories which follow--“The Blockade Runner”
and “Two Days with Mosby,” are believed to be essentially relations of
actual experiences; and the balance of the book, including the tales of
Lincoln, Worden and the Monitor, Sheridan’s Ride, and Lee’s surrender,
is vivid, first-hand history. One feature of this book is that the
latter stories are told by those who took an actual part. This is a
book of adventure and of heroic deeds, which are not only of absorbing
interest, but they also bring a closer realization of the one country
which was welded together in the furnace of the Civil War.
More extended versions of the narratives by L. E. Chittenden and
General G. A. Forsyth are presented in the former’s _Recollections of
Lincoln_ and the latter’s _Thrilling Days of Army Life_.
STRANGE STORIES
OF THE CIVIL WAR
STRANGE STORIES OF THE CIVIL WAR
I
A BOY’S IMPRESSIONS OF THE CIVIL WAR
Every time I see the citizen soldiers of the National Guard march down
the avenue I have a choking sensation in my throat, and sometimes tears
come to my eyes. A young man who stood beside me one day when I could
not help making an exhibition of myself, said, “What’s the matter with
you?” And my answer was, “They make me think of the men I saw going to
the front in war-times.” Then the young man laughed, and said, “What
can you remember of the war?” He was about twenty-three or twenty-four
years of age, and the Civil War was to him something to be read of in a
dusty book. I was five years old when the war began. I could read and
write, and was going to school. Many of the things which I saw then
made impressions on my mind never to be effaced this side of the grave.
I was living in the city of Pittsburg, at the junction of the Alleghany
and Monongahela rivers, whose waters, joined in the Ohio, flowed past
many a field that will live in history. Pittsburg was not in the
midst of the war, but it was close enough to some scenes of action,
especially Gettysburg, and important enough as a point of departure and
source of supplies to keep it filled with soldiers, and warmly in touch
with all that was going on. What I wish to tell you is something about
the way it all appeared to a boy.
My first recollection is of my father reading from a newspaper the
announcement that Major Anderson and his garrison at Fort Sumter had
been fired upon. That was in April, 1861, and I was in my sixth year;
but I remember that I was greatly excited, and wondered what it all
meant. It must have been later than that when my father gave me an
explanation, which I remember to this day. He said: “My little boy,
there is war between the people of the North and those of the South.
The people in the South want to have slaves, and the people in the
North say they must not have them. So the people of the South say they
will not belong to the United States any more, and the people of the
North say they must. And so they are fighting, and the fighting will go
on till one or the other is beaten.”[1]
All at once Pittsburg became alive with military preparations. Drums
were beating in the streets all day and far into the night. Every hour
a detachment of soldiers would march along Smithfield Street, and as I
lived just above the corner of it on Second Street, now called Second
Avenue, I would run to see every squad go by, till it became tiresome,
and nothing short of a regiment could interrupt my play. Those must
have been the seventy-five thousand volunteers called for by Abraham
Lincoln to serve three months and crush the rebellion. Some of those
men came back at the end of their three months, but of that I remember
little or nothing. The only thing that made a strong impression on
me in the early days of the war, after the attack on Sumter, was the
killing of Ellsworth. I suppose every boy knows now how the gallant
young Colonel of the New York Fire Zouaves took down the Confederate
flag that was flying over an inn in Alexandria, and was shot dead by
the proprietor of the house, who was immediately killed by Private
Brownell.
That incident fired the hearts of all the boys in Pittsburg. We could
not understand much of what we heard about the movements of troops,
and I have forgotten everything which may have reached my ears at the
time. But we could understand the murder of Ellsworth, and to this day
I remember how we little fellows burned with indignation, and how we
all wished we had been Brownell to shoot down the innkeeper. Somehow
the untimely fate of the brave young Zouave commander appealed to us
very forcibly, and I think some of us cried about it. It appealed
to our mothers too, and suddenly the little boys in Pittsburg began
to blossom out in Zouave suits. My mother had one made for me--a
light-blue jacket with brass buttons, a red cap, and red trousers. She
bought me a little flag, and had my picture taken in my uniform, and
she has that picture yet. Next she got me a little tin sword; and then
two older boys procured blue army overcoats and caps, and borrowed two
muskets from the property-man at the theatre, and I used to drill those
boys, and march them proudly all over Pittsburg, to the intense delight
of the grown-up people, who cheered us wherever we went.
The next thing which remains indelibly fixed in my memory is the
surprise and terror which flashed across the whole North when we heard
the news from Bull Run. Of course I do not remember the date of the
battle, and I am obliged to refer to my history to find that it took
place in July, 1861. But we boys in Pittsburg had been indulging in
much loud talk, as boys will, of the way in which our soldiers were
going to blow out the rebellion, as one would blow out a candle; and
here came the news that these miserable rebels, whom we despised, had
thrashed our glorious army terribly, and were thinking about walking
into Washington. My impressions at the time were that a lot of Southern
slave-drivers, armed with snake whips and wearing slouch-hats, would
soon arrive in Pittsburg and make us all stand around and obey orders.
My father about this time used to pace the floor in deep thought after
reading the newspaper, and used to set off for business with a bowed
head. Later in life I learned that in those days he drew his last
twenty-five dollars out of the bank, and did not know where more was to
come from. But I thought he expected to be killed or made a slave. The
boys used to discuss what steps they would take if the rebels came, and
it was pretty generally agreed that we would all have to run across the
Monongahela River bridge, climb Coal Hill, and hide in the mines.
From the time of Bull Run to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln my
boyhood memories, as they come back to me now, present no orderly
sequence of events. In a dim way I remember the distress and
consternation caused by the dread event at Ball’s Bluff, and in an
equally uncertain way I remember how we cheered and danced when the
news of a victory arrived. Just across the street from my father’s
house stood the Homœopathic Hospital, and next to it was a vacant lot
in which pig-iron was stored. There we boys were wont to resort. We sat
on the piles of pig metal and gravely discussed the progress of the
war, and I well remember that one of my earliest combats arose from
my proclaiming my belief that General Burnside was a greater man than
George B. McClellan. That was rank treason; but I think Burnside’s
whiskers made a conquest of me. I will add that the dispute ended in
a triumphant victory for the defender of McClellan’s fame. Thereupon
I went home to my mother and “told on” the defender. I got little
consolation, for my mother said: “Don’t come to me. If a boy hits you,
you must hit back; but don’t come in crying to me.” We were a warlike
race in those days.
Gettysburg is a word that conjures up memories for me. We thought we
had seen soldiers in Pittsburg before that, but we had simply seen
samples. When the Confederates invaded Pennsylvania, we found ourselves
in a most unpleasant place; but we had plenty of excitement. From early
dawn till late at night drums were beating in the streets and the walls
of the houses echoed the tread of many feet. For three weeks I never
set my foot inside the Second Ward School in Ross Street, where I was
supposed to be, but every morning I stole quietly across the bridge and
ascended Coal Hill. Do you know what was going on up there? Soldiers
were working like beavers, throwing up earthworks. Similar operations
were in progress on every hill around the city, and many an hour I
spent carrying water for the boys in the hot sun.
When I descended the hill I always went to the yard at the Birmingham
end of the bridge, and watched the workmen who were building Monitors.
I do not remember how many Monitors were built there, but I remember
very distinctly seeing the launch of the _Manayunk_. Later she steamed
away down the Ohio, and I knew no more of her. The original _Monitor_,
the wonderful little craft that so ably defended the _Minnesota_ in
Hampton Roads, was my special object of worship in those days. Little
did I dream then that I should live to know the sea as well as I do, or
to drill on the deck of the _Minnesota_. The _Monitor’s_ success in her
great duel with the _Merrimac_ filled all of us boys with excitement.
We promptly built _Monitors_ with round boxes placed on shingles
sharpened at both ends. Then we made _Merrimacs_ of an equally rude
type. Next we went down to the river, and in the still water between
the big stern-wheelers that lay with their noses against the levee, we
had some of the most tremendous naval engagements that ever escaped the
eye of history. And the _Merrimac_ was always defeated, whereupon she
retreated up the river and promptly blew herself up. Those were good
times!
But when the man came with the Great Diorama of the War we learned
something new. A diorama is, to be Hibernian, just like a panorama,
only it is different. In a panorama you see pictures; in a diorama you
see moving figures cut out in profile. After each scene the curtain
must be lowered and the stage reset. I remember that this man (I wish
I knew his name) began his entertainment with an ordinary series
of panoramic views, after which the curtain fell, and we prepared
ourselves for the new revelation. When the curtain rose again, we saw
a miniature stage set with scenic waters. In the background were two
large ships, cut out in profile, and in the distance were two or three
more. The next moment we were startled by seeing a flash shoot out
from the side of one, followed by a dull boom. Then the other big ship
fired, and next the forts, which were at the sides, opened up. We began
to tingle with excitement, and could hardly remain in our seats.
Suddenly a long, low craft, looking something like an inverted
cake-pan, came gliding out at the front of the stage. Then we knew we
were looking at the feared and hated _Merrimac_. She opened fire on the
ships. Then she circled round, and, putting on steam, rushed against
one of them with her ram. The poor wooden vessel careened far over on
one side. Then the _Merrimac_ drew back, and hurled two shots into her
at short range. The big ship began to sink. She went clear away down
out of sight--royals, trucks, and all. Next the _Merrimac_ went for
the other ship; but just then we saw another queer craft sail on. “It
was the immortal cheese-box on a plank”--the _Monitor_. The _Merrimac_
paused. The two iron-clads seemed to stop and look at each other. Then
they rushed together. And how they spit fire and banged and butted!
We boys were crazy with excitement. And when suddenly the _Merrimac_
blew up with a loud report, and the _Monitor_ displayed half a dozen
American flags, we cheered till we were hoarse. It was not strictly
according to history, but it was glorious. And we boys went right home,
and began building a Grand Diorama of the War in the cellar of the St.
Charles Hotel the next day. That diorama would have been a tremendous
success but for one thing. Jim Rial’s brother dropped a match into the
powder-bottle, which blew up the diorama and nearly blinded the boy.
However, we built another diorama; and the boy got well.
But to return to Gettysburg. When troops were being hurried forward
to that point from every direction, thousands of soldiers passed
through Pittsburg. Many of them were sent out by the Pittsburg and
Connellsville Railroad to Uniontown, and thence to the front. Every
afternoon I used to go to the Connellsville station, at the foot of
Ross Street, and ride out on the four-o’clock train as far as the
historic Braddock’s Field, where, you remember, the British commander
Braddock refused to take Washington’s advice in the matter of
Indian-fighting, and paid the penalty. This station was just ten miles
out, and I could get back in time for supper. Attached to every train
out in those days were several flat-cars with planks laid across from
side to side for seats, and these cars were loaded with soldiers. I
always rode in one of those cars, and listened in breathless awe to the
conversation of those real live soldiers who were going out to fight.
As I remember them now, they were hearty, good-natured fellows, very
kind to the little boy who took so much interest in them. And when I
returned to Pittsburg I used to dream about them at night, and wake up
very early in the morning to listen for the sound of the guns of the
approaching invaders. I was no worse than older people. Many a good
woman in Pittsburg went on the roof very often to listen for those same
guns.
Another thing which I remember very distinctly is the work we used to
do in the public schools in those days. Every afternoon we devoted a
part of our time to picking lint. We were told by our teachers that
it was to be sent to the front, where it would be used in dressing
the wounds of the soldiers. None of us dreamed of the real horrors
of war, but I think our hearts were in that work just the same. And
we used to get our mothers to make housewives, which we filled with
combs, brushes, and soap; and these, too, were sent to the front. We
saw soldiers going to war every day with no other baggage than their
knapsacks, and we well understood, children as we were, that the
housewife would be welcome in every tent.
And finally came the news of Appomattox. Guns were fired, and people
cheered, and we boys simply danced war-dances all over the city.
Soon the troops began to come home, and then we had our eyes opened
a bit. The boys of to-day see the old fellows of the Grand Army of
the Republic turn out in their sober blue uniforms, carrying the old
battle-flags carefully wrapped up, and the boys think them a monotonous
lot, and take little interest in them. But I saw them come back with
their bare feet sticking out of their ragged shoes, with the legs of
their trousers and the arms of their coats hanging in tatters, with
the army blue faded by the sun and washed by the rain to a sickly
greenish-gray, with their faces baked and frozen and blown till they
looked like sheets of sole-leather, saving the happy smiles they
bore. And I saw those old battle-flags come back with their rent and
shivered stripes streaming in the wind, while strong men stood looking
on with tears in their eyes. And I saw one of my uncles, who had been
a prisoner in Andersonville, come to Pittsburg with a gangrened foot,
which my mother dressed every day. I shall never forget his condition,
nor that of the heroes who marched through Pittsburg day after day
when the war was over. I am sorry there had to be a war; but I am
unspeakably grateful that I was old enough to get those impressions,
which will live as long as I do. They spring to life again whenever I
see troops on the march, and they give the old flag a meaning for me
which I think it cannot have for those without my memories.
II
THE CAPTAIN OF COMPANY Q
_The Tale of an Unenlisted Soldier_
Zebedee was the Captain of Company Q. Sheer merit had won him the
title. He was the first and the last of his kind. He stood unique. For
it was the only Company Q that had ever been captained--Company Q being
the stragglers and camp-followers, miscellaneous and heterogeneous, who
drift in an army’s wake.
Unique though Zebedee’s position was, it was far from satisfying the
ambition that he had once cherished. For he had longed to be a soldier.
He had dreamed of doing great deeds; of rising from the ranks, of
steadily mounting upward, of winning lofty title and mighty fame.
But the surgeon curtly refused him. It was the heart, he said. And when
Zebedee, amazed, bewildered, for he had never suspected himself to be
a sick man, stammered a protest, the surgeon said a few cutting words
about worthless men trying to get in for pay and pension--which words
were to Zebedee as blows. And he yielded with such bleak finality as
never again to ask for enlistment.
But although he himself could scarcely explain how it came to pass, he
found himself a camp-follower, a drudge, a volunteer servant to the
command of a general to whose fame he gave humble and admiring awe.
At first the soldiers had tolerated him; gradually there had come a
recognition of his willingness, his good-nature, his real cleverness.
It somehow came to be believed that it was by some vagrant choice
of his own that he was a member of Company Q, and none ever dreamed
that he longed with pathetic intensity for his lost chance of being
a soldier. On the march he wore a look of exaltation whenever, which
was not seldom, two or three of the men would carelessly give him
their muskets to carry. In the camp he was happy if he could do some
service--he would chop wood, build fires, and cook. And in time of
battle he was perforce resigned when the soldiers marched by him into
the smoke and the roar, leaving him behind to hold some officer’s horse
or look after some tent.
But the innate spirit that, if given the opportunity, would have
carried him far upward, made him master of the motley members of Q, and
it gradually came to be that his words had the force of law with them.
He never assumed a complete uniform. His very reverence for it and
for all that it represented kept him from such a height of undeserved
glory. But he tried to satisfy his craving soul with the tattered
jacket of an artilleryman, a shabby cavalry cap, and the breeches of
infantry; and the sartorial dissimilitude, through the working of some
obscure logic, obviated presumption yet kept alive some pride.
How it happened that Zebedee was so often in dangerous places which
the other members of Company Q carefully avoided was a puzzle to
the soldiers, and it came to be ascribed to a sort of blundering
heedlessness--not bravery, of course, for he was only a camp-follower.
And one day, when the command failed in its attack upon a fort, Zebedee
found himself with the handful who fled for safety close up against the
hostile works. There they were protected from shots from above; and
the enemy dared not, on account of a covering fire, come out into the
open to attack them; and there they hoped to stay till darkness should
permit retreat.
But the day was blisteringly hot, and thirst began to madden them. Then
Zebedee slung about him a score of canteens, and dashed out across the
plain, and lead rained pitilessly about him as he jingled on, but he
was not hit. His canteens were swiftly filled by friendly hands, and he
turned to go back across that deadly space.
[Illustration: THEN ZEBEDEE DASHED OUT ACROSS THE PLAIN]
He knew that fire would flash along the hostile works; that lead again
would rain; but he did not waver. He saw the dark line of his comrades,
he knew their misery, he could at least give one life for his
country--and the men watched him with awe as, with a curious gravity,
he, about to die, saluted them in farewell and ran unhesitatingly out.
A sort of glory was upon his countenance. There was a hush. Friend
and enemy alike were awed and still. No sound was heard but the rapid
patter of his feet. There came no flash and smoke, no splintering
sound of musketry. But there arose a mighty shout--friends and enemies
alike were cheering him!--and he sank, hysterically sobbing, among his
comrades.
This, of course, brought about important recognition. The General heard
of it; heard, too, that the Captain of Company Q did not, from some
crotchet, some whimsy, wish to be a regular soldier.
“Zebedee,” he said, “you are a brave man.”
Zebedee’s heart beat high with hope, and the look of exaltation shone
in his eyes. Not knowing whether or not to use words, or what words
to use, he could only stand stiffly at salute--he knew how to salute,
although no drill-master had ever paid attention to him; he had
eagerly watched and practised, and was perfect at this as at many other
things. He stood rigidly at salute--but his eyes were like the eyes of
a faithful dog that hungrily watches his master for a bone.
“I am sorry you are not an enlisted man, Zebedee.”
Ah! how high his heart beat now! To be a corporal--perhaps even a
sergeant--
The General went on, speaking slowly so that the full sense of his
condescension should sink in: “And so, you shall be my own personal
servant.”
Zebedee stood rigid as if he were a piece of mechanism, and all
expression was swept from his face as marks are swept from a slate.
And having thus conferred honor, the General went out; he, the great
warrior so able to discern the hidden movements of an opposing army,
to read the secret plans of an enemy, but quite unable to discern the
poignant suffering of a brave man.
Zebedee was a sturdy man, not given to running away or to
changeableness. In his heart--the heart of which the surgeon had
spoken so contemptuously--he had enlisted for the war; he would not be
permitted, so it seemed, to fight the good fight, but he must patiently
finish the course and keep the faith.
What mattered it now that by observation he had learned many things
besides how to salute! With bitter resignation he would watch the
coming and going of officers, the forms and ceremonies of war. At dress
parade he knew just when the drums were to march slowly down from the
right flank; just when there was to be the thrice-repeated, long, brisk
roll; just when the drums were to turn back, with quicker step; just
how the commanding officer out there in front would keep his hand upon
the hilt of his sword; just when the adjutant would take his place
at the front of the line; just when was to come the command, “First
sergeants to the front and centre!” The roll of drums, and the crash of
music, and the tramp of many feet--and the Captain of Company Q would
turn away, his eyes filled with tears, as vague visions came of the
heights to which he had aspired when he hurried to enlist--before he
knew he had a heart. But he knew it now; he knew it, and it hurt.
In the uncommunicative companionship of General and servant he learned
much. He learned to know and almost to love the stern, strong man,
who held his men in iron discipline and led them into battle with a
fierceness that was almost joy.
There came, too, a sort of liking for Zebedee on the part of the grim
officer. He trusted him, sometimes let him write orders, treated him
with a curt kindliness, and often permitted him to remain within
hearing when discussions went on.
And Zebedee, still in touch with Company Q, which stood more in awe
of him than ever, and in touch, since his day of glory, with the men,
came also to know and to understand the officers. By observation,
divination, putting together this and that, he came to know how much
depended upon the personality of the General, and how bitter was the
rivalry among those next in command; he knew that they would do their
utmost under the overmastering influence of their leader’s spirit, but
that jealousy and laxity would work disaster should the potent headship
be lost.
And with this there came to Zebedee a new sense of responsibility and
pride. When so much depended upon the General, surely the importance
was great of the servant who saw to it that he should sleep in comfort
and properly eat!
He no longer wore the old clothes whose acquisition had been such pride
to him. The General had given him some of his own cast-off things,
which fitted him measurably well and relieved the shabbiness of effect
which would not have consorted with his present dignity.
* * * * *
There had been a day of fighting, a day of doubt. The General, almost
overwhelmingly outnumbered, had fought with splendid skill. But as
night fell there went shiveringly through the ranks the rumor that he
had been desperately hurt.
The General lay unconscious in his tent. Absolute quiet had been
ordered. Zebedee must watch him, nurse him, tend him, and the sentinels
must keep even the highest officers away. The sentinels’ duty would
be well done, for iron discipline had taught each man to hold the
General’s tent a thing sacred.
Absolute silence had been ordered. And, as if heeding, the rattle
of musketry died away, the sullen cannon stopped from muttering,
even there ceased the sound of trampling feet, of rolling wagons,
of the swinging tinkle of canteens. Only the chirring hum of frogs
and katydids and tree-toads, the multitudinous murmur of a Virginia
summer night, was heard. Then from far in the distance came solemnly
the strain, “My country, ’tis of thee,” and the soul of Zebedee was
thrilled and uplifted as never before in his poor life.
Once in a while the chief surgeon hurried back from the multitude
of other cases that the day had given. In piercing anxiety Zebedee
watched by the General’s side. “Has there been any change?” “There has
been no change.”
Slowly the hours marched towards morning. The chief surgeon again
appeared and led Zebedee outside the tent. “There will be an advance
and an engagement at daybreak. The General will sleep for hours. I may
be unable to come in again for a while. Be sure to let him sleep. I
depend upon you, Zebedee.”
Zebedee had held all surgeons to be his enemies, but here was one that
roused his humble devotion. And the words crystallized a feeling which
had already come over him with almost oppressive weight--the feeling
that upon him, Zebedee, there lay a heavy responsibility. He thought of
the renewed battle, now so imminent, and as by a flash of inspiration
he saw the results of jealousy and half-hearted co-operation; he saw
the soldiers, like frightened children, making an ineffectual stand;
the impotency of his position came upon him like pain.
He glanced from the tent. A nebulous lustre marked the glow from the
enemy’s fires. Through the air came faintly the mysterious light that
tells of the coming of morning. A dull slow wind crept laggard by.
Statued sentinels stood stiff and still. Two dimly outlined aides
conversed in cautious sibilation. Silently he drew back and returned to
the General’s side.
The General still slept. To Zebedee’s anxious ears a soft thudding told
of soldiers marching through the feeble light. The sound increased. He
knew that shadows were passing by. There was the crunch of heavy wheels
and he knew that cannon, sulkily tossing their lowered heads from side
to side, were being dragged unwillingly towards fight. Faintly audible
firing began in the far distance, and the sulky cannon set up a hoarse
and excited cry.
The laggard dawn came with a plumping rain. The candle in the bayonet
end flamed yellow. The sounds of distant battle grew more loud.
The General opened his eyes. He sighed with a great weariness.
He listened to the sounds, and thought himself again a boy, on a
farm, hearing the homely noise of breakfast-dishes and milk-cans
and wagons. “I can’t get up--I’m tired,” he said, and his voice was
as the querulous voice of a boy. His eyes fell upon Zebedee, and
the tense look of dread anxiety almost roused him. He sat up; then
fell back, smiling quietly. “I have always trusted you, Zebedee,”
he said, simply, in such a tone as Zebedee had never before heard;
“always--trusted--you.” And with that, he was dead.
Dead, and the battle was on. To Zebedee it meant the end of all things
precious. His mind in its agony lost all sense of proportion. The
General was dead!--that was the one important fact in all the universe.
A shell flew over the tent. Already the enemy were advancing! Another
shell, and another and another. They fascinated him. In their sounds
they marked the full range of life and of passion. One shrieked, one
groaned, one muttered like a miser counting gold, one whispered like a
child, one was petulant, one expostulated, one whispered softly like
a maid confessing love. Zebedee shivered. Suddenly the shell sounds
turned to taunts. He could have wept from very impotence. He felt
choking, smothered. Passionate cannon began a louder uproar.
The General was dead. Yes; that was the one important fact in all
the universe. He, only he, knew!--And suddenly there came an awesome
thought.
Even from the first frightened contemplation of it he snatched a
fearful joy. He steadied himself. He drew himself up to his full
height. He drew a deep breath and stretched out his arms as a man
preparing for some feat of strength. His face grew strange, and a
thousand tiny wrinkles aged him as the thought bewilderingly grew. His
breath came in queer respirations.
The sinister droning of another shell--and doubt fell from him like a
garment.
The astonished aides saw the General come forth into the rain, with
hat drawn over his face and collar turned up high. Something of
menacing austerity in his motions repressed all words of sympathy
or dissuasion. In an instant he was upon a horse and had set off at
headlong gallop for the front.
Panic had already begun. Men were confusedly huddling, firing
distractedly and at random. A curious quaking cry was beginning to
arise--the cry of frightened men in hysteria; and ranks were beginning
to crumble, and soldiers were on the verge of tumultuous retreat.
But now the General was there! Like magic the news spread. His very
presence checked the panic and hysteria. He gave a few quick orders, in
a voice so tense and strange that the officers scarcely knew it. His
wild, stark energy stirred officers and men into invincibleness. It was
as if the fate of all the world and all time hung upon what he could
accomplish in the few minutes thus permitted him. He dared not stop to
think.
Slowly the enemy crumbled. The sun struggled through the clouds and the
colors shone in glorified indistinctness in a wet glitter of sunlight.
It was over now. He turned his horse and rode slowly back towards the
tent. “Don’t follow me,” he said, curtly. And he rode back, slowly and
alone. The cry of the cannon was now triumphant and glad. A shell,
whirling above him, spluttered in futile animosity. The wild cheering
was music to his ears.
His dream was over now--the dream he had dreamed when he longed to
enlist. He flung up his arms and laughed aloud. His dream! To enlist as
a private, to win patiently through grades of sergeant and lieutenant,
to captain and colonel and general in command!
He wearily dropped from his horse. He went into the tent. The Captain
of Company Q looked down upon the General’s peaceful face.
III
MIDSHIPMAN JACK, U.S.N.
_The Action of Appalachicola_
“I am not one of those fellows who ‘can fight and run away, and live
to fight some other day,’” one of the bravest Lieutenant-Commanders in
the United States navy said one evening to a party of friends, who were
making him feel uncomfortable by discussing his brilliant war record.
“My bad leg won’t let me run, so I always have to stand and fight it
out.”
“Why, Commander,” one of his friends exclaimed, “I did not know that
you had a bad leg. You do not limp.”
“No,” he answered, “not ordinarily. But when I tire myself I limp a
little, and if I were to undertake to run I should come to grief.”
“Where did you receive your injury?” another asked.
“In action at Appalachicola,” the Commander replied; “the severest
action I ever saw.”
There was a twinkle in his eyes as he spoke, and he looked about the
table to see what effect the words had upon his friends. Two of them
merely muttered their sympathy, and the third asked for the story of
the fight; but the fourth man looked up with a comical expression that
told the Commander he was understood in one quarter at least.
“You will certainly have to tell us about that,” this fourth man
laughed, seeing that the Commander was waiting for a question; “for
I have always understood that Appalachicola, being an out-of-the-way
place, was one of the few Southern towns that escaped without a scratch
in the war. I never heard of any battle there.”
“No, there was no battle there,” the Commander replied, “and you would
hardly hear of the action, because there were so few engaged in it.
In fact, I was the only one on the Federal side, and there were no
Confederates. When I was a boy there I fell out of a pine-tree and
broke my thigh; so it was my own action, and one that I still have
reason to remember.”
This was the Commander’s modest way of describing an accident that
brought out all the manliness he had in him, and made him an officer
in the United States navy, and he seldom gives any other account of
it; but some of the grown-up boys of Appalachicola tell the story in a
very different way--the same “boys,” some of them, who used to set out
in parties of three or four and chase young Jack Radway and make life
miserable for him.
Jack had a strange habit, when he was between fifteen and sixteen (this
is the way they tell the story in Appalachicola), of going down to
the wharf and sitting by the half-hour on the end of a spile, looking
out over the bay. That was in 1862. His name was not Jack Radway, but
that is a fairly good sort of name, and on account of the Commander’s
modesty it will have to answer for the present. While he sat in this
way it was necessary for him to keep the corner of one eye on the wharf
and the adjacent street, watching for enemies. Oddly enough, every
white boy in the town was Jack’s enemy, generous as he was, and brave
and good-hearted; and when one came alone, or even two, if they were
not too big, he was always ready to stay and defend himself. But when
three or four came together he was forced to retire to his father’s big
brick warehouse, across the street. They would not follow him there,
because it was well known that the rifle standing beside the desk was
always kept loaded.
This enmity with the other boys, for no fault of his own, was Jack’s
great sorrow. A year or two before he had been a favorite with all
the boys and girls, and now he was hungry for a single friend of his
own age. The reason of it was that his father was the only Union
man in Appalachicola. Every white man, woman, and child in the town
sympathized with the Confederacy, except John Radway and his wife and
their son Jack. The elder Radway had thought it over when the trouble
began, and had made up his mind that his allegiance belonged to the old
government that his grandfather had fought for.
Near the mouth of the river lay the United States gun-boat _Alleghany_,
guarding the harbor, with the stars and stripes floating bravely at her
stern.
“Look at that flag,” Jack’s father told him. “Your great-grandfather
fought for it, and I want you always to honor it. It is the grandest
flag in the whole world. It is my flag and yours, and you must never
desert it.”
By the side of Mr. Radway’s house stood a tall pine-tree, much higher
than the top of the house, with no limbs growing out of the trunk
except at the very top, after the manner of Southern pines. Jack was a
great climber, and nearly every day, when he did not go down-town, he
“shinned” up this tall tree to make sure that the gun-boat was still
in the harbor. And one day, the day of what the Commander calls “the
action at Appalachicola,” he lost his hold in some way, or a limb
broke, and he fell from the top to the ground.
For some time he lay there unconscious, and when he came to his senses
he could not get up. There was a terrible pain in his left hip, and
he called for help, and his mother and some of the colored women ran
out and carried him into the house, and when they laid him on a bed he
fainted again from the pain.
Mr. Radway was sent for, and after he had examined the leg as well as
he could, he looked very solemn, for there was no doubt that the bone
was badly broken. Even Jack, young as he was, could tell that; but with
all his pain he made no complaint.
“This is serious business,” Mr. Radway said to his wife when they were
out of Jack’s hearing. “The bone is badly fractured at the thigh, and
there is not a doctor left in Appalachicola to set it. Every one of
them is away in the army, and I don’t know of a doctor within a hundred
miles.”
“Except on the gun-boat,” Mrs. Radway interrupted; “there must be a
surgeon on the gun-boat.”
“I have thought of that,” Mr. Radway answered; “but if he should come
ashore he would almost certainly be killed, so I could not ask him to
come. And if I should take Jack out to the boat, we would very likely
be attacked on the way. I must take time to think.”
Medicines were scarce in Appalachicola in those days, but they gave
Jack a few drops of laudanum to ease the pain, and made a cushion of
pillows for his leg. For all his terrible suffering, and the doubt
about getting the bone set, he did not utter a word of complaint. But
he turned white as the pillows, and the great heat of midsummer on the
shore of the Gulf added to his misery.
For hours Mr. Radway walked the floor, trying to make up his mind
what to do. Jack’s suffering was agony to him, and the uncertainty of
getting help increased it. Late in the evening, when all the household
were in bed but Mr. and Mrs. Radway, they heard the sound of many feet
coming up the walk, then a shuffling of feet on the piazza, and a
heavy knock at the front door.
“Have they the heart for that?” Mr. Radway exclaimed. “Could they come
to attack us when they know what trouble we are in? Some of them shall
pay dearly for it if they have.”
The knock was repeated, louder than before, and Mr. Radway took up a
rifle and started for the door. Standing the rifle in the corner of the
wall, and with a cocked revolver in one hand, he turned the key and
opened the door a crack, keeping one foot well braced against it.
“You don’t need your gun, neighbor,” said the spokesman of the party
without; “it’s a peaceable errand we are on this time.”
“What is it?” Mr. Radway asked, still suspicious.
[Illustration: “COULD THEY COME TO ATTACK US WHEN THEY KNOW WHAT
TROUBLE WE ARE IN?”]
“We know the trouble you are in,” the man continued, “and we are sorry
for you. It’s not John Radway we are down on; it’s his principles; but
we want to forget them till we get you out of this scrape. There are
twenty of us here, all your neighbors and former friends. We know
there is no doctor in Appalachicola, and we have come to say that if
you can get the surgeon of the gun-boat to come ashore and mend up
the sick lad, he shall have safe-conduct both ways. We will guard him
ourselves, and we pledge our word that not a hair of his head shall be
touched.”
This friendly act came nearer to breaking down John Radway’s bold front
than all the persecutions he had been subjected to. He threw the door
wide open, put the revolver in his pocket, and grasped the spokesman’s
hand.
“I need not try to thank you,” he said; “you know what I would say if
I could. My poor Jack is in great pain, and I shall make up my mind
between this and daylight what had better be done.”
The knowledge that he was surrounded by friends instead of enemies made
Jack feel better in a few minutes; but the pain was too great to be
relieved permanently in such a way, and all night long he lay with his
teeth shut tight, determined to make no complaint.
By daylight he was in such a high fever that his father had no further
doubts about what to do. He must have medical attendance at once; and
the quickest way was to take him out to the gun-boat, rather than risk
the delay of getting the surgeon ashore. So a cot-bed was converted
into a stretcher by lashing handles to the sides. Colored men were sent
for to carry it, and another was sent down to the shore to make Mr.
Radway’s little boat ready.
The morning sun was just beginning to gild the smooth water of
Appalachicola Bay, when the after-watchman on the gun-boat’s deck,
who for some time had been watching a little sail-boat with half a
table-cloth flying at the mast-head, called out:
“Small flag-of-truce boat on the port quarter!”
Jack Radway, lying on the stretcher in the bottom of the boat, heard
the words repeated in a lower tone, evidently at the door of the
Captain’s cabin: “Small flag-of-truce boat on the port quarter, sir.”
An instant later a young officer appeared at the rail with a
marine-glass in his hand.
“Ahoy there in the boat!” he called. “Put up your helm! Sheer off!”
The _Alleghany_ lay in an enemy’s waters, and she was not to be caught
napping. Nothing was allowed to approach without giving a good reason
for it.
Then Jack’s father stood up in the boat. “I have a boy here with a
broken thigh,” he said. “I want your surgeon to set it.”
“Who are you?” the officer asked.
“John Radway--a loyal man,” was the answer.
The name was as good as a passport, for the gun-boat people had heard
of John Radway.
“Come alongside,” the officer called; and five minutes later a big
sailor had Jack in his arms, carrying him up the gangway, and he was
taken into the boat’s hospital and laid on another cot. It was an
unusual thing on a naval vessel, and when the big bluff surgeon came
the Captain was with him, and several more of the officers.
The examination gave Jack more pain than he had had before, but still
he kept his teeth clinched, and refused even to moan.
“It is a bad fracture, and should have been attended to sooner,” the
surgeon said at length. “There is nothing to be done for it now but to
take off the leg.”
“Oh, I hope not!” Mr. Radway exclaimed. “Is there no other way?”
“He knows best, father,” Jack said; “he will do the best he can for me.”
“He is too weak now for an operation,” the surgeon continued; “but you
can leave him with me, and I think by to-morrow he will be able to
stand it.”
If Jack had made the least fuss at the prospect of having his leg cut
off, or had let a single groan escape, there is hardly any doubt that
he would be limping through life on one leg. But the brave way that he
bore the pain and the doctor’s verdict made him a powerful friend.
The Captain of a naval vessel cannot control his surgeon’s treatment of
a case; but the Captain’s wishes naturally go a long way, even with the
surgeon. So it was a great point for Jack when the Captain interceded
for him.
“There’s the making of an Admiral in that lad in the hospital,” the
Captain told the doctor later in the day. “I never saw a boy bear pain
better. I wish you would save his leg if you possibly can.”
“He’d be well much quicker to take it off,” the surgeon retorted. “But
I’ll give him every chance I can. There is a bare possibility that I
may be able to save it.”
There was joy in the Radway family when it became known that there was
a chance of saving Jack’s leg; but all that Jack himself would say was,
“Leave it all to the doctor; he will do what he can.”
Three weeks afterwards Jack still lay in the _Alleghany’s_ hospital
with two legs to his body, but one half hidden in splints and plaster.
Mr. and Mrs. Radway visited him every day, and the broken bone was
healing so nicely that the doctor thought that in three or four weeks
more Jack might be able to hobble about the deck on crutches, when
more trouble came. A new gun-boat steamed into the harbor to take the
_Alleghany’s_ place, bringing orders for the _Alleghany_ to go at once
to the Brooklyn Navy-Yard. This was particularly unfortunate for Jack,
for his broken bone was just in that state where the motion of taking
him ashore would be likely to displace it. But that unwelcome order
from Washington proved to be a long step towards making Jack one of our
American naval heroes.
“It would be a great risk to take him ashore,” the surgeon said to Mr.
Radway. “The least movement of the leg would set him back to where we
began. You had much better let him go North with us. The voyage will do
him good; and even if we are not sent back here, he can easily make his
way home when he is able to travel.”
Nothing could have suited Jack better than this, for he had become
attached to the gun-boat and her officers; so it was soon settled that
he was to lie still on his bed and be carried to Brooklyn. For more
than a month he lay there without seeing anything of the great city on
either side of him; and the _Alleghany_ was already under orders to
sail for Key West before he was able to venture on deck with a crutch
under each arm. There were delays in getting away, so by the time the
gun-boat was steaming down the coast Jack was walking slowly about her
deck with a cane, and the color was in his cheeks again and the old
sparkle in his eyes. He was in hopes of finding a schooner at Key West
that would carry him to Appalachicola; but he was not to see the old
town again for many a day.