ground, and one or two men on foot came straggling through the wood
from the front. Then there came slowly forth a mounted man leaning
forward on his saddle, his hand pressed to his side, and red with
blood. Then a squad of ten or fifteen burst through the branches,
slinging their empty carbines, and rallying in a disorderly fashion
upon our flank. With a deadlier fury the whir of the bullets swept
above our line. “Steady there, men!” sang out the Captain. “Get your
carbines ready, boys!” An old infantry soldier, who was my front rank
man, turned round to me, and said, “I say, you take care to fire
over my head, and don’t blow my brains out with your shooting, d’ye
hear?” I was in the act of promising to pay the most exact attention
to his order, when I was startled by a burst of laughter behind me.
That ubiquitous Captain was there listening. “Fire over your head,
you goose!” he exclaimed. “I don’t want him to bring down a star or a
turkey-buzzard. You keep your fire, Dan, until I tell you to shoot; and
don’t let me see a man in the rear rank fire while I keep him standing
there. Mind that now.”
While he was talking I could tell from the shouts that our men had
repelled the rebel charge, and I was able to bear with composure the
sight of a dead officer carried sadly past us by some of his men. Then
all at once along the enemy’s line crashed a volley, lighting up the
closing night with a glare of fire whose length startled and amazed me.
Horses fell on either side of me, and here and there a man’s face would
change, and he would slide from his saddle or draw his horse back from
the line. It was dreadful sitting there inactive, waiting helplessly
for death; and my hand half-consciously drawing upon my rein, my horse
fell back about a foot from his place in line. At that instant the
Captain cried out, “Attention, there!” and looking round, I saw his
eyes fixed on me again. Again he cried, “Attention! Squadron into
single rank, march!” and as I obeyed the order I saw our skirmishers
slowly falling back through the wood and forming a line upon our
extreme left and in our rear. Then there was a pause.
Presently I saw a movement among the trees, and I could make out a
mass of men clustering together just upon their edge. With a thrill,
I knew that for the first time I saw the enemy; and every sensation
was merged in a frantic desire to shoot, while every nerve within my
body was quivering with excitement. Then the Captain’s voice, steady
and cheerful, sounded along the line, with some sympathetic power
calming my shaking nerves and making every muscle as firm as iron.
“Ready! Aim low. Front rank men, fire!” A blaze of light ran along our
line, there was a deafening explosion, and a blinding smoke, through
which I could hear the bullets of the enemy as they whistled past. I
could see nothing, but I heard the voice of the Captain from my right
command, “Rear rank men, fire!” and as our second volley crashed out,
there came the order, “Load and fire at will.” And now it was crack!
crack! as fast as we could get the cartridges into our guns, shouting
and cheering as we did so, in answer to the rebel yells. At length our
shouts met no response. I heard the officer’s command, “Cease firing!”
the smoke swept away, and I found it was black night, through which I
could just see that I was one of about forty men, the remnant of the
squadron. I could hear a few slowly trotting back to the rear. I could
make out others on foot crossing the hill-top beyond, and could see a
mass of dead horses and one or two dead men still lying at my feet. For
a few minutes the Captain let us remove the corpses and destroy the
equipments of the dead animals, and then we withdrew triumphantly to
our comrades, the Captain telling us once that we had done well, and
then bewailing his fate that he commanded men who did not know how to
wheel by fours. That was my first acquaintance with rebel bullets, and
even the old soldiers said that it was the closest affair in which
they had ever been engaged.
Two days afterwards I heard, for the first time, the sound of a shell;
and I might as well make a clean breast of it, once for all, by
describing my sensations.
We were in the rear of the army as it fell back upon Centreville,
formed in line as a reserve. The rest of the cavalry had moved on after
the infantry, leaving us to hold a hill from which the enemy might
have annoyed them with artillery. We sat there without seeing anything
in particular, wondering why the rebels did not come out of the woods
beyond us; when suddenly there was a big puff of smoke at the edge of
the trees, a loud bang, and a tremendous screech in the air above our
heads, so close that the sound almost took my head off. I looked at the
Captain, expecting to hear him say, “By fours, do something or other”;
but he only said, “Steady!” as there was another puff, another bang,
and another screech, as a big black mass of iron struck the ground ten
yards in front of us, bounded over our heads, and burst almost above
us. It gave such a shock to my nerves that I could not do anything but
shake, and I felt as if I should have much preferred to be under the
ground rather than above it.
Those rebels banged away at us for half a dozen rounds, each time
striking close to us, before I saw our skirmish-line come riding back
at a walk, and heard the Captain give the order, “By fours, march!
Right counter-march!” and back we started. Two files in front of me
marched Dan E--, one of those fellows who always has his retort ready.
I heard the man next to him scolding at Dan’s crowding him out of
place: “Why can’t you follow your file-leader?” “Hang the file-leader,”
answered Dan, pushing him harder yet; “they’ve got the range of him.”
And as he spoke a shell came down and buried itself in the earth just
where he would have been if he had kept in his place. I need not say
that we all turned aside after that, and pretty soon we got safely out
of reach.
Now I know what artillery and musketry are both like; and I sincerely
hope that I shall not face it again.
VIII
HOW CUSHING DESTROYED THE “ALBEMARLE”
_One of the Bravest Deeds in Naval History_
It is the night of October 27, 1864. A blockading fleet of Union
vessels rides at anchor off the harbor of Plymouth, North Carolina.
Alongside the flag-ship an open launch is secured, her after-part
made visible to those on board the over-towering ship owing to the
glow that comes from the open door of the little furnace. The light
that streams forth also throws into relief the face and form of the
engineer as he spreads a layer of “green” coals over the surface of
the fire, and thrusts the slender brass spout of his oil-can into the
various feed-cups of the machinery. Just abaft the cockpit, holding
the stern of the launch to the frigate by means of a boat-hook,
stands a blue-jacket, his naked feet showing as two white patches on
the lead-colored planks. Another seaman is performing a similar office
forward in the bow, while several more are gathered about a long,
curious-looking spar carefully secured, with its cylinder-shaped head
resting on a wad of cotton-waste; but these men are lost to view, owing
to the gloom of their situation, which is deepened by contrast to the
firelight aft. At the open gangway of the flag-ship two officers stand
conversing. Beside them a gray-haired quartermaster is stationed,
lantern in hand, to light the way down the ladder that leads to the
launch. In the shoulder-straps of one of the officers glistens a single
silver star, which denotes his Commodore’s rank, while the two gold
bars that decorate the straps of the other show him to be a Lieutenant.
As the latter is observed in the rays of the lantern, his smooth face
and slender figure are suggestive rather of extreme youth than of a man
qualified by years and experience to assume the office that his uniform
represents. The gold bands around his coat sleeves have been nobly
won, however, and the boy of nineteen, who entered the service three
years previous as a master’s mate, has already commanded with singular
and enviable distinction a gun-boat of the blockading squadron. There
is a touch of fatherly tenderness and a depth of anxiety in the old
Commodore’s voice as he speaks:
“Cushing, my boy, you are going to almost certain death; the rebels
have learned of your object, and are prepared for the attempt. The
_Albemarle_, as you know, is surrounded with heavy floating timbers
so arranged that you cannot get within thirty feet of her, and unless
you can succeed in laying your boat alongside, how can you expect to
explode the torpedo?”
The lines of the Lieutenant’s thinly cut mouth deepen, and the brows
draw ominously down over the flashing eyes.
“Commodore, I’ve got my plan all worked out, and I’ll carry it through
or die with it! If I don’t succeed in destroying that iron-clad, she
will come out here before long, and perhaps sink the fleet. It’s worth
the risk, sir, and I’m willing to take it along with my volunteer
crew.” Then, as his natural spirit of recklessness and humor comes to
the surface for a moment, he smiles and continues, “It’s either another
stripe or death, Commodore.”
The flag-officer presses the young man’s hand, while he says, huskily,
“God bless and grant you success and a safe return!”
Preceded by the quartermaster, Lieutenant Cushing descends the gangway
ladder and drops into the launch.
“Lieutenant,” says the old man, “there won’t be no sleep in the fleet
to-night; if ye’ll hexcuse the liberty, sir, I’ll be a-prayin’ for ye.”
“All right, Lynch; but pray hard, for I’ll need it,” replies Cushing.
Then he looks at the face of the little dial which registers the
steam-pressure, and turns to the engineer: “Keep a full head of steam
up, but be careful not to let her get so much that she will open the
safety-valve and let Johnny know we’re coming.” Next he goes forward,
examines the torpedo-spar, stations his small crew, orders the furnace
door closed, and lays hold of the steering-wheel in the forward
cockpit. “Shove off,” he orders.
The great black hull of the flag-ship slips into the gloom ahead. A
moment later the propeller churns the water, the tiller is put over
to port, the head of the launch swerves to starboard, and is kept
steadily pointed towards Plymouth, where lies the great rebel iron-clad
_Albemarle_, waiting only for the time, speedily coming, when, with
equipment complete, she will steam out to do battle with the wooden
walls of her enemies.
After the fleet has been left well astern, the boyish commander orders
the engines stopped, and calls the men around him.
“Boys,” he says, “I’m going to tell you my plan, so that you may work
it out, if possible, in case anything happens to me when we get under
fire. As soon as I make out the ship and get my bearings, I’m going to
put on a full head of steam, and jump the launch over the logs that
surround her on the water side. Once over the spars, it will be only
a few feet between us and the hull; so we must have the torpedo ready
to push under the water against her side as soon as we get near enough.
On the dock that she is moored to they have a couple of howitzers and
a company of sharp-shooters to help guard the approach from sea, and
on board they are sure to be prepared to give us a warm welcome. I
will keep the wheel until we are over the logs, then I will handle the
torpedo, so see that it is clear for me. But if I should fall, try
to carry out my plan, then jump overboard, dive under the logs, swim
across the river, and make your way down along the bank until you get
abreast of the fleet, where you can signal. That is all, except to
strip yourselves for a swim. Do you understand?”
“Ay, ay, sir, we understand,” comes the answer from the handful of
heroes.
The little wheel under the stern of the launch turns over slowly and
noiselessly as eager, anxious eyes peer ahead into the night.
Suddenly a huge blot is made out a little on the port bow, and a moment
later it shapes itself into the outlines of a dock with a great vessel
lying alongside.
Out of the gloom rings the challenge, “Boat ahoy!”
While the echo of the last word trembles, Cushing orders, fiercely:
“Give it to her! Steady, boys!”
The engineer opens wide the valve, and throws the wild pressure of a
full head of steam into the cylinder. The launch jumps forward in time
to escape a shower of iron hail that ploughs into her white wake.
Before the guns can be pointed anew a long, narrow barrier washing
level with the water shows a few feet ahead.
A sheet of flame from the rifle-barrels on the dock and ship, so
close to the open boat that it scorches the air in the faces of the
crew, makes vivid for an instant the onrushing destroyer. One of the
blue-jackets throws his arms up, and falls face downward in the cockpit
just as the stem of the launch strikes the log.
Will she go over it? is the agonizing thought of the brave youth who
stands in the very bosom of the deadly tempest.
The head of the boat rears itself on the air until the water is
splashing into the stern-sheets aft; then, without checking her mad
rush, she clears the barrier like a steeple-chaser and hurls herself
forward.
Another volley greets them, and the engineer and one more of the
sailors go down; but Lieutenant Cushing springs from the wheel, grasps
the torpedo-spar, and as the bow of the launch strikes the rebel ram he
thrusts it against her side just as a thick storm of missiles from the
howitzers crashes into his boat and shatters it to pieces.
But the doom of the _Albemarle_ is written. An awful rumbling is
heard, accompanied by the sound of splintering timbers, followed by a
towering volume of torn and maddened waters that for a moment hide the
scene from friend and foe, and under cover of which Lieutenant Cushing
regains the river beyond the floating logs.
Mingled shouts of command and cries of rage are heard by the swimmer
when he comes to the surface after his plunge under the barrier. A
number of bullets whistle above his head and patter into the water
around him. It is evident that he is yet within the range of vision of
the sharp-shooters, so he draws a long breath and sinks below the level
again, striking out strong, and swimming until forced to regain the air.
The confusion of voices is yet audible, but when he turns his eyes in
the direction of the clamor nothing is visible save the indistinct
outline of the shore; then he knows that he no longer affords a mark
for the soldiers on the dock.
But another cause of alarm is quickly manifest, for he catches the
sound of the thud of oars as they pound against the rowlocks, telling
him that the enemy have manned a boat and are seeking him. Before he
can decide as to the direction in which to swim in order to get out of
the track of the on-coming craft, it looms up only a few yards from him.
There is only one course to pursue, so, catching a quick breath, he
quietly sinks, and the boat passes over the spot where the bubbles on
the water mark his disappearance.
Until he experiences a sense of suffocation he remains under, swimming
off at right angles to the path of his seekers, so that his head may
not be in line with the eyes of the rowers when he regains the surface.
When he again casts his anxious eyes around, nothing is seen, so he
throws himself on his back and floats while recovering his strength,
and shortly after strikes out for the opposite bank of the river, which
he reaches after a weary trial, then creeps into the underbrush, and
sleeps from exhaustion.
The sun is high when he awakes. Parting the wild foliage, he looks
across and up the stream at the scene of his exploit. The dock is
plainly to be seen, but the _Albemarle_ has disappeared. Looking
intently, he sees two masts rising from the water near the pier, and is
thus assured that the career of the rebel ship is ended.
Ha! What causes that rustling of the foliage to his right? Is it an
animal, or is it an enemy in search of him?
Almost naked, and altogether defenceless, he watches breathlessly.
He promises himself that he will never be taken alive. Better to die
than to endure the tortures of a Southern prison. The bushes part a
little further, and a man’s sun-browned face and brawny bare shoulders
and tattooed arms come into view.
“Jack!” says the Lieutenant, in a loud, glad whisper.
“Lieutenant!” responds the seaman, in a tone of equal surprise and
gladness.
All day the officer and his companion, the only survivors of the
expedition, work their way painfully through the swamp, and just as
the sun is sinking they drag their bare, bleeding feet and cruelly
lacerated bodies out on the bank of the river opposite the Union fleet.
All hands have been called to “make sunset,” and the men are silently
standing by the signal halyards and boat-falls waiting for the word
of command, when the quartermaster on the bridge of the flag-ship
quickly levels his telescope at the shore, then hurriedly approaches
and addresses the officer of the deck, who stands beside the Captain.
The latter takes the glass from the seaman, peers through it for an
instant, wheels sharply around, and speaks to the Lieutenant.
“Away, first cutter!” roars the latter.
The boatswain’s mate blows a shrill pipe, and repeats the order.
“Go down the boat-falls, boys; lively’s the word! Jump into the cutter,
Mr. Arnold, and pull into the beach for the men!”
Half an hour later Lieutenant Cushing comes over the gangway and
salutes the Commodore. “I report my return on board with one man, sir,”
he says; “the _Albemarle_ is destroyed.”
IX
PRESIDENT LINCOLN AND THE SLEEPING SENTINEL
I
The story of President Lincoln and the sleeping sentinel offers certain
substantial facts which are common to all its versions. A soldier
named Scott, condemned to be shot for the crime of sleeping on his
post, was pardoned by President Lincoln, only to be killed afterwards
at the battle of Lee’s Mills, on the Peninsula. The incidental facts
are varied according to the taste, the fancy, or the imagination of
the writer of each version. The number of persons who claim to have
procured the intervention of the President to save the life of the
soldier nearly equals that of the different versions. As these persons
worked independently of each other, and one did not know what another
had done, it is not improbable that several of them are entitled to
some measure of credit, of which I should be most unwilling to deprive
them.
The story of this young soldier, as it was presented to me, so
touchingly reveals some of the kindlier qualities of the President’s
character that it seldom fails to charm those to whom it is related. I
shall give its facts as I understand them, and I think I can guarantee
their general accuracy.
On a dark September morning in 1861, when I reached my office, I found
waiting there a party of soldiers, none of whom I knew personally. They
were greatly excited, all speaking at the same time, and they were
consequently unintelligible. One of them wore the bars of a Captain.
I said to them, pleasantly, “Boys, I cannot understand you. Pray,
let your Captain say what you want and what I can do for you.” They
complied, and the Captain put me in possession of the following facts:
They belonged to the Third Vermont Regiment, raised, with the exception
of one company, on the eastern slope of the Green Mountains, and
mustered into service while the battle of Bull Run was in progress.
They were immediately sent to Washington, and since their arrival,
during the last days of July, had been stationed at the Chain Bridge,
some three miles above Georgetown. Company K, to which most of them
belonged, was largely made up of farmer-boys, many of them still in
their minority.
The story which I extracted from the “boys” was, in substance, this:
William Scott, one of these mountain boys, just of age, had enlisted
in Company K. Accustomed to his regular sound and healthy sleep, not
yet inured to the life of the camp, he had volunteered to take the
place of a sick comrade who had been detailed for picket duty, and had
passed the night as a sentinel on guard. The next day he was himself
detailed for the same duty, and undertook its performance. But he found
it impossible to keep awake for two nights in succession, and had been
found by the relief sound asleep on his post. For this offence he had
been tried by a court-martial, found guilty, and sentenced to be shot
within twenty-four hours after his trial, and on the second morning
after his offence was committed.
Scott’s comrades had set about saving him in a characteristic way. They
had called a meeting, and appointed a committee, with power to use all
the resources of the regiment in his behalf. Strangers in Washington,
the committee had resolved to call on me for advice, because I was a
Vermonter, and they had already marched from the camp to my office
since daylight that morning.
The Captain took all the blame from Scott upon himself. Scott’s mother
opposed his enlistment on the ground of his inexperience, and had
only consented on the Captain’s promise to look after him as if he
were his own son. This he had wholly failed to do. He must have been
asleep or stupid himself, he said, when he paid no attention to the
boy’s statement that he had fallen asleep during the day, and feared
he could not keep awake the second night on picket. Instead of sending
some one or going himself in Scott’s place, as he should, he had let
him go to his death. He alone was guilty--“If any one ought to be shot,
I am the fellow, and everybody at home would have the right to say
so.” “There must be some way to save him, judge!” (They all called me
judge.) “He is as good a boy as there is in the army, and he ain’t to
blame. You will help us, now, won’t you?” he said, almost with tears.
The other members of the committee had a definite, if not a
practicable, plan. They insisted that Scott had not been tried, and
gave this account of the proceeding. He was asked what he had to say
to the charge, and said he would tell them just how it all happened.
He had never been up all night that he remembered. He was “all beat
out” by the night before, and knowing he should have a hard fight to
keep awake, he thought of hiring one of the boys to go in his place,
but they might think he was afraid to do his duty, and he decided
to “chance it.” Twice he went to sleep and woke himself while he was
marching, and then--he could not tell anything about it--all he knew
was that he was sound asleep when the guard came. It was very wrong, he
knew. He wanted to be a good soldier, and do all his duty. What else
did he enlist for? They could shoot him, and perhaps they ought to, but
he could not have tried harder; and if he was in the same place again,
he could no more help going to sleep than he could fly.
One must have been made of sterner stuff than I was not to be touched
by the earnest manner with which these men offered to devote even their
farms to the aid of their comrade. The Captain and the others had no
need of words to express their emotions. I saw that the situation
was surrounded by difficulties of which they knew nothing. They had
subscribed a sum of money to pay counsel, and offered to pledge their
credit to any amount necessary to secure him a fair trial.
“Put up your money,” I said. “It will be long after this when one
of my name takes money for helping a Vermont soldier. I know facts
which touch this case of which you know nothing. I fear that nothing
effectual can be done for your comrade. The courts and lawyers can do
nothing. I fear that we can do no more; but we can try.”
I must digress here to say that the Chain Bridge across the Potomac was
one of the positions upon which the safety of Washington depended. The
Confederates had fortified the approach to it on the Virginia side, and
the Federals on the hills of Maryland opposite. Here, for months, the
opposing forces had confronted each other. There had been no fighting;
the men, and even the officers, had gradually contracted an intimacy,
and, having nothing better to do, had swapped stories and other
property until they had come to live upon the footing of good neighbors
rather than mortal enemies. This relation was equally inconsistent with
the safety of Washington and the stern discipline of war. Its discovery
had excited alarm, and immediate measures were taken to break it up.
General W. F. Smith, better known as “Baldy” Smith, had been appointed
Colonel of the Third Vermont Regiment, placed in command of the post,
and undertook to correct the irregularity.