THE next morning the rebels were found to be gone from the position
in front of the 200th Ind;, and after breakfast the regiment marched
leisurely by a road around the dreaded abatis, to the ground which had
been scarred and mangled by our terrible artillery fire.
It was an appalling scene that the eyes of the boys rested upon. Every
horrid form of mutilation and death which could be inflicted by
the jagged shards and fiendish shells, or the even more demon-like
shrapnel-balls, was visible.
Everything was torn, rent, and ragged, as if soma mighty giant, insane
to destroy, had spent his fury there. Nothing had escaped the iron flail
of devastation. Trees shattered or cut entirely down; limberchests and
cannon-wheels merely bunches of blackened splinters; frightfully mangled
horses, dead, or yet living in agony that filled their great plaintive
eyes; lying in ghastly pools of blood, which filmed and clotted under
the bright rays of the May morning sun.
"Looks like Judgment morn or the fall of Babylon," muttered the
religious-minded Alf Russell, the first to break their awed silence.
[Illustration: AWFUL DESTRUCTION. 241]
"Or the destruction of Sennacherib," suggested Monty Scruggs--
"For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed."
"I should say he had a mighty strong breath, Monty," Shorty interrupted.
He liked to break in on Monty's heroics. "Excuse me from havin' a
12pounder breathin' around me."
"And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts
but once heaved, and forever grew still," continued Monty.
"I'll bet there wasn't much sleepin' around here while that shell'n' was
goin' on," broke in Shorty again. "Except the sleep that has the sod for
a coverlet and Gabriel's trumpet for a breakfast bell."
Monty continued impressively:
"And there lay the steed, with his nostrils all wide,
But through them there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf."
"Poor horses," murmured Shorty. "I always feel mighty sorry for them.
They hadn't nothin' to do with gittin' up this rebellion. We must go
around and kill such as is alive, and put them out o' their misery."
Monty resumed:
"And there lay the rider, distorted and pale.
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone.
The lances uplifted, the trumpets unblown."
"Serves 'em right, the yaller-bellied, clay-eatin' yowlers," said Shorty
savagely, looking over the mangled corpses. "Pays 'em up for their
murderin' abatis. We got it in this time worse on them than they did on
us, though it'd take as much of this as'd make up several Counties to
pay up for any one o' the good boys we lost yesterday. I hope they
are all where they kin look down and see how we got it on the secesh
hell-hounds. We'll do 'em up worse yit before we're through with 'em."
"Our batteries are improvin' wonderfully," commented the more practical
Si, studying the field. "They seem to've socked every shell in just
where it'd do the most good. No shootin' at the State o' Georgy
generally and trustin' to luck to hit a rebel. Every shell seems to've
landed just where it was needed, and then 'tended to its business and
busted. You don't see no signs of any strikin' a quarter of a mile away,
nor a whole one layin' around anywhere. That's good gunnin', and I'm
glad our old six-hoss thrashin'-machine done the biggest share of it.
Our brigade has the best battery in the whole army."
"The regiment will go on," reported Orderly-Sergeant, "but Co. Q will
stay behind to bury the dead, gather up the arms and things, and then
bring up the brigade ammunition train."
"Stay behind to bury the dead," grumbled Shorty. "Nice business that!
Sextons to the Southern Confederacy. Hain't they got any niggers around
here that they kin set at the work?"
Nor did Si like the job. "The artillery made the muss, and now the
infantry's got to stay and clean up after it. That don't seem right."
"Well, orders is orders, and got to be obeyed," said the
Orderly-Sergeant, cutting short the discussion with the usual formulary
of his class. An Orderly-Sergeant is robbed of one of the cherished
privileges of the other enlisted men. He can not criticise or grumble,
but must stop the others from doing so beyond a certain point, and his
refuge must be the prompt assumption that the orders are all right,
and must be executed cheerfully. And he has not the satisfaction of the
officers above him in knowing the why and wherefore of the orders, and
perhaps advising as to them. He is "betwixt and between," as they say
out West.
"The quicker we get at it," continued the Orderly, "the sooner it'll be
over. Serg't Klegg, take eight or 10 men and hunt around for some picks
and shovels. I think that deep trench over there behind the works 'll
do for a grave. You can shovel the bank right down on them and save hard
work. Serg't Wilson, you take eight or 10 men and gather up these pieces
o' men and lay them in there. Corp'l Jones, you take another man or two
and go around and kill those horses. Be careful how you shoot now. Don't
hurt anybody with glancing bullets. Corp'l Elliott, you take the rest
and go round and gather the guns and other things, and pile them up
there by that tree to turn over to the ordnance officer. Hustle, now,
all of you."
"They didn't think they were digging their own graves," philosophized
Monty Scruggs, as he stood shovel in hand watching the remains being
gathered into the trench.
"He digged a ditch, he digged it deep;
He digged it for his brother,
But for his great sin he fell in
The ditch he'd digged for t'other."
"Good, good, Monty," said Si. "That's the best thing I've heard you
spout yit. Give us some more of it."
"There isn't any more of it. The only thing I can think of is:
"The rebel Solomon Grundy;
Born in Georgia on Monday;
Become a rebel on Tuesday;
Run off from Buzzard's Roost on Wednesday;
Got licked at Dalton on Thursday;
Worse whipped at Resaca on Friday;
Blown up by a shell on Saturday;
Died and buried on Sunday;
And this was the end of Solomon Grundy."
Alf Russell's interest in anatomy had led him to join Serg't Wilson's
party in gathering up the ghastly fragments of bodies, but the sights
were too much for his nerves, and as he perceived that he was growing
sick at the stomach he went over to Shorty's squad.
It was astonishing what things they found, besides guns and equipments.
Evidently, the rebels had left quite hurriedly, and many personal
belongings were either forgotten or could not be found in the darkness.
Samples of about everything that soldiers carry, and a good many that
they are not supposed to, were found lying around. There were cooking
utensils, some on the fire, with corn-pone and meat in them; some where
the imperative orders to march found their owners with their breakfasts
half-devoured; there were hats clumsily fashioned of wisps of long-leaved
pine sewed together; there were caps which had been jaunty red-and-blue
"Zouaves" when their owners had mustered around Nashville in 1861, but
had been faded and tarnished and frayed by the mud and rain at Donelson,
Shiloh and Stone River, and by the dust and grime of Perryville
and Chickamauga, until they had as little semblance to their former
perkiness as the grim-visaged war had to the picnic of capturing
ungarrisoned forts and lolling in pleasant Summer camps on the banks
of the Cumberland. There were coats of many patterns and stages of
dilapidation, telling the same story of former finery, draggled through
the injurious grime of a thousand camps and marches. There were patched
and threadbare blankets, tramped-out boots and shoes, an occasional
book, many decks of cards, and so on.
Shorty came across a new cedar canteen with bright brass hoops. He slung
it over his shoulder, with the thought that it would be a nice thing to
send back to Maria, as a souvenir of the battle. She might hang it up in
her room, or make a pin-cushion or a work-basket out of it.
Presently he came to a box of shells, which he picked up and carried
back to the tree. It was quite heavy, and when he set it down again he
felt thirsty. The canteen occurred to him. It was full. He raised it to
his lips and took a long swig.
"Great Jehosephat," he gasped, his eyes starting out with astonishment.
"That ain't water. It's prime old applejack, smoother'n butter, and
smellin' sweeter'n a rose. Best I ever tasted."
Shorty had been strictly abstinent since his return from Indiana, The
rigid views of the Klegg family as to liquor-drinking had sunk into
his heart, and somehow whenever temptation came his way the clear,
far-seeing eyes of Maria would intervene with such a reproachful glance
that the thought of yielding became repugnant.
But the smooth, creamy applejack had slipped past his lips so
unexpectedly that it possessed him, before principle could raise an
objection. Shorty was the kind of a man to whom the first drink is the
greatest danger. After he had one almost anything was likely to happen.
Still, though his blood was already warming with the exhilarating
thrill, there were some twinges of conscience.
"Now, I mustn't take no more o' that," he said to himself. "That one
drink was good and all right enough, because I really thought I was
goin' to take a drink of water when I put the canteen to my lips. I
could swear that to Maria on a stack o' Bibles high as her dear head.
God bless her!"
He began bustling about with more activity, and giving his orders in a
louder voice. He saw Pete Skidmore pick up what had been once a militia
officer's gaudy coat, and examine it curiously. He shouted at him:
"Here, drop that, drop that, you little brat. What 'd I tell you? That
you mustn't fetch a rag of anything you see in here, except with the
point o' your bayonet and with your bayonet on your gun. Drop it, I tell
you."
"Why, what's the matter with that old coat?" asked Pete in an injured
tone, astonished at Shorty's vehemence.
"Everything's the matter with it, and every stitch o' cloth you find.
They're swarmin' with rebel bugs. I've trouble enough to keep the Yankee
graybacks off you. If you git the rebel kind on you angwintum won't save
you."
Pete dropped the coat in affright.
"And you, Sandy Baker," continued Shorty in a yell, "don't you walk
through them piles o' brush and leaves, where the rebels has bin
sleepin'. You'll git covered with rebel bugs, too, and we'll never git
'em out o' the company. How often 've I got to tell you that?"
Yelling so much made him dry, and the canteen hung so invitingly near
his hand.
"I don't think another pull at that old applejack 'll hurt me a mite.
I really didn't git a square drink the first time, because I was choked
off by astonishment at findin' it wasn't water. I'll just take enough of
a swig to finish up that drink."
"Jerusalem crickets," he exclaimed, wiping his mouth, "but that's good
stuff. Wonder if bein' in cedar makes it taste so bang-up? If I though
so I'd never drink out o' anything but cedar as long's I lived. Guess
I'll keep this canteen to carry water in. I kin send Maria--"
He stopped. He was not so far gone as to forget that any thought of
Maria was very inappropriate to his present condition. He started to
blustering at the boys who were carrying in guns:
"Here, how often have I got to caution you galoots about bein' careful
with them guns? Don't let the muzzles pint at yourselves, nor anybody
else. They're all likely to be loaded, and go off any minute, and blow
some o' your cussed heads offen you. Don't slam 'em down that way. Be
careful with 'em, I tell you. I'll come over there and larrup some o'
you, if you don't mind me."
"What's excitin' Shorty so, to make him yell that way? wondered Si,
stopping in his shoveling down the embankment upon the rebel dead, and
wiping his hot face.
"O, he's trying to keep them fresh young kids from blowin' themselves
into Kingdom Come with the rebel guns," answered one of the veterans
indifferently, and they resumed their shoveling.
Shorty started over to where some of the boys were trying to extricate
a rebel limber abandoned in a ravine. He spied a pair of fine field
glasses lying on the ground, and picked them up with an exclamation of
delight.
"Great Jehosephat," he said, turning them over for careful inspection.
"Ain't this a puddin'? Just the thing to give the Cap. He got his
smashed with a bullet comin' through the abatis, and's bin mournin'
about 'em ever since. These is better'n his was, and he'll be ticked to
death to git 'em."
He put them to his eyes and scanned the landscape.
"Ain't they just daisies, though. Bring that teamster over there so
close that I kin hear him cussin' his mules. Cap'll have a better pair
o' glasses than the Colonel or the General has. He deserves 'em, too.
Capt. McGillicuddy's good all the way through, from skin to bone, and as
brave as they make 'em. He'll be tickleder than a boy with a new pair o'
red-topped boots. He'll invite me to take a drink with him, but he won't
have nothin' so good as this old apple-jack. I guess I'll give the rest
to him, too, for his friends at headquarters. They don't often smack
their lips over stuff like that. But I'll treat myself once more, just
as Capt. McGillicuddy'd do."
The last drink was a settler. He was then in a frame of mind for
anything--to tear down a mountain, or lift a hill, or to fight anybody,
with or without cause. He looked over at the boys struggling with the
limber, and yelled, as he laid his coat, hat, canteen, and cartridge-box
down on the stump upon which he had been sitting, and placed the
field-glass upon them:
"Hoopee! Yank her out o' there, boys. Yank h'er out, and don't be all
day about it, either. Let me git at her and I'll fetch her out. Stand
by, you kids, and see your uncle Eph snatch her."
He bolted in to the ravine, swung the limber-tongue about, and with aid
of the rest, stirred to united effort by much profane vociferation on
his part, disengaged the limber and trundled it up the bank.
The tall, very stiff young Aid, with whom Si and Shorty had had the
previous affair, came stalking on to the ground, viewing everything with
his usual cold, superior, critical gaze.
"You are doing well, my man," he remarked to Shorty, "but too much
noise. A non-commissioned officer must not swear at his men. It's
strictly against regulations."
"Go to blazes," said Shorty, scarcely under his breath. The Aid picked
up the field-glasses, looked at them a minute, scanned the field with
them, and then looked around for the case, as if to appropriate them
himself.
"Here, drop them," said Shorty roughly. "Them's mine."
"How did they come to be yours, sir?" said the Aid sternly. "Picked them
up, didn't you?"
"None o' your business how I got 'em. They're mine, I tell you. Give 'em
to me."
"You picked them up on the battlefield, sir. They are military
equipments which you must turn over to the proper officer. I'll take
charge of them myself."
"You'll do nothin' o' the kind," roared Shorty, striding up to him.
"Give me them glasses."
"I shall do nothing of the kind," said the Aid sternly. "Don't you dare
approach me in that w-ay. Go back to your duties at once. I shall punish
you for disrespect to me and threatening an officer. Fall back, sir, I
tell you."
Shorty made a grab for the glasses, which the Aid tried to evade, but
Shorty fixed his firm clutch upon them. The Aid held on tightly, but
Shorty wrenched them from his grasp.
"You bob-tailed brevet West Pointer," said Shorty savagely, raising his
fist, "I've a notion to break you in two for tryin' to beat me out o'
what's mine. Git out o' here, or I'll--"
"Shorty! Shorty! Stop that!" shouted Si, rushing over to his partner,
and catching his back-drawn fist. He had been suspicious as to the cause
of his partner's noisiness, and ran up as soon as the disturbance began.
"Stop it, I say. Are you crazy?"
Poor little Pete, badly excited as to what was happening to his best
friend, was nervously fumbling his gun and eyeing the Aid.
"Si Klegg, go off and mind your own business, and let me attend to
mine," yelled Shorty, struggling to free himself from his partner's iron
grasp. "Am I goin' to be run over by every pin-feather snipe from West
Point? I'll break him in two."
"Sergeant," commanded the Aid, reaching to take the field-glasses from
Shorty's hand; "buck and gag that man at once. Knock him down if he
resists. Knock him down, I say."
"You tend to your own business and I'll tend to mine. Go away from here,
and don't say anything to make him madder, you wasp-waisted errand boy,"
said Si savagely, as he thrust himself in between the Aid and Shorty.
"I've got enough to do to take care of him. Go off, if you don't want
him to mash you."
Little Pete had an idea. He wriggled in between, snatched the glasses,
and made off with them.
The Brigade Provost-Marshal rode up and sternly demanded what the
disturbance was about. Shorty began a hot harrangue against young staff
officers generally, and this particular offender, but Si got his arm
across his mouth and muffled his speech. The Provost listened to the
Aid's bitter indictment against both Si and Shorty.
"Put both those men under arrest," he said to the Orderly-Sergeant,
"and make a list of the witnesses. I'll court-martial them at the first
halting place."