Dick, after eating the cold food which was served to him, sank into a
state which was neither sleep nor stupor. It was a mystic region between
the conscious and the unconscious, in which all things were out of
proportion, and some abnormal.
He saw before him a vast stretch of dead blackness which he knew
nevertheless was peopled by armed hosts ready to spring upon them at
dawn. The darkness and silence were more oppressive than sound and
light, even made by foes, would have been. It numbed him to think there
was so little of stirring life, where nearly two hundred thousand men
had fought.
Then a voice arose that made him shiver. But it was only the cold wind
from the mountains whistling a dirge. Nevertheless it seemed human to
Dick. It was at once a lament and a rebuke. He edged over a little and
touched Warner.
“Is that you, Dick?” asked the Vermonter.
“What's left of me. I've one or two wounds, mere scratches, George, but
I feel all pumped out. I'm like one of those empty wine-skins that you
read about, empty, all dried up, and ready to be thrown away.”
“Something of the same feeling myself, Dick. I'm empty and dried up,
too, but I'm not ready to be thrown away. Nor are you. We'll fill up in
the night. Our hearts will pump all our veins full of blood again,
and we'll be ready to go out in the morning, and try once more to get
killed.”
“I don't see how you and Pennington and I, all three of us, came out of
it alive to-day.”
“That question is bothering me, too, Dick. A million bullets were fired
at each of us, not to count thousands of pieces of shell, shrapnel,
canister, grape, and slashes of swords. Take any ratio of percentage
you please and something should have got us. According to every rule of
algebra, not more than one of us three should be alive now. Yet here we
are.”
“Maybe your algebra is wrong?”
“Impossible. Algebra is the most exact of all sciences. It does not
admit of error. Both by algebra and by the immutable law of averages at
least two of us are dead.”
“But we don't know which two.”
“That's true. Nevertheless it's certain that those two, whoever they may
be, are here on borrowed time. What do your wounds amount to, Dick?”
“Nothing, I had forgotten 'em. I've lost a little blood, but what does
it amount to on a day like this, when blood is shed in rivers?”
“That's true. My own skin has been broken, but just barely, four times
by bullets. I've a notion that those bullets were coming straight for
some vital part of me, but seeing who it was, and knowing that such a
noble character ought not to be slain, they turned aside as quickly as
possible, but not so quickly that they could avoid grazing my skin.”
Dick and Pennington laughed. Warner's fooling amused them and relieved
the painful tension of their minds.
“But, George,” said Pennington, “suppose one of the bullets failed to
turn aside and killed you. What could we say then for you?”
“That it was a silly, ignorant bullet not knowing whence it came, or
where it was going. Ah, there's light in the darkness! Look across the
hill and see that shining flame!”
Dick rose and then the three walked to the brow of the hill, where
Colonel Winchester stood, using his glasses as well as he could in the
dusk.
“It's the pine forest on fire in places,” he said. “The shells did it,
and it's been burning for some time, spreading until it has now come
into our own sight.”
But they were detached fires, and they did not fuse into a general mass
at any time. Clumps of trees burnt steadily like vast torches and sent
up high flames. Bands of men from either side worked silently, removing
as many of the wounded as they could. It was a spontaneous movement, as
happened so often in this war, and Dick and his comrades took a part in
it.
North and South met in friendliness in the darkness or by the light of
the burning pines, and talked freely as they lifted up their wounded.
Dick asked often about Colonel Kenton, meeting at last some Kentuckians,
who told him that the colonel had gone through the day without a wound,
and was with Buckner. Then Dick asked if any Mississippians were along
the line.
“What do you want with 'em?” asked a long, lank man with a bilious
yellow face.
“I've got a friend among 'em. Woodville is his name, and he's about my
own age.”
“I've heard of the Woodvilles. Big an' rich family in Missip. 'Roun'
Vicksburg and Jackson mostly. I'm from the Yazoo valley myself, an' if
I hear of the young fellow I'll send him down this way. But I can't stay
out long, 'cause it'll soon be time for me to have my chill. Comes every
other night reg'lar. But I'll be all right for battle to-morrow, when
we lick you Yankees out of the other boot, having licked you out of one
to-day.”
“All right, old Yazoo,” laughed Dick. “Go on and have your chill, but if
you see Woodville tell him Mason is waiting down here by the wood.”
“I'll shorely do it, if the chill don't git me fust,” said the yellow
Mississippian as he strolled away, and Dick knew that he would keep his
word.
The lad lingered at the spot where he had met the man, hoping that by
some lucky chance Woodville might come, and fortune gave him his wish. A
slender figure emerged from the dark, and a voice called softly:
“Is that you, Mason?”
“Nobody else,” replied Dick gladly, stepping forward and offering his
hand, which young Woodville shook warmly. “I was hoping that I might
meet you, and I see, too, that you can't be hurt much, if at all.”
“I haven't been touched. It's my lucky day, I suppose.”
“Where's your uncle? I hope he's in some safe place, recovering from his
wound.”
Victor Woodville laughed softly.
“Uncle Charles is recovering from his wound perhaps faster than you
hope,” he said, “but he's not in a safe place. Far from it.”
“I don't understand.”
“His wound is so much better that he can walk, though with a hop, and
he's right here in the thick of this battle, leading his own Mississippi
regiment. His horse was killed under him early this morning, and he's
fought all day on foot, swearing in the strange and melodious fashion
that you know. It's hop! swear! hop! swear! in beautiful alternation!”
“Good old colonel!”
“That's what he is, and he's also one of the bravest men that ever
lived, if he is my uncle. His regiment did prodigies to-day and they'll
do greater prodigies to-morrow. The Woodvilles are well represented
here. My father is present, leading his regiment, and there are a dozen
Woodville cousins of mine whom you've never met.”
“And I hope I won't meet 'em on this field. What about your aunt?”
“She's well, and in a safe place.”
“I'm glad of that. Now, tell me, Victor, how did you happen to be
with Slade on that raid? Of course it's no business of mine, but I was
surprised.”
“I don't mind answering. I suppose it was a taste for adventure, and a
desire to serve our cause. After I got up the bank and climbed into the
bushes, I looked back, and I think, Mason, that you may have saved me
from a bullet. I don't know, but I think so.”
Dick said nothing, but despite the dusk Woodville read the truth in his
eyes.
“I shan't forget,” said the young Mississippian as he moved away.
Dick turned back to his own group. They had noticed him talking to
the lad in gray, but they paid no attention, nor thought it anything
unusual. It was common enough in the great battles of the American civil
war, most of which lasted more than one day, for the opposing soldiers
to become friendly in the nights between.
“I think, sir,” said Sergeant Whitley, “that we won't be able to get any
more of our wounded to-night. Now, pardon me for saying it, Lieutenant,
but we ought to have some rest, because when day comes there's going
to be the most awful attack you ever saw. Some of our spies say that
Longstreet and the last of the Virginians did not come until night or
nearly night and that Longstreet himself will lead the attack on us.”
“Do you think, Sergeant, that it will be made first on our own corps?”
“I don't know, Mr. Mason. We've stood firmest, and them rebel generals
are no fools. They'll crash in where we've shown the most weakness.”
The sergeant walked on, carrying the corner of a litter. Warner, who had
stood by, whispered to Dick:
“There goes a general, but he'll never have the title. He's got a
general's head on his shoulders, and he thinks and talks like a general,
but he hasn't any education, and men with much poorer brains go past
him. Let it be a lesson to you, Dick, my son. After this war, go to
school, and learn something.”
“Good advice, George, and I'll take it,” laughed Dick. “But he isn't so
badly off. I wonder if those fires in the pine forest are going to burn
all night?”
“Several of 'em will. The big one on our left will be blazing when
day comes, and I'm glad of it since no wounded are now in its way. The
night's cold. That's a sharp and searching wind, and the sight of flames
makes one feel warm even if they are far away.”
It would not be long until day now, and the axes ceased to ring in the
forest. A long and formidable line of abattis had been made, but the men
were compelled to seek some rest. Despite the cold they suffered from a
burning thirst, and they could reach no water, not even the red
stream of the Chickamauga. Dick suffered like the rest, but he was
philosophical.
“I fancy that after sunrise we won't have time to think about water,” he
said.
But Dick was not destined to sleep. He lay down for a while, and he saw
hundreds of others around him lying motionless as if dead. Warner and
Pennington were among them, but he could not close his own eyes. His
brain was still hot and excited, and to calm himself if possible he
walked along the slope until he saw a faint light in the valley behind
it. A tall figure, which he recognized as that of Colonel Winchester,
was going toward the light.
Dick, being on such good terms with his colonel, would have followed
him, but when he came to the edge of the glade he drew back. General
Thomas was sitting on the huge, upthrust root of an oak, and he was
writing dispatches by the light of a flickering candle held by an aide.
Officers of high rank, one of whom Dick recognized as the young general,
Garfield, stood around him. Colonel Winchester joined the group, and
stood waiting in silence to receive orders, too, Dick supposed.
The lad withdrew hastily, but driven by an overmastering curiosity,
and knowing that he was doing no harm, he turned back and watched for a
little space beside a bush.
The flame of the candle wavered under the wind, and sometimes the light
shone full upon the face of Thomas. It was the same face that Dick had
first beheld when he carried the dispatches to him in Kentucky. He was
calm, inscrutable at this, the most desperate crisis the Union cause
ever knew in the west. Dick could not see that his hand trembled a
particle as he wrote, although lieutenant and general alike knew that
they would soon be attacked by a superior force, flushed with all the
high enthusiasm of victory. And lieutenant and general alike also knew
that their supreme commander, Rosecrans, was no genius like Lee or
Jackson, who could set numbers at naught, and choose time and place to
suit themselves. Only stubborn courage to fight and die could avail.
But Dick drew courage from the strong, thick figure sitting there so
impassively and apparently impervious to alarm. When he quit writing
and began to give verbal orders, he spoke in even tones, in which no
one could detect a trace of excitement. When the name, “The Rock of
Chickamauga,” became general, Dick remembered that night and knew how
well it was deserved.
Thomas gave his last order and his generals went to their commands. Dick
slipped back to his regiment, and lay down, but again could not sleep.
He waited in painful anxiety for the day. He had never before been
in such a highly nervous state, not at Shiloh, nor Stone River, nor
anywhere else. In those battles the chances were with the Union, but
here they were against it. He recognized that once more, save for
Thomas, the North had been outgeneraled. The army of Rosecrans had
marched from Chattanooga directly upon the positions chosen by Bragg,
where he was awaiting them with superior numbers. And the Confederate
government in the East had been quick enough to seize the opportunity
and quick enough to send the stalwart fighter, Longstreet, and his corps
to help close down the trap.
He wondered with many a painful throbbing of the heart what the dawn
would bring, and, unable to keep still any longer, he rose and went to
the brow of the low hill, behind which they lay. Colonel Winchester was
there walking through the scrub and trying to pick out something in
the opposing forest with his glasses. The cold wind still blew from
the mountains, and there were three high but distant torches, where the
clumps of pines still burned.
“Restless, Dick?” said the Colonel. “Well, so am I.”
“We have cause to be so, sir.”
“So we have, my lad. We thought the danger to the Union had passed with
Vicksburg and Gettysburg, but the day so soon to come may shatter all
our hopes. They must have a hundred thousand men out there, and they've
chosen time and place. What's more, they've succeeded so far. I don't
hesitate to talk to you in this way, Dick, but you mustn't repeat what I
say.”
“I shouldn't dream of doing so, sir.”
“I know you would not, but General Thomas apprehends a tremendous and
terrible attack. Whatever happens, we have not long to wait for it. I
think I feel the touch of the dawn in the wind.”
“It's coming, sir. I can see a faint tinge of gray in that cleft between
the hills toward the east.”
“You have a good eye, Dick. I see it now, too. It's growing and
turning to the color of silver. But I think we'll have time to get our
breakfasts. General Thomas does not believe the first attack will be
made upon our wing.”
The wind was freshening, as if it brought the dawn upon its edge.
The night had been uncommonly cold for the time of the year in that
latitude, and there was no sun yet to give warmth. But the men of Thomas
were being awakened, and, as no fires were allowed, cold food was served
to them.
“What's happened, Dick, while I was asleep?” asked Pennington.
“Nothing. The two armies are ready, and I think to-day will decide it.”
“I hope so. Two days are enough for any battle.”
Pennington's tone was jocular, but his words were not. His face was
grave as he regarded the opposing forest. He had the feeling of youth
that others might be killed, but not he. Nevertheless he was already
mourning many a good comrade who would be lost before the night came
again.
“There are the wasps!” said Warner, bending a listening ear. “You can
always hear them as they begin to sting. I wonder if skirmishers ever
sleep?”
The shots were on the right, but they came from points far away. In
front of them the forest and hills were silent.
“It's just as General Thomas thought,” said Dick. “The main volume of
their attack will be on our right and center. They know that Thomas
stands here and that he's a mighty rock, hard to move. They expect to
shatter all the rest of the line, and then whirl and annihilate us.”
“Let 'em come!” exclaimed Warner, with heightening color. “Who's
afraid?”
The dawn was spreading. The heavy mists that hung over the Chickamauga
floated away. All the east was silver, and the darkness rolled back like
a blanket. The west became silver in its turn, and the sun burned red
fire in the east. The wind still blew fresh and cool off the mountains.
The faint sound of trumpets came from far points on the Southern line.
The crackling fire of the skirmishers increased.
“It's a wait for us,” said Colonel Winchester, standing amid his
youthful staff. “I can see them advancing in great columns against our
right and center. Now their artillery opens!”
Dick put up his glasses and he, too, saw the mighty Southern army
advancing. Their guns were already clearing the way for the advance,
and the valleys echoed with the great concussion. Longstreet and Hill,
anxious to show what the veterans of the East could do, were pouring
them forward alive with all the fire and courage that had distinguished
them in the Army of Northern Virginia.
The battle swelled fast. It seemed to the waiting veterans of Thomas
that it had burst forth suddenly like a volcano. They saw the vast
clouds of smoke gather again off there where their comrades stood, and,
knowing the immense weight about to be hurled upon them, they feared for
those men who had fought so often by their side.
Yet Thomas had been confident that the first attack would be made upon
his own part of the line, that Bragg with an overwhelming force would
seek to roll up his left. Nor had he reckoned wrong. The lingering of
the bishop-general, Polk, over a late breakfast saved him from the first
shock, and upset the plans of the Southern commander, who had given him
strict orders to advance.
Dawn was long past, and to Bragg's great astonishment Polk had not
moved. It seems incredible that the fate of great events can turn upon
such trifles, and yet one wonders what would have happened had not Polk
eaten breakfast so late the morning of the second day of Chickamauga.
But when he did advance he attacked with the energy and vigor of
those great churchmen of the Middle Ages, who were at once princes and
warriors, leading their hosts to battle.
Portions of the men of Thomas were now coming into the combat, but the
Winchesters were not yet engaged. They were lying down just behind the
crest of their low hill and many murmurs were running through the ranks.
It was the hardest of all things to wait, while shells now and then
struck among them. They saw to their right the vast volume of fire and
smoke, while the roaring of the cannon and rifles was like the continued
sweep of a storm.
The youthful soldier may be nervous and excited, or he may be calm. This
was one of Dick's calm moments, and, while he watched and listened and
tried to measure all that he saw and heard, he noted that the crash of
the battle was moving slowly backward. He knew then that the Southern
advance was succeeding, succeeding so far at least. He was quite sure
now that the attack upon Thomas would be made soon and that it would
come with the greatest violence.
He rose and rejoined Colonel Winchester again, and the two looked with
awe at the gigantic combat, raging in a vast canopy of smoke, rent
continuously by flashes of fire. Dick observed that the colonel was
depressed and he knew the reason.
“Our men are being driven back,” he said.
“So they are,” said the colonel, “and I fear that there is confusion
among them, too.”
“But we'll hold fast here as we did yesterday!”
“I hope so. Yes, I know so, Dick. I've seen General Thomas twice this
morning, and I know that this corps will never be routed. He's made up
his mind to hold on or die. He's the Rock of Chickamauga.”
It was a name that Dick was to hear often afterward, and he repeated
under his breath: “The Rock of Chickamauga! The Rock of Chickamauga!” It
rolled resoundingly off the tongue, and he liked it.
Then came a beat of hoofs and a cavalry regiment galloped into open
ground beside them. It was Colonel Hertford's, numbering about three
hundred men, some of whom were wounded. Their leader was excited, and,
springing to the ground, he ran to Colonel Winchester. The two talked in
quick, short sentences.
“Colonel,” exclaimed Hertford, “we've just had a sharp brush with that
demon, Forrest, and we've left some good men back there. But I've come
both to help and to warn you. We're being driven back everywhere else,
and now they're gathering an immense mass of troops for a gigantic
attack on Thomas!”
Dick heard and his breath came fast. Colonel Hertford would bring
no false news, and he could see with his own eyes that the storm was
curving toward them. The two men hurried to Thomas, but in a few minutes
returned. Colonel Hertford sprang into the saddle and formed his cavalry
on the flank as a screen against the dreaded sweep of Forrest.
There was a lull for a moment in the tremendous uproar, and, Colonel
Winchester walking back and forth before his men, spoke to them briefly.
He was erect, pale and handsome, and his words came without a quiver.
Dick had never admired him more.
“Men,” he said, “you have never been beaten in battle, but your greatest
test is now at hand. Within a few minutes you will be attacked by a
force outnumbering you more than two to one. But these are the odds we
love. We would not have them less. I tell you, speaking as a man to men
who understand and fear not, that the fate of the day may rest with you.
Many gallant comrades of ours have gone already to the far shore, and
if we must go, too, to-day, let our journey be not less gallant than
theirs. We can die but once, and if we must die, let us die here where
we can serve our country most.”
His manner was quiet, but his words were thrilling, and the men of the
regiment, springing to their feet, uttered a deep, full-throated cheer.
Then sinking down again at the motion of his hand, they turned their
faces to the enemy. The time had come.
The vast Southern front rushed from the wood, and the gray horsemen of
Forrest, careless of death, swept down. It was a terrifying sight,
that army coming on amid the thunder and lightning of battle, tens of
thousands of rifle muzzles, tens of thousands of fierce brown faces
showing through the smoke, and the tremendous battle yell of the South
swelling over everything.
Dick felt a quiver, and then his body stiffened, as if it were about to
receive a physical shock. The whole regiment fired as one man, and a gap
appeared in the charging Southern column. Hertford and his horse
charged upon the hostile cavalry, and all the brigades of Thomas met the
Southern attack with a fire so heavy and deadly that the army of Bragg
reeled back.
Then ensued the most tremendous scene through which Dick had yet passed.
The Southern army came again. Bragg, Breckinridge, Buckner, Longstreet,
Hill, Cleburne and the others urged on the attacks. They had been
victors everywhere else and they knew that they must drive back Thomas
or the triumph would not be complete. They struck and spared not, least
of all their own men. They poured them, Kentuckians, Tennesseeans,
Georgians, Mississippians and all the rest upon Thomas without regard to
life.
Kentuckians on the opposing sides met once again face to face. Dick did
not know it then, but a regiment drawn from neighboring counties charged
the Winchesters thrice and left their dead almost at his feet. He had
little time to notice or measure anything amid the awful din and the
continued shock of battle in which thousands of men were falling.
The clouds of smoke enveloped them at times, and at other times floated
away. New clumps of pines, set on fire by the shells, burned brightly
like torches, lighting the way to death. Smoke, thick with the odors of
burned gunpowder clogged eye, nose and throat. Dick and the lads around
him gasped for breath, but they fired so fast into the dense Southern
masses that their rifle barrels grew hot to the touch.
The South was making her supreme effort. Her western sons were
performing prodigies of valor, and Longstreet and the Virginians were
fighting with all the courage that had distinguished them in the East.
But however violent the charge, and however tremendous the fire of
cannon and rifles, the Rock of Chickamauga merely sank deeper in the
soil, and nothing could drive him from his base. The Union dead heaped
up, regiments were shattered by the Southern fire, but Thomas, calm,
and, inspiring courage as on the day before, passed here and there,
strengthening the weak points, and sending many great guns to the crest
of Missionary Ridge, whence they swept the front of the enemy with a
devastating fire.
The hail of death from the heights enabled the infantry and cavalry
below to gather breath and strength for the new attacks of the enemy.
They knew, too, that their cannon were now giving them more help than
before, and defiant cheers swept along the line in answer to the mighty
battle cry of the South. The Rock of Chickamauga had not moved a foot.
Dick caught gleams of the sun through the smoky canopy, but he did not
know how far the day had advanced. He seemed to have been in battle
many hours, but in such moments one had little knowledge of time. He was
aware that the battle had been lost in the center and on the right, but
he had sublime faith in Thomas. The left would stand, and while it stood
the South could win but a barren triumph.
The peril was imminent and deadly. A strong Southern force, having cut
through another portion of the line, was endeavoring to take Thomas
on the flank. Rosecrans, seeing the danger and almost in despair, sent
Thomas orders which his stern lieutenant fortunately could not obey. The
rock did not move.
Bragg, an able leader, increased the attack upon Thomas. His generals
gathered around him, and seconded his efforts. Their view was better
than that of the Union commanders, and they knew it was vital to them
to move the rock from their path. Brigades, already victorious on other
parts of the field, came up, and were hurled, shouting their triumphant
battle cry against Thomas, only to be hurled back again.
The resolution of the defenders increased with their success. A sort of
fever seized upon them all. Death had become a little thing, or it was
forgotten. The blood in their veins was fire, and, transported out of
themselves, they rained shells and bullets upon men whom in their calm
moments they did not hate at all.
Dick's regiment had suffered with the rest, but Pennington and Warner
and the colonel were alive, and he caught a few glimpses of Hertford
with his gallant horsemen beating back every attack upon their flank.
But nothing stood out with sharp precision. The whole was a huge turmoil
of fire, smoke, confusion and death. The weight upon them seemed at
last to become overwhelming. In spite of courage the most heroic, and
dreadful losses, the right of Thomas was driven back, his center was
compelled to wheel about, but his left where the Winchester regiment
stood with others held on. Thomas himself was there among them, still
cool and impassive in face of threatened ruin.
About twenty thousand men were around Thomas, and they alone stood
between the Union army and destruction. At all other points it had been
not only defeated, but routed. Vast masses of fugitives were fleeing
toward Chattanooga. Rosecrans himself withdrew, and, now wholly in
despair, telegraphed at four o'clock in the afternoon to Washington: “My
army has been whipped and routed.”
But Thomas was neither routed nor whipped. Many of the brave generals
elsewhere refused to flee with the troops, but gathering as many
soldiers as possible joined Thomas. Among them was young Sheridan,
destined to so great a fame, who brought almost all his own division and
stood beside the Rock of Chickamauga, refusing to yield any further to
the terrible pressure.
The line of Thomas' army was now almost a semicircle. Polk was leading
violent attacks upon his left and center. Longstreet, used to victory,
was upon his right and behind him, and the veterans from the Army of
Northern Virginia had never fought better.
Dick saw the enemy all around him, and he began to lose hope. How could
they stand against such numbers? And if they tried to retreat there was
Longstreet to cut off the way. He bumped against Sergeant Whitley in the
smoke and gasped out:
“We're done for, Sergeant! We're done for!”
“No, we're not!” shouted the sergeant, firing into the advancing mass.
“We'll beat 'em back. They can't run over us!”
The sergeant, usually so cool, was a little mad. He was wounded in the
head, and the blood had run down over his face, dyeing it scarlet. His
brain was hot as with fire, and he hurled epithets at the enemy. His
life on the plains came back to him, and, for the time, he was like a
hurt Sioux chief who defies his foes. He called them names. He dared
them to come on. He mocked them. He told them how they had attacked
in vain all day long. He counted the number of their repulses and then
exaggerated them. He reminded them it was yet a long time until dark,
and asked them why they hesitated, why they did not come forward and
meet the death that was ready for them.
Dick gazed at him in astonishment. He heard many of his words through
the roar of the guns, and he saw his ensanguined face, through which
his eyes burned like two red-hot coals. Was this the quiet and kindly
Sergeant Whitley whom he had known so long? No, it was a raging tiger.
Still waters run deep, and, enveloped, at last, with the fury of battle
the sergeant welcomed wounds, death or anything else it might bring.
He shouted and fired his rifle again. Then he fell like a log. Dick
rushed to him at once, but he saw that he had only fainted from loss of
blood. He bound up the sergeant's head as best he could, and, easing him
against a bank, returned to the battle front.
A shout suddenly arose. Officers had seen through their glasses a column
of dust rising far behind them. It was so vast that it could only be
made by a great body of marching troops. But who were the men that were
making it? In all the frightful din and excitement of the battle the
question ran through the army of Thomas. If fresh enemies were coming
upon their rear they were lost! If friends there was yet hope!
But they could not watch the tower of dust long. The enemy in front gave
them no chance. Polk was still beating upon them, and Longstreet,
having seized a ridge, was pouring an increased fire from his advanced
position.
“If that cloud of dust encloses gray uniforms we're lost!” shouted
Warner in Dick's ear.
“But it mustn't enclose 'em,” Dick shouted back. “Fate wouldn't play us
such an awful trick! We can't lose, after having done and suffered so
much!”
Fate would not say which. They could not send men to see, but as they
fought they watched the cloud coming nearer and nearer, and Dick,
whose lips had been moving for some time, realized suddenly that he was
praying. “O God, save us! save us!” he was saying over and over. “Send
the help to us who need it so sorely. Make us strong, O God, to meet our
enemies!”
He and all his comrades wore masks of dust and burned gunpowder, often
stained with scarlet. Their clothing was torn by bullets and reddened
by dripping wounds. When they shouted to one another their voices came
strained and husky from painful throats. Half the time they were blinded
by the smoke and blaze of the firing. The crash did not seem so loud to
them now, because they were partly deafened for the time by a cannonade
of such violence and length.
Dick looked back once more at the great cloud of dust which was now much
nearer, but there was nothing yet to indicate what it bore within, the
bayonets of the North or those of the South. His anxiety became almost
intolerable.
Thomas himself stood at that moment entirely alone in a clump of trees
on the elevation called Horseshoe Ridge, watching the battle, seeing the
enemy in overpowering numbers on both his flanks and even in his
rear. Apparently everything was lost. Taciturn, he never described his
feelings then, but in his soul he must have admired the magnificent
courage with which his troops stood around him, and repelled the
desperate assaults of a foe resolved to win. Although his face
grew grimmer and his teeth set hard, he, too, must have watched the
approaching cloud of dust with the most terrible anxiety. If it bore
enemies in its bosom, then in very truth everything would be lost.
Down a road some miles from the battlefield a force of eight thousand
men had been left as a reserve for one of the armies. They had long
heard the terrific cannonade which was sending shattering echoes through
the mountains, and both their chief and his second in command were eager
to rush to the titanic combat. They could not obtain orders from their
commander, but, at last, they marched swiftly to the field, all the
eight thousand on fire with zeal to do their part.
It was the eight thousand who were making the great cloud of dust,
and, as they came nearer and nearer, the suspense of Thomas' shattered
brigades grew more terrible. Dick, reckless of shell and bullets, tried
to pierce the cloud with his eyes. He caught a glimpse of a flag and
uttered a wild shout of joy. It was the stars and stripes. The eight
thousand were eight thousand of the North! He danced up and down on the
stump, and shouted at the top of his voice:
“They're our own men! Help is here! Help is here!”
A vast shout of relief rose from Thomas' army as the eight thousand
still coming swiftly joined them. Granger was their leader, but
Steedman, his lieutenant, galloped at once to Thomas, who still stood in
the clump of trees, and asked him what he wanted him to do. The general,
calm and taciturn as ever, pointed toward a long hill that flamed with
the enemy's guns, and said three words:
“Take that ridge!”
Steedman galloped back and the eight thousand charged at once. The
battle in front sank a little, as if the others wished to watch the new
combat. Dick had been dragged down from the stump by Warner, but the two
stood erect with Pennington, their eyes turned toward the ridge. Colonel
Winchester was near them, his attention fixed upon the same place.
The eight thousand firing their rifles and supported by artillery
charged at a great pace. The whole ridge blazed with fire, and the
dead and wounded went down in sheaves. But Dick could not see that they
faltered. Hoarse shouts came again from his dry and blackened lips:
“They will take it! they will take it! Look how they face the guns!” he
was crying.
“So they will!” said Warner. “See what a splendid charge! Now they're
hidden! What a column of smoke! It floats aside, and, look, our men are
still going on! Nothing can stop them! They must have lost thousands,
but they reach the slope, and as sure as there's a sun in the heavens
they're going up it!”
That tremendous cheer burst again from the beleaguered Union army.
Granger and Steedman, with their fresh troops, were rushing up the
slopes of the formidable ridge, and though three thousand of the eight
thousand fell, they took it, hurling back the advancing columns of the
South, and securing the rear of Thomas.
Then the Winchester men and others about them went wild with joy. They
leaped, they danced, they sang, until they were commanded to make ready
for a new attack. Rosecrans in Chattanooga, with the most of his army
there also in wild confusion, had sent word to Thomas to retire, to
which Thomas had replied tersely: “It will ruin the army to withdraw it
now; this position must be held till night.”
And he made good his resolve. The Southern masses attacked once more
with frightful violence, and once more Thomas withstood them. The field
was now darkening in the twilight, and, having saved the Union army
from rout and wreck, Thomas, impervious to attack, fell back slowly to
Chattanooga.
The greatest battle of the West, one of the most desperate ever fought,
came to a close. Thirty-five thousand men, killed or wounded, had fallen
upon the field. The South had won a great but barren victory. She had
not been able to reap the fruits of so much skill and courage, because
Thomas and his men, like the Spartans at Thermopylae, had stood in the
way. Never had a man more thoroughly earned the title of honor that he
bore throughout the rest of his life, “The Rock of Chickamauga.”
Chickamauga, though, was a sinister word to the North. Gettysburg and
Vicksburg had stemmed the high tide of the Confederacy, and many had
thought the end in sight. But the news from “The River of Death” told
them that the road to crowning success was still long and terrible.