On the evening of the 20th July, Hunter's division, to which Harold Hare
was attached, was bivouacked on the old Braddock Road, about a mile and
a half southeast of Centreville. It was midnight. There was a strange
and solemn hush throughout the camp, broken only by the hail of the
sentinel and the occasional trampling of horses hoofs, as some
aid-de-camp galloped hastily along the line. Some of the troops were
sleeping, dreaming, perhaps, of home, and far away, for the time, from
the thought of the morrow's danger. But most were keeping vigil through
the long hours of darkness, communing with themselves or talking in low
murmurs with some comrade; for each soldier knew that the battle-hour
was at hand. Harold was stretched upon his cloak, striving in vain to
win the boon of an hour's sleep, for he was weary with the toil of the
preceding day; but he could not shut out from his brain the whirl of
excitement and suspense which that night kept so many tired fellows
wakeful when they most needed rest. It was useless to court slumber, on
the eve, perhaps, of his eternal sleep; he arose and walked about into
the night.
Standing beside the dying embers of a watchfire, wrapped in his blanket,
and gazing thoughtfully into the little drowsy flames that yet curled
about the blackened fagots, was a tall and manly form, which Harold
recognized as that of his companion in arms, a young lieutenant of his
company. He approached, and placed his hand upon his fellow-soldier's
arm.
"What book of fate are you reading in the ashes, Harry?" he asked, in a
pleasant tone, anxious to dispel some portion of his own and his
comrade's moodiness.
The soldier turned to him and smiled, but sorrowfully and with effort.
"My own destiny, perhaps," he answered. "Those ashes were glowing once
with light and warmth, and before the dawn they will be cold, as you or
I may be to-morrow, Harold."
"I thought you were too old a soldier to nurse such fancies upon the
eve of battle. I must confess that I, who am a novice in this work, am
as restless and nervous as a woman; but you have been seasoned by a
Mexican campaign, and I came to you expressly to be laughed into
fortitude again."
"You must go on till you meet one more lighthearted than myself,"
answered the other, with a sigh. "Ah! Harold, I have none of the old
elasticity about me to-night. I would I were back under my father's
roof, never to hear the roll of the battle-drum again. This is a cruel
war, Harold."
"A just one."
"Yes, but cruel. Have you any that you love over yonder, Harold? Any
that are dear to you, and that you must strike at on the morrow?"
"Yes, Harry, that is it. It is, as you say, a cruel war."
"I have a brother there," continued his companion; and he looked sadly
into the gloom, as if he yearned through the darkness and distance to
catch a glimpse of the well-known form. "A brother that, when I last saw
him, was a little rosy-cheeked boy, and used to ride upon my knee. He
is scarce more than a boy now, and yet he will shoulder his musket
to-morrow, and stand in the ranks perhaps to be cut down by the hand
that has caressed him. He was our mother's darling, and it is a mercy
that she is not living to see us armed against each other."
"It is a painful thought," said Harold, "and one that you should dismiss
from contemplation. The chances are thousands to one that you will never
meet in battle."
"I trust the first bullet that will be fired may reach my heart, rather
than that we should. But who can tell? I have a strange, gloomy feeling
upon me; I would say a presentiment, if I were superstitious."
"It is a natural feeling upon the eve of battle. Think no more of it.
Look how prettily the moon is creeping from under the edge of yonder
cloud. We shall have a bright day for the fight, I think."
"Yes, that's a comfort. One fights all the better in the warm sunlight,
as if to show the bright heavens what bloodthirsty devils we can be upon
occasion. Hark!"
It was the roll of the drum, startling the stillness of the night; and
presently, the brief, stern orders of the sergeants could be heard
calling the men into the ranks. There is a strange mingled feeling of
awe and excitement in this marshalling of men at night for a dangerous
expedition. The orders are given instinctively in a more subdued and
sterner tone, as if in unison with the solemnity of the hour. The tramp
of marching feet strikes with a more distinct and hollow sound upon the
ear. The dark masses seem to move more compactly, as if each soldier
drew nearer to his comrade for companionship. The very horses, although
alert and eager, seem to forego their prancing, and move with sober
tread. And when the word "forward!" rings along the dark column, and the
long and silent ranks bend and move on as with an electric impulse,
there is a thrill in every vein, and each heart contracts for an
instant, as if the black portals of a terrible destiny were open in the
van.
A half hour of silent hurry and activity passed away, and at last the
whole army was in motion. It was now three o'clock; the moon shone down
upon the serried ranks, gleaming from bayonet and cannon, and
stretching long black shadows athwart the road. From time to time along
the column could be heard the ringing voice of some commander, as he
galloped to the van, cheering his men with some well-timed allusion, or
dispelling the surrounding gloom with a cheerful promise of victory.
Where the wood road branched from the Warrentown turnpike, Gen.
McDowell, standing in his open carriage, looked down upon the passing
columns, and raised his hat, when the excited soldiers cheered as they
hurried on. Here Hunter's column turned to the right, while the main
body moved straight on to the centre. Then all became more silent than
before, and the light jest passing from comrade to comrade was less
frequent, for each one felt that every step onward brought him nearer to
the foe.
The eastern sky soon paled into a greyish light, and ruddy streaks
pushed out from the horizon. The air breathed fresher and purer than in
the darkness, and the bright sun, with an advance guard of thin, rosy
clouds, shot upward from the horizon in a blaze of splendor. It was the
Sabbath morn.
The boom of a heavy gun is heard from the centre. Carlisle has opened
the ball. The day's work is begun. Another! The echoes spring from the
hillsides all around, like a thousand angry tongues that threaten death.
But on the right, no trace of an enemy is to be seen. Burnside's brigade
was in the van; they reached the ford at Sudley's Springs; a momentary
confusion ensues as the column prepares to cross. Soon the men are
pushing boldly through the shallow stream, but the temptation is too
great for their parched throats; they stoop to drink and to fill their
canteens from the cool wave. But as they look up they see a cloud of
dust rolling up from the plain beyond, and their thirst has passed
away--they know that the foe is there.
An aid comes spurring down the bank, waving his hand and splashing into
the stream.
"Forward, men! forward!"
Hunter gallops to meet him, with his staff clattering at his horse's
heels.
"Break the heads of regiments from the column and push on--push on!"
The field officers dash along the ranks, and the men spring to their
work, as the word of command is echoed from mouth to mouth.
Crossing the stream, their course extended for a mile through a thick
wood, but soon they came to the open country, with undulating fields,
rolling toward a little valley through which a brooklet ran. And beyond
that stream, among the trees and foliage which line its bank and extend
in wooded patches southward, the left wing of the enemy are in battle
order.
From a clump of bushes directly in front, came a puff of white smoke
wreathed with flame; the whir of the hollow ball is heard, and it
ploughs the moist ground a few rods from our advance.
Scarcely had the dull report reverberated, when, in quick succession, a
dozen jets of fire gleamed out, and the shells came plunging into the
ranks. Burnside's brigade was in advance and unsupported, but under the
iron hail the line was formed, and the cry "Forward!" was answered with
a cheer. A long grey line spread out upon the hillside, forming rapidly
from the outskirts of the little wood. It was the Southern infantry,
and soon along their line a deadly fire of musketry was opened.
Meanwhile the heavy firing from the left and further on, announced that
the centre and extreme left were engaged. A detachment of regulars was
sent to Burnside's relief, and held the enemy in check till a portion of
Porter's and Heintzelman's division came up and pressed them back from
their position.
The battle was fiercely raging in the centre, where the 69th had led the
van and were charging the murderous batteries with the bayonet. We must
leave their deeds to be traced by the historic pen, and confine our
narrative to the scene in which Harold bore a part. The nearest battery,
supported by Carolinians, had been silenced. The Mississippians had
wavered before successive charges, and an Alabama regiment, after four
times hurling back the serried ranks that dashed against them, had
fallen back, outflanked and terribly cut up. On the left was a
farm-house, situated on an elevated ridge a little back from the road.
Within, while the fiercest battle raged, was its solitary inmate, an
aged and bed-ridden lady, whose paralyzed and helpless form was
stretched upon the bed where for fourscore years she had slept the calm
sleep of a Christian. She had sent her attendants from the dwelling to
seek a place of safety, but would not herself consent to be removed, for
she heard the whisper of the angel of death, and chose to meet, him
there in the house of her childhood. For the possession of the hill on
which the building stood, the opposing hosts were hotly struggling. The
fury of the battle seemed to concentre there, and through the time-worn
walls the shot was plunging, splintering the planks and beams, and
shivering the stone foundation. Sherman's battery came thundering up the
hill upon its last desperate advance. Just as the foaming horses were
wheeled upon its summit, the van of Hampton's legion sprang up the
opposite side, and the crack of a hundred rifles simultaneously sounded.
Down fell the cannoneers beside their guns before those deadly missiles,
and the plunging horses were slaughtered in the traces, or, wounded to
the death, lashed out their iron hoofs among the maimed and writhing
soldiers and into the heaps of dead. The battery was captured, but held
only fop an instant, when two companies of Rhode Islanders, led on by
Harold Hare, charged madly up the hill.
"Save the guns, boys!" he cried, as the gallant fellows bent their heads
low, and sprang up the ascent right in the face of the blazing rifles.
"Fire low! stand firm! drive them back once again, my brave Virginians!"
shouted a young Southern officer, springing to the foremost rank.
The mutual fire was delivered almost at the rifles' muzzles, and the
long sword-bayonets clashed together. Without yielding ground, for a few
terrible seconds they thrust and parried with the clanging steel, while
on either side the dead were stiffening beneath their feet, and the
wounded, with shrieks of agony, were clutching at their limbs. Harold
and the young Southron met; their swords clashed together once in the
smoke and dust, and but once, when each drew back and lowered his
weapon, while all around were striking. Then, amid that terrible
discord, their two left hands were pressed together for an instant, and
a low "God bless you!" came from the lips of both.
"To the right, Beverly, keep you to the right!" said Harold, and he
himself, straight through the hostile ranks, sprang in an opposite
direction.
When Harold's party had first charged up the hill, the young lieutenant
with whom he had conversed beside the watch-fire on the previous
evening, was at the head of his platoon, and as the two bodies met, he
sent the last shot from his revolver full in the faces of the foremost
rank. So close were they, that the victim of that shot, struck in the
centre of the forehead, tottered forward, and fell into his arms. There
was a cry of horror that pierced even above the shrieks of the wounded
and the yells of the fierce combatants. One glance at that fair,
youthful face sufficed;--it was his brother--dead in his arms, dead by a
brother's hand. The yellow hair yet curled above the temples, but the
rosy bloom upon the cheek was gone; already the ashen hue of death was
there. There was a small round hole just where the golden locks waved
from the edge of the brow, and from it there slowly welled a single
globule of black gore. It left the face undisfigured--pale, but tranquil
and undistorted as a sleeping child's--not even a clot of blood was
there to mar its beauty. The strong and manly soldier knelt upon the
dust, and holding the dead boy with both arms clasped about his waist,
bent his head low down upon the lifeless bosom, and gasped with an agony
more terrible than that which the death-wound gives.
"Charley! Oh God! Charley! Charley!" was all that came from his white
lips, and he sat there like stone, with the corpse in his arms, still
murmuring "Charley!" unconscious that blades were flashing and bullets
whistling around him. The blood streamed from his wounds, the bayonets
were gleaming round, and once a random shot ploughed into his thigh and
shivered the bone. He only bent a little lower and his voice was
fainter; but still he murmured "Charley! Oh God! Charley," and never
unfolded his arms from its embrace. And there, when the battle was over,
the Southrons found him, dead--with his dead brother in his arms.