Produced by Ken Reeder
THE GUNS OF SHILOH
A STORY OF THE GREAT WESTERN CAMPAIGN
By Joseph A. Altsheler
FOREWORD
“The Guns of Shiloh,” a complete story in itself, is the complement of
“The Guns of Bull Run.” In “The Guns of Bull Run” the Civil War and
its beginnings are seen through the eyes of Harry Kenton, who is on the
Southern side. In “The Guns of Shiloh” the mighty struggle takes its
color from the view of Dick Mason, who fights for the North and who is
with Grant in his first great campaign.
THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
VOLUMES IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
THE GUNS OF BULL RUN.
THE GUNS OF SHILOH.
THE SCOUTS OF STONEWALL.
THE SWORD OF ANTIETAM.
THE STAR OF GETTYSBURG.
THE ROCK OF CHICKAMAUGA.
THE SHADES OF THE WILDERNESS.
THE TREE OF APPOMATTOX.
PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
HARRY KENTON, A Lad Who Fights on the Southern Side.
DICK MASON, Cousin of Harry Kenton, Who Fights on the Northern Side.
COLONEL GEORGE KENTON, Father of Harry Kenton.
MRS. MASON, Mother of Dick Mason.
JULIANA, Mrs. Mason's Devoted Colored Servant.
COLONEL ARTHUR WINCHESTER, Dick Mason's Regimental Commander.
COLONEL LEONIDAS TALBOT, Commander of the Invincibles,
a Southern Regiment.
LIEUTENANT COLONEL HECTOR ST. HILAIRE, Second in Command of the
Invincibles.
ALAN HERTFORD, A Northern Cavalry Leader.
PHILIP SHERBURNE, A Southern Cavalry Leader.
WILLIAM J. SHEPARD, A Northern Spy.
DANIEL WHITLEY, A Northern Sergeant and Veteran of the Plains.
GEORGE WARNER, A Vermont Youth Who Loves Mathematics.
FRANK PENNINGTON, A Nebraska Youth, Friend of Dick Mason.
ARTHUR ST. CLAIR, A Native of Charleston, Friend of Harry Kenton.
TOM LANGDON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
GEORGE DALTON, Friend of Harry Kenton.
BILL SKELLY, Mountaineer and Guerrilla.
TOM SLADE, A Guerrilla Chief.
SAM JARVIS, The Singing Mountaineer.
IKE SIMMONS, Jarvis' Nephew.
AUNT “SUSE,” A Centenarian and Prophetess.
BILL PETTY, A Mountaineer and Guide.
JULIEN DE LANGEAIS, A Musician and Soldier from Louisiana.
JOHN CARRINGTON, Famous Northern Artillery Officer.
DR. RUSSELL, Principal of the Pendleton School.
ARTHUR TRAVERS, A Lawyer.
JAMES BERTRAND, A Messenger from the South.
JOHN NEWCOMB, A Pennsylvania Colonel.
JOHN MARKHAM, A Northern Officer.
JOHN WATSON, A Northern Contractor.
WILLIAM CURTIS, A Southern Merchant and Blockade Runner.
MRS. CURTIS, Wife of William Curtis.
HENRIETTA CARDEN, A Seamstress in Richmond.
DICK JONES, A North Carolina Mountaineer.
VICTOR WOODVILLE, A Young Mississippi Officer.
JOHN WOODVILLE, Father of Victor Woodville.
CHARLES WOODVILLE, Uncle of Victor Woodville.
COLONEL BEDFORD, A Northern Officer.
CHARLES GORDON, A Southern Staff Officer.
JOHN LANHAM, An Editor.
JUDGE KENDRICK, A Lawyer.
MR. CULVER, A State Senator.
MR. BRACKEN, A Tobacco Grower.
ARTHUR WHITRIDGE, A State Senator.
HISTORICAL CHARACTERS
ABRAHAM LINCOLN, President of the United States.
JEFFERSON DAVIS, President of the Southern Confederacy.
JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Member of the Confederate Cabinet.
U. S. GRANT, Northern Commander.
ROBERT E. LEE, Southern Commander.
STONEWALL JACKSON, Southern General.
PHILIP H. SHERIDAN, Northern General.
GEORGE H. THOMAS, “The Rock of Chickamauga.”
ALBERT SIDNEY JOHNSTON, Southern General.
A. P. HILL, Southern General.
W. S. HANCOCK, Northern General.
GEORGE B. McCLELLAN, Northern General.
AMBROSE E. BURNSIDE, Northern General.
TURNER ASHBY, Southern Cavalry Leader.
J. E. B. STUART, Southern Cavalry Leader.
JOSEPH HOOKER, Northern General.
RICHARD S. EWELL, Southern General.
JUBAL EARLY, Southern General.
WILLIAM S. ROSECRANS, Northern General.
SIMON BOLIVAR BUCKNER, Southern General.
LEONIDAS POLK, Southern General and Bishop.
BRAXTON BRAGG, Southern General.
NATHAN BEDFORD FORREST, Southern Cavalry Leader.
JOHN MORGAN, Southern Cavalry Leader.
GEORGE J. MEADE, Northern General.
DON CARLOS BUELL, Northern General.
W. T. SHERMAN, Northern General.
JAMES LONGSTREET, Southern General.
P. G. T. BEAUREGARD, Southern General.
WILLIAM L. YANCEY, Alabama Orator.
JAMES A. GARFIELD, Northern General, afterwards President of
the United States.
And many others
IMPORTANT BATTLES DESCRIBED IN THE CIVIL WAR SERIES
BULL RUN
KERNSTOWN
CROSS KEYS
WINCHESTER
PORT REPUBLIC
THE SEVEN DAYS
MILL SPRING
FORT DONELSON
SHILOH
PERRYVILLE
STONE RIVER
THE SECOND MANASSAS
ANTIETAM
FREDERICKSBURG
CHANCELLORSVILLE
GETTYSBURG
CHAMPION HILL
VICKSBURG
CHICKAMAUGA
MISSIONARY RIDGE
THE WILDERNESS
SPOTTSYLVANIA
COLD HARBOR
FISHER'S HILL
CEDAR CREEK
APPOMATTOX
CONTENTS
I. IN FLIGHT
II. THE MOUNTAIN LIGHTS
III. THE TELEGRAPH STATION
IV. THE FIGHT IN THE PASS
V. THE SINGER OF THE HILLS
VI. MILL SPRING
VII. THE MESSENGER
VIII. A MEETING AT NIGHT
IX. TAKING A FORT
X. BEFORE DONELSON
XI. THE SOUTHERN ATTACK
XII. GRANT'S GREAT VICTORY
XIII. IN THE FOREST
XIV. THE DARK EVE OF SHILOH
XV. THE RED DAWN OF SHILOH
XVI. THE FIERCE FINISH OF SHILOH
THE GUNS OF SHILOH
CHAPTER I. IN FLIGHT
Dick Mason, caught in the press of a beaten army, fell back slowly with
his comrades toward a ford of Bull Run. The first great battle of the
Civil War had been fought and lost. Lost, after it had been won! Young
as he was Dick knew that fortune had been with the North until the very
closing hour. He did not yet know how it had been done. He did not know
how the Northern charges had broken in vain on the ranks of Stonewall
Jackson's men. He did not know how the fresh Southern troops from the
Valley of Virginia had hurled themselves so fiercely on the Union flank.
But he did know that his army had been defeated and was retreating on
the capital.
Cannon still thundered to right and left, and now and then showers of
bursting shell sprayed over the heads of the tired and gloomy soldiers.
Dick, thoughtful and scholarly, was in the depths of a bitterness and
despair reached by few of those around him. The Union, the Republic, had
appealed to him as the most glorious of experiments. He could not bear
to see it broken up for any cause whatever. It had been founded with
too much blood and suffering and labor to be dissolved in a day on a
Virginia battlefield.
But the army that had almost grasped victory was retreating, and the
camp followers, the spectators who had come out to see an easy triumph,
and some of the raw recruits were running. A youth near Dick cried that
the rebels fifty thousand strong with a hundred guns were hot upon their
heels. A short, powerful man, with a voice like the roar of thunder,
bade him hush or he would feel a rifle barrel across his back. Dick
had noticed this man, a sergeant named Whitley, who had shown singular
courage and coolness throughout the battle, and he crowded closer to him
for companionship. The man observed the action and looked at him with
blue eyes that twinkled out of a face almost black with the sun.
“Don't take it so hard, my boy,” he said. “This battle's lost, but there
are others that won't be. Most of the men were raw, but they did some
mighty good fightin', while the regulars an' the cavalry are coverin'
the retreat. Beauregard's army is not goin' to sweep us off the face of
the earth.”
His words brought cheer to Dick, but it lasted only a moment. He was to
see many dark days, but this perhaps was the darkest of his life. His
heart beat painfully and his face was a brown mask of mingled dust,
sweat, and burned gunpowder. The thunder of the Southern cannon behind
them filled him with humiliation. Every bone in him ached after such
fierce exertion, and his eyes were dim with the flare of cannon and
rifles and the rolling clouds of dust. He was scarcely conscious that
the thick and powerful sergeant had moved up by his side and had put a
helping hand under his arm.
“Here we are at the ford!” cried Whitley. “Into it, my lad! Ah, how good
the water feels!”
Dick, despite those warning guns behind him, would have remained a while
in Bull Run, luxuriating in the stream, but the crowd of his comrades
was pressing hard upon him, and he only had time to thrust his face into
the water and to pour it over his neck, arms, and shoulders. But he was
refreshed greatly. Some of the heat went out of his body, and his eyes
and head ached less.
The retreat continued across the rolling hills. Dick saw everywhere arms
and supplies thrown away by the fringe of a beaten army, the men in the
rear who saw and who spread the reports of panic and terror. But the
regiments were forming again into a cohesive force, and behind them
the regulars and cavalry in firm array still challenged pursuit. Heavy
firing was heard again under the horizon and word came that the Southern
cavalry had captured guns and wagons, but the main division maintained
its slow retreat toward Washington.
Now the cool shadows were coming. The sun, which had shown as red as
blood over the field that day, was sinking behind the hills. Its fiery
rays ceased to burn the faces of the men. A soft healing breeze stirred
the leaves and grass. The river of Bull Run and the field of Manassas
were gone from sight, and the echo of the last cannon shot died solemnly
on the Southern horizon. An hour later the brigade stopped in the wood,
and the exhausted men threw themselves upon the ground. They were so
tired that their bodies were in pain as if pricked with needles. The
chagrin and disgrace of defeat were forgotten for the time in the
overpowering desire for rest.
Dick had enlisted as a common soldier. There was no burden of
maintaining order upon him, and he threw himself upon the ground by the
side of his new friend, Sergeant Whitley. His breath came at first in
gasps, but presently he felt better and sat up.
It was now full night, thrice blessed to them all, with the heat and
dust gone and no enemy near. The young recruits had recovered their
courage. The terrible scenes of the battle were hid from their eyes, and
the cannon no longer menaced on the horizon. The sweet, soothing wind
blew gently over the hills among which they lay, and the leaves rustled
peacefully.
Fires were lighted, wagons with supplies arrived, and the men began
to cook food, while the surgeons moved here and there, binding up the
wounds of the hurt. The pleasant odors of coffee and frying meat arose.
Sergeant Whitley stood up and by the moonlight and the fires scanned the
country about them with discerning eye. Dick looked at him with renewed
interest. He was a man of middle years, but with all the strength and
elasticity of youth. Despite his thick coat of tan he was naturally
fair, and Dick noticed that his hands were the largest that he had ever
seen on any human being. They seemed to the boy to have in them the
power to strangle a bear. But the man was singularly mild and gentle in
his manner.
“We're about half way to Washington, I judge,” he said, “an' I expect a
lot of our camp followers and grass-green men are all the way there
by now, tellin' Abe Lincoln an' everybody else that a hundred thousand
rebels fell hard upon us on the plain of Manassas.”
He laughed deep down in his throat and Dick again drew courage and
cheerfulness from one who had such a great store of both.
“How did it happen? Our defeat, I mean,” asked Dick. “I thought almost
to the very last moment that we had the victory won.”
“Their reserves came an' ours didn't. But the boys did well. Lots worse
than this will happen to us, an' we'll live to overcome it. I've been
through a heap of hardships in my life, Dick, but I always remember that
somebody else has been through worse. Let's go down the hill. The boys
have found a branch an' are washin' up.”
By “branch” he meant a brook, and Dick went with him gladly. They
found a fine, clear stream, several feet broad and a foot deep, flowing
swiftly between the slopes, and probably emptying miles further on into
Bull Run. Already it was lined by hundreds of soldiers, mostly boys,
who were bathing freely in its cool waters. Dick and the sergeant joined
them and with the sparkle of the current fresh life and vigor flowed
into their veins.
An officer took command, and when they had bathed their faces, necks,
and arms abundantly they were allowed to take off their shoes and socks
and put their bruised and aching feet in the stream.
“It seems to me, sergeant, that this is pretty near to Heaven,” said
Dick as he sat on the bank and let the water swish around his ankles.
“It's mighty good. There's no denyin' it, but we'll move still a step
nearer to Heaven, when we get our share of that beef an' coffee, which
I now smell most appetizin'. Hard work gives a fellow a ragin' appetite,
an' I reckon fightin' is the hardest of all work. When I was a lumberman
in Wisconsin I thought nothin' could beat that, but I admit now that a
big battle is more exhaustin'.”
“You've worked in the timber then?”
“From the time I was twelve years old 'til three or four years ago. If
I do say it myself, there wasn't a man in all Wisconsin, or Michigan
either, who could swing an axe harder or longer than I could. I guess
you've noticed these hands of mine.”
He held them up, and they impressed Dick more than ever. They were great
masses of bone and muscle fit for a giant.
“Paws, the boys used to call 'em,” resumed Whitley with a pleased laugh.
“I inherited big hands. Father had em an' mother had 'em, too. So mine
were wonders when I was a boy, an' when you add to that years an' years
with the axe, an' with liftin' an' rollin' big logs I've got what I
reckon is the strongest pair of hands in the United States. I can pull a
horseshoe apart any time. Mighty useful they are, too, as I'm likely to
show you often.”
The chance came very soon. A frightened horse, probably with the memory
of the battle still lodged somewhere in his animal brain, broke his
tether and came charging among the troops. Whitley made one leap, seized
him by the bit in his mighty grasp and hurled him back on his haunches,
where he held him until fear was gone from him.
“It was partly strength and partly sleight of hand, a trick that I
learned in the cavalry,” he said to Dick as they put on their shoes.
“I got tired of lumberin' an' I wandered out west, where I served three
years on horseback in the regular army, fightin' the Indians. Good
fighters they are, too. Mighty hard to put your hand on 'em. Now they're
there an' now they ain't. Now you see 'em before you, an' then they're
behind you aimin' a tomahawk at your head. They taught us a big lot
that I guess we can use in this war. Come on, Dick, I guess them banquet
halls are spread, an' I know we're ready.”
Not much order was preserved in the beaten brigade, which had become
separated from the rest of the retreating army, but the spirits of all
were rising and that, so Sergeant Whitley told Dick, was better just now
than technical discipline. The Northern army had gone to Bull Run with
ample supplies, and now they lacked for nothing. They ate long and well,
and drank great quantities of coffee. Then they put out the fires and
resumed the march toward Washington.
They stopped again an hour or two after midnight and slept until
morning. Dick lay on the bare ground under the boughs of a great oak
tree. It was a quarter of an hour before sleep came, because his nervous
system had received a tremendous wrench that day. He closed his eyes
and the battle passed again before them. He remembered, too, a lightning
glimpse of a face, that of his cousin, Harry Kenton, seen but an instant
and then gone. He tried to decide whether it was fancy or reality, and,
while he was trying, he fell asleep and slept as one dead.
Dick was awakened early in the morning by Sergeant Whitley, who was now
watching over him like an elder brother. The sun already rode high and
there was a great stir and movement, as the brigade was forming for its
continued retreat on the capital. The boy's body was at first stiff
and sore, but the elasticity of youth returned fast, and after a brief
breakfast he was fully restored.
Another hot day had dawned, but Dick reflected grimly that however hot
it might be it could not be as hot as the day before had been. Scouts in
the night had brought back reports that the Southern troops were on the
northern side of Bull Run, but not in great force, and a second battle
was no longer feared. The flight could be continued without interruption
over the hot Virginia fields.
Much of Dick's depression returned as they advanced under the blazing
sun, but Whitley, who seemed insensible to either fatigue or gloom, soon
cheered him up again.
“They talk about the Southerners comin' on an' takin' Washington,” he
said, “but don't you believe it. They haven't got the forces, an' while
they won the victory I guess they're about as tired as we are. Our boys
talk about a hundred thousand rebels jumpin' on 'em, an' some felt as if
they was a million, but they weren't any more than we was, maybe not
as many, an' when they are all stove up themselves how can they attack
Washington in its fortifications! Don't be so troubled, boy. The Union
ain't smashed up yet. Just recollect whenever it's dark that light's
bound to come later on. What do you say to that, Long Legs?”
He spoke to a very tall and very thin youth who marched about a half
dozen feet away from them. The boy, who seemed to be about eighteen
years of age, turned to them a face which was pale despite the
Virginia sun. But it was the pallor of indoor life, not of fear, as the
countenance was good and strong, long, narrow, the chin pointed, the
nose large and bridged like that of an old Roman, the eyes full blue
and slightly nearsighted. But there was a faint twinkle in those same
nearsighted eyes as he replied in precise tones:
“According to all the experience of centuries and all the mathematical
formulae that can be deduced therefrom night is bound to be followed
by day. We have been whipped by the rebels, but it follows with
arithmetical certainty that if we keep on fighting long enough we will
whip them in time. Let x equal time and y equal opportunity. Then when
x and y come together we shall have x plus y which will equal success.
Does my logic seem cogent to you, Mr. Big Shoulders and Big Hands?”
Whitley stared at him in amazement and admiration.
“I haven't heard so many big words in a long time,” he said, “an' then,
too, you bring 'em out so nice an' smooth, marchin' in place as regular
as a drilled troop.”
“I've been drilled too,” said the tall boy, smiling. “My name is George
Warner, and I come from Vermont. I began teaching a district school when
I was sixteen years old, and I would be teaching now, if it were not for
the war. My specialty is mathematics. X equals the war, y equals me and
x plus y equals me in the war.”
“Your name is Warner and you are from Vermont,” said Dick eagerly. “Why,
there was a Warner who struck hard for independence at Bennington in the
Revolution.”
“That's my family,” replied the youth proudly. “Seth Warner delivered
a mighty blow that helped to form this Union, and although I don't know
much except to teach school I'm going to put in a little one to help
save it. X equalled the occasion, y equalled my willingness to meet it,
and x plus y have brought me here.”
Dick told who he and Whitley were, and he felt at once that he and this
long and mathematical Vermont lad were going to be friends. Whitley also
continued to look upon Warner with much favor.
“I respect anybody who can talk in mathematics as you do,” he said. “Now
with me I never know what x equals an' I never know what y equals, so
if I was to get x an' y together they might land me about ten thousand
miles from where I wanted to be. But a fellow can bend too much over
books. That's what's the matter with them eyes of yours, which I notice
always have to take two looks where I take only one.”
“You are undoubtedly right,” replied Warner. “My relatives told me that
I needed some fresh air, and I am taking it, although the process is
attended with certain risks from bullets, swords, bayonets, cannon
balls, and shells. Still, I have made a very close mathematical
calculation. At home there is the chance of disease as well as here. At
home you may fall from a cliff, you may be drowned in a creek or river
while bathing, a tree may fall on you, a horse may throw you and break
your neck, or you may be caught in a winter storm and freeze to death.
But even if none of these things happens to you, you will die some day
anyhow. Now, my figures show me that the chance of death here in the war
is only twenty-five per cent greater than it was at home, but physical
activity and an open air continuously increase my life chances
thirty-five per cent. So, I make a net life gain of ten per cent.”
Whitley put his hand upon Warner's shoulder.
“Boy,” he said, “you're wonderful. I can cheer up the lads by talkin'
of the good things to come, but you can prove by arithmetic, algebra an'
every other kind of mathematics that they're bound to come. You're goin'
to be worth a lot wherever you are.”
“Thanks for your encomiums. In any event we are gaining valuable
experience. Back there on the field of Bull Run I was able to
demonstrate by my own hearing and imagination that a hundred thousand
rebels could fire a million bullets a minute; that every one of those
million bullets filled with a mortal spite against me was seeking my own
particular person.”
Whitley gazed at him again with admiration.
“You've certainly got a wonderful fine big bag of words,” he said, “an'
whenever you need any you just reach in an' take out a few a foot long
or so. But I reckon a lot of others felt the way you did, though they
won't admit it now. Look, we're nearly to Washington now. See the dome
of the Capitol over the trees there, an' I can catch glimpses of roofs
too.”
Dick and George also saw the capital, and cheered by the sight, they
marched at a swifter gait. Soon they turned into the main road, where
the bulk of the army had already passed and saw swarms of stragglers
ahead of them. Journalists and public men met them, and Dick now learned
how the truth about Bull Run had come to the capital. The news of defeat
had been the more bitter, because already they had been rejoicing there
over success. As late as five o'clock in the afternoon the telegraph had
informed Washington of victory. Then, after a long wait, had come the
bitter despatch telling of defeat, and flying fugitives arriving in the
night had exaggerated it tenfold.
The division to which Dick, Warner, and Whitley belonged marched over
the Long Bridge and camped near the capital where they would remain
until sent on further service. Dick now saw that the capital was in no
danger. Troops were pouring into it by every train from the north and
west. All they needed was leadership and discipline. Bull Run had stung,
but it did not daunt them and they asked to be led again against the
enemy. They heard that Lincoln had received the news of the defeat with
great calmness, and that he had spent most of a night in his office
listening to the personal narratives of public men who had gone forth to
see the battle, and who at its conclusion had left with great speed.
“Lots of people have laughed at Abe Lincoln an' have called him only a
rail-splitter,” said Whitley, “but I heard him two or three times, when
he was campaignin' in Illinois, an' I tell you he's a man.”
“He was born in my state,” said Dick, “and I mean to be proud of him.
He'll have support, too. Look how the country is standing by him!”
More than once in the succeeding days Dick Mason's heart thrilled at
the mighty response that came to the defeat of Bull Run. The stream of
recruits pouring into the capital never ceased. He now saw men, and many
boys, too, like himself, from every state north of the Ohio River
and from some south of it. Dan Whitley met old logging friends from
Wisconsin whom he had not seen in years, and George Warner saw two
pupils of his as old as himself.
Dick had inherited a sensitive temperament, one that responded quickly
and truthfully to the events occurring about him, and he foresaw the
beginning of a mighty struggle. Here in the capital, resolution was
hardening into a fight to the finish, and he knew from his relatives
when he left Kentucky that the South was equally determined. There was
an apparent pause in hostilities, but he felt that the two sections were
merely gathering their forces for a mightier conflict.
His comrades and he had little to do, and they had frequent leaves of
absence. On one of them they saw a man of imposing appearance pass down
Pennsylvania Avenue. He would have caught the attention of anybody,
owing to his great height and splendid head crowned with snow-white
hair. He was old, but he walked as if he were one who had achieved
greatly, and was conscious of it.
“It's Old Fuss and Feathers his very self,” said Whitley.
“General Scott. It can be no other,” said Dick, who had divined at once
the man's identity. His eyes followed the retreating figure with the
greatest interest. This was the young hero of the War of 1812 and the
great commander who had carried the brilliant campaign into the capital
of Mexico. He had been the first commander-in-chief of the Northern
army, and, foreseeing the great scale of the coming war, had prepared
a wide and cautious plan. But the public had sneered at him and had
demanded instant action, the defeat at Bull Run being the result.
Dick felt pity for the man who was forced to bear a blame not his own,
and who was too old for another chance. But he knew that the present
cloud would soon pass away, and that he would be remembered as the man
of Chippewa and Chapultepec.
“McClellan is already here to take his place,” said Whitley. “He's
the young fellow who has been winning successes in the western part of
Virginia, an' they say he has genius.”
Only a day or two later they saw McClellan walking down the same avenue
with the President. Dick had never beheld a more striking contrast. The
President was elderly, of great height, his head surmounted by a high
silk hat which made him look yet taller, while his face was long,
melancholy, and wrinkled deeply. His collar had wilted with the heat and
the tails of his long black coat flapped about his legs.
The general was clothed in a brilliant uniform. He was short and stocky
and his head scarcely passed the President's shoulder. He was redolent
of youth and self confidence. It showed in his quick, eager gestures and
his emphatic manner. He attracted the two boys, but the sergeant shook
his head somewhat solemnly.
“They say Scott was too old,” he said, “and now they've gone to the
other end of it. McClellan's too young to handle the great armies that
are going into the field. I'm afraid he won't be a match for them old
veterans like Johnston and Lee.”
“Napoleon became famous all over the world when he was only twenty-six,”
said Warner.
“That's so,” retorted Whitley, “but I never heard of any other Napoleon.
The breed began and quit with him.”
But the soldiers crowding the capital had full confidence in “Little
Mac,” as they had already begun to call him. Those off duty followed and
cheered him and the President, until they entered the White House and
disappeared within its doors. Dick and his friends were in the crowd
that followed, although they did not join in the cheers, not because
they lacked faith, but because all three were thoughtful. Dick had
soon discovered that Whitley, despite his lack of education, was an
exceedingly observant man, with a clear and reasoning mind.
“It was a pair worth seeing,” said the sergeant, as they turned away,
“but I looked a lot more at Old Abe than I did at 'Little Mac.' Did you
ever think, boys, what it is to have a big war on your hands, with all
sorts of men tellin' you all sorts of things an' tryin' to pull you in
all sorts of directions?”
“I had not thought of it before, but I will think of it now,” said
Warner. “In any event, we are quite sure that the President has a great
task before him. We hear that the South will soon have a quarter of a
million troops in the field. Her position on the defensive is perhaps
worth as many more men to her. Hence let x equal her troops, let y equal
her defensive, and we have x plus y, which is equal to half a million
men, the number we must have before we can meet the South on equal
terms.”
“An' to conquer her completely we'll need nigh on to a million.” said
the sergeant.
Shrewd and penetrating as was Sergeant Whitley he did not dream that
before the giant struggle was over the South would have tripled her
defensive quarter of a million and the North would almost have tripled
her invading million.
A few days later their regiment marched out of the capital and joined
the forces on the hills around Arlington, where they lay for many days,
impatient but inactive. There was much movement in the west, and they
heard of small battles in which victory and defeat were about equal.
The boys had shown so much zeal and ability in learning soldierly duties
that they were made orderlies by their colonel, John Newcomb, a taciturn
Pennsylvanian, a rich miner who had raised a regiment partly at his
own expense, and who showed a great zeal for the Union. He, too, was
learning how to be a soldier and he was not above asking advice now and
then of a certain Sergeant Whitley who had the judgment to give it in
the manner befitting one of his lowly rank.
The summer days passed slowly on. The heat was intense. The Virginia
hills and plains fairly shimmered under the burning rays of the sun. But
still they delayed. Congress had shown the greatest courage, meeting on
the very day that the news of Bull Run had come, and resolving to
fight the war to a successful end, no matter what happened. But while
McClellan was drilling and preparing, the public again began to call for
action. “On to Richmond!” was the cry, but despite it the army did not
yet move.
European newspapers came in, and almost without exception they sneered
at the Northern troops, and predicted the early dissolution of the
Union. Monarchy and privileged classes everywhere rejoiced at the
disaster threatening the great republic, and now that it was safe to do
so, did not hesitate to show their delight. Sensitive and proud of his
country, Dick was cut to the quick, but Warner was more phlegmatic.
“Let 'em bark,” he said. “They bark because they dislike us, and they
dislike us because they fear us. We threatened Privilege when our
Revolution succeeded and the Republic was established. The fact of our
existence was the threat and the threat has increased with our years
and growth. Europe is for the South, but the reason for it is one of the
simplest problems in mathematics. Ten per cent of it is admiration
for the Southern victory at Bull Run, and ninety per cent of it is
hatred--at least by their ruling classes--of republican institutions,
and a wish to see them fall here.”
“I suspect you're right,” said Dick, “and we'll have to try all the
harder to keep them from being a failure. Look, there goes our balloon!”
Every day, usually late in the afternoon, a captive balloon rose from
the Northern camp, and officers with powerful glasses inspected the
Southern position, watching for an advance or a new movement of any
kind.
“I'm going up in it some day,” said Dick, confidently. “Colonel Newcomb
has promised me that he will take me with him when his turn for the
ascension comes.”
The chance was a week in coming, a tremendously long time it seemed
to Dick, but it came at last. He climbed into the basket with Colonel
Newcomb, two generals, and the aeronauts and sat very quiet in a corner.
He felt an extraordinary thrill when the ropes were allowed to slide and
the balloon was slowly going almost straight upward. The sensation was
somewhat similar to that which shook him when he went into battle at
Bull Run, but pride came to his rescue and he soon forgot the physical
tremor to watch the world that now rolled beneath them, a world that
they seemed to have left, although the ropes always held.
Dick's gaze instinctively turned southward, where he knew the
Confederate army lay. A vast and beautiful panorama spread in a
semi-circle before him. The green of summer, the green that had been
stained so fearfully at Bull Run, was gone. The grass was now brown from
the great heats and the promise of autumn soon to come, but--from the
height at least--it was a soft and mellow brown, and the dust was gone.
The hills rolled far away southward, and under the horizon's rim. Narrow
ribbons of silver here and there were the numerous brooks and creeks
that cut the country. Groves, still heavy and dark with foliage, hung
on the hills, or filled some valley, like green in a bowl. Now and then,
among clumps of trees, colonial houses with their pillared porticoes
appeared.
It was a rare and beautiful scene, appealing with great force to Dick.
There was nothing to tell of war save the Northern forces just beneath
them, and he would not look down. But he did look back, and saw the
broad band of the Potomac, and beyond it the white dome of the Capitol
and the roof of Washington. But his gaze turned again to the South,
where his absorbing interest lay, and once more he viewed the quiet
country, rolling away until it touched the horizon rim. The afternoon
was growing late, and great terraces of red and gold were heaping above
one another in the sky until they reached the zenith.
“Try the glasses for a moment, Dick,” said Colonel Newcomb, as he passed
them to the boy.
Dick swept them across the South in a great semi-circle, and now new
objects rose upon the surface of the earth. He saw distinctly the
long chain of the Blue Ridge rising on the west, then blurring in the
distance into a solid black rampart. In the south he saw a long curving
line of rising blue plumes. It did not need Colonel Newcomb to tell him
that these were the campfires of the army that they had met on the
field of Bull Run, and that the Southern troops were now cooking their
suppers.
No doubt his cousin Harry was there and perhaps others whom he knew.
The fires seemed to Dick a defiance to the Union. Well, in view of their
victory, the defiance was justified, and those fires might come nearer
yet. Dick, catching the tone of older men who shared his views, had not
believed at first that the rebellion would last long, but his opinion
was changing fast, and the talk of wise Sergeant Whitley was helping
much in that change.
While he yet looked through the glasses he saw a plume of white smoke
coming swiftly towards the Southern fires. Then he remembered the two
lines of railroad that met on the battlefield, giving it its other
name, Manassas Junction, and he knew that the smoke came from an engine
pulling cars loaded with supplies for their foes.
He whispered of the train as he handed the glasses back to Colonel
Newcomb, and then the colonel and the generals alike made a long
examination.
“Beauregard will certainly have an abundance of supplies,” said one of
the generals. “I hear that arms and provisions are coming by every train
from the South, and meanwhile we are making no advance.”
“We can't advance yet,” said the other general emphatically. “McClellan
is right in making elaborate preparations and long drills before moving
upon the enemy. It was inexperience, and not want of courage, that beat
us at Bull Run.”
“The Southerners had the same inexperience.”
“But they had the defensive. I hear that Tom Jackson saved them, and
that they have given him the name Stonewall, because he stood so firm.
I was at West Point with him. An odd, awkward fellow, but one of the
hardest students I have ever known. The boys laughed at him when he
first came, but they soon stopped. He had a funny way of studying,
standing up with his book on a shelf, instead of sitting down at a desk.
Said his brain moved better that way. I've heard that he walked part of
the way from Virginia to reach West Point. I hear now, too, that he is
very religious, and always intends to pray before going into battle.”
“That's a bad sign--for us,” said the other general. “It's easy enough
to sneer at praying men, but just you remember Cromwell. I'm a little
shaky on my history, but I've an impression that when Cromwell, the
Ironsides, old Praise-God-Barebones, and the rest knelt, said a few
words to their God, sang a little and advanced with their pikes, they
went wherever they intended to go and that Prince Rupert and all the
Cavaliers could not stop them.”
“It is so,” said the other gravely. “A man who believes thoroughly in
his God, who is not afraid to die, who, in fact, rather favors dying on
the field, is an awful foe to meet in battle.”
“We may have some of the same on our side,” said Colonel Newcomb. “We
have at least a great Puritan population from which to draw.”
One of the generals gave the signal and the balloon was slowly pulled
down. Dick, grateful for his experience, thanked Colonel Newcomb and
rejoined his comrades.