The excitement in the Union army was intense and joyous. The cheers
rolled like volleys among these farmer lads of the West. Dick, Warner
and Pennington stood up and shouted with the rest.
“I should judge that our chances of success have increased at least
fifty, yes sixty, per cent,” said Warner. “As we have remarked before,
this control of the water is a mighty thing. We fight the Johnnie Rebs
for the land, but we have the water already. Look at those gunboats,
will you? Aren't they the sauciest little things you ever saw?”
Once more the navy was showing, as it has always shown throughout
its career, its daring and brilliant qualities. Foote, the commodore,
although he had had no time to repair his four small fighting boats
after the encounter with Fort Henry, steamed straight up the river
and engaged the concentric fire from the great guns of the Southern
batteries, which opened upon him with a tremendous crash. The boys
watched the duel with amazement. They did not believe that small vessels
could live under such fire, but live they did. Great columns of smoke
floated over them and hid them at times from the watchers, but when the
smoke lifted a little or was split apart by the shattering fire of the
guns the black hulls of the gunboats always reappeared, and now they
were not more than three or four hundred yards from Donelson.
“I take it that this is a coverin' fire,” said Sergeant Whitley,
who stood by. “Four little vessels could not expect to reduce such a
powerful fortress as Donelson. It's not Fort Henry that they're fightin'
now.”
“The chances are at least ninety-five per cent in favor of your
supposition,” said Warner.
The sergeant's theory, in fact, was absolutely correct. Further down
the river the transports were unloading regiment after regiment of
fresh troops, and vast supplies of ammunition and provisions. Soon five
thousand men were formed in line and marched to Grant's relief, while
long lines of wagons brought up the stores so badly needed. Now the
stern and silent general was able to make the investment complete, but
the fiery little fleet did not cease to push the attack.
There was a time when it seemed that the gunboats would be able to pass
the fortress and rake it from a point up the river. Many of the guns in
the water batteries had been silenced, but the final achievement was too
great for so small a force. The rudder of one of Foote's gunboats was
shot away, the wheel of another soon went the same way, and both drifted
helplessly down the stream. The other two then retreated, and the fire
of both fort and fleet ceased.
But there was joy in the Union camp. The soldiers had an abundance
of food now, and soon the long ring of fires showed that they were
preparing it. Their forces had been increased a third, and there was a
fresh outburst of courage and vigor. But Grant ordered no more attacks
at present. After the men had eaten and rested a little, picks and
spades were swung along a line miles in length. He was fortifying his
own position, and it was evident to his men that he meant to stay there
until he won or was destroyed.
Dick was conscious once more of a sanguine thrill. Like the others, he
felt the strong hand over him, and the certainty that they were led with
judgment and decision made him believe that all things were possible.
Yet the work of fortifying continued but a little while. The men were
exhausted by cold and fatigue, and were compelled to lay down their
tools. The fires were built anew, and they hovered about them for
shelter and rest.
The wan twilight showed the close of the wintry day, and with the
increasing chill a part of Dick's sanguine feeling departed. The gallant
little fleet, although it had brought fresh men and supplies and had
protected their landing, had been driven back. The investment of the
fort was complete only on one side of the river, and steamers coming up
the Cumberland from Nashville might yet take off the garrison in safety.
Then the work of the silent general, all their hardship and fighting
would be at least in part a failure. The Vermont youth, who seemed to be
always of the same temper, neither very high nor very low, noticed his
change of expression.
“Don't let your hopes decrease, Dick,” he said. “Remember that at least
twenty per cent of the decline is due to the darkness and inaction.
In the morning, when the light comes once more, and we're up and doing
again, you'll get back all the twenty per cent you're losing now.”
“It's not to be all inaction with you boys tonight, even,” said Colonel
Winchester, who overheard his closing words. “I want you three to go
with me on a tour of inspection or rather scouting duty. It may please
you to know that it is the special wish of General Grant. Aware that I
had some knowledge of the country, he has detailed me for the duty, and
I choose you as my assistants. I'm sure that the skill and danger such a
task requires will make you all the more eager for it.”
The three youths responded quickly and with zeal, and Sergeant Whitley,
when he was chosen, too, nodded in silent gratitude. The night was dark,
overcast with clouds, and in an hour Colonel Winchester with his four
departed upon his perilous mission. He was to secure information in
regard to the Southern army, and to do that they were to go very near
the Southern lines, if not actually inside them. Such an attempt would
be hazardous in the extreme in the face of a vigilant watch; but on the
other hand they would be aided by the fact that both North and South
were of like blood and language. Even more, many of those in the
opposing camps came from the same localities, and often were of kin.
Dick's regiment had been stationed at the southern end of the line, near
the little town of Dover, but they now advanced northward and westward,
marching for a long time along their inner line. It was Colonel
Winchester's intention to reach Hickman Creek, which formed their
northern barrier, creep in the fringe of bushes on its banks, and then
approach the fort.
When they reached the desired point the night was well advanced, and
yet dark with the somber clouds hanging over river and fort and field
of battle. The wind blew out of the northwest, sharp and intensely cold.
The snow crunched under their feet. But the four had wrapped themselves
in heavy overcoats, and they were so engrossed in their mission that
neither wind nor snow was anything to them.
They passed along the bank of the creek, keeping well within the shadow
of the bushes, leaving behind them the last outpost of the Union army,
and then slowly drew near to the fort. They saw before them many lights
burning in the darkness, and at last they discerned dim figures walking
back and forth. Dick knew that these were the Southern sentinels. The
four went a little nearer, and then crouched down in the snow among some
low bushes.
Now they saw the Southern sentinels more distinctly. Some, in fact, were
silhouetted sharply as they passed before the Southern fires. Northern
sharpshooters could have crept up and picked off many of them, as the
Southern sharpshooters in turn might have served many of the Northern
watchers, but in this mighty war there was little of such useless and
merciless enterprise. The men soon ceased to have personal animosity,
and, in the nights between the great battles, when the armies yet
lay face to face, the hostile pickets would often exchange gossip and
tobacco. Even in a conflict waged so long and with such desperation the
essential kindliness of human nature would assert itself.
The four, as they skirted the Southern line, noticed no signs of further
preparations by the Confederates. No men were throwing up earthworks or
digging trenches. As well as they could surmise, the garrison, like the
besieging army, was seeking shelter and rest, and from this fact the
keen mind of Colonel Arthur Winchester divined that the defense was
confused and headless.
Colonel Winchester knew most of the leaders within Donelson. He knew
that Pillow was not of a strong and decided nature. Nor was Floyd, who
would rank first, of great military capacity. Buckner had talent and he
had served gallantly in the Mexican War, but he could not prevail over
the others. The fame of Forrest, the Tennessee mountaineer, was already
spreading, but a cavalryman could do little for the defense of a fort
besieged by twenty thousand well equipped men, led by a general of
unexcelled resolution.
All that Colonel Winchester surmised was true. Inside the fort confusion
and doubt reigned. The fleeing garrison from Fort Henry had brought
exaggerated reports of Grant's army. Very few of the thousands of young
troops had ever been in battle before. They, too, suffered though in
a less degree from cold and fatigue, but many were wounded. Pillow and
Floyd, who had just arrived with his troops, talked of one thing and
then another. Floyd, who might have sent word to his valiant and able
chief, Johnston, did not take the trouble or forgot to inform him of his
position. Buckner wanted to attack Grant the next morning with the full
Southern strength, and a comrade of his on old battlefields, Colonel
George Kenton, seconded him ably. The black-bearded Forrest strode back
and forth, striking the tops of his riding boots with a small riding
whip, and saying ungrammatically, but tersely and emphatically:
“We mustn't stay here like hogs in a pen. We must git at 'em with all
our men afore they can git at us.”
The illiterate mountaineer and stock driver had evolved exactly the same
principle of war that Napoleon used.
But Colonel Winchester and his comrades could only guess at what was
going on in Donelson, and a guess always remains to be proved. So they
must continue their perilous quest. Once they were hailed by a Southern
sentinel, but Colonel Winchester replied promptly that they belonged to
Buckner's Kentuckians and had been sent out to examine the Union camp.
He passed it off with such boldness and decision that they were gone
before the picket had time to express a doubt.
But as they came toward the center of the line, and drew nearer to the
fort itself, they met another picket, who was either more watchful or
more acute. He hailed them at a range of forty or fifty yards, and when
Colonel Winchester made the same reply he ordered them to halt and give
the countersign. When no answer came he fired instantly at the tall
figure of Colonel Winchester and uttered a loud cry of, “Yankees!”
Luckily the dim light was tricky and his bullet merely clipped the
colonel's hair. But there was nothing for the four to do now save to run
with all their undignified might for their own camp.
“Come on, lads!” shouted Colonel Winchester. “Our scouting is over for
the time!”
The region behind them contained patches of scrub oaks and bushes, and
with their aid and that of the darkness, it was not difficult to escape;
but Dick, while running just behind the others, stepped in a hole and
fell. The snow and the dead leaves hid the sound of his fall and
the others did not notice it. As he looked up he saw their dim forms
disappearing among the bushes. He rose to his own feet, but uttered
a little cry as a ligament in his ankle sent a warning throb of pain
through his body.
It was not a wrench, only a bruise, and as he stretched his ankle a few
times the soreness went away. But the last sound made by the retreating
footsteps of his comrades had died, and their place had been taken by
those of his pursuers, who were now drawing very near.
Dick had no intention of being captured, and, turning off at a right
angle, he dropped into a gully which he encountered among some bushes.
The gully was about four feet deep and half full of snow. Dick threw
himself full length on his side, and sank down in the snow until he was
nearly covered. There he lay panting hard for a few moments, but quite
sure that he was safe from discovery. Only a long and most minute
search would be likely to reveal the dark line in the snow beneath the
overhanging bushes.
Dick's heart presently resumed its normal beat, and then he heard the
sound of voices and footsteps. Some one said:
“They went this way, sir, but they were running pretty fast.”
“They'd good cause to run,” said a brusque voice. “You'd a done it, too,
if you'd expected to have the bullets of a whole army barkin' at your
heels.”
The footsteps came nearer, crunching on the snow, which lay deep there
among the bushes. They could not be more than a dozen feet away, but
Dick quivered only a little. Buried as he was and with the hanging
bushes over him he was still confident that no one could see him. He
raised himself the least bit, and looking through the boughs, saw a
tanned and dark face under the broad brim of a Confederate hat. Just
then some one said:
“We might have trailed 'em, general, but the snow an' the earth have
already been tramped all up by the army.”
“They're not wuth huntin' long anyway,” said the same brusque voice. “A
few Yankees prowlin' about in the night can't do us much harm. It's hard
fightin' that'll settle our quarrel.”
General Forrest came a little closer and Dick, from his concealment
in the snow, surmising his identity, saw him clearly, although himself
unseen. He was fascinated by the stern, dark countenance. The face of
the unlettered mountaineer was cut sharp and clear, and he had the look
of one who knew and commanded. In war he was a natural leader of men,
and he had already assumed the position.
“Don't you agree with me, colonel?” he said over his shoulder to some
one.
“I think you're right as usual, General Forrest,” replied a voice with
a cultivated intonation, and Dick started violently in his bed of snow,
because he instantly recognized the voice as that of his uncle, Colonel
George Kenton, Harry's father. A moment later Colonel Kenton himself
stood where the moonlight fell upon his face. Dick saw that he was worn
and thin, but his face had the strong and resolute look characteristic
of those descended from Henry Ware, the great borderer.
“You know, general, that I endorse all your views,” continued Colonel
Kenton. “We are unfortunate here in having a division of counsels, while
the Yankees have a single and strong head. We have underrated this man
Grant. Look how he surprised us and took Henry! Look how he hangs on
here! We've beaten him on land and we've driven back his fleet, but
he hangs on. To my mind he has no notion of retreating. He'll keep on
pounding us as long as we are here.”
“That's his way, an' it ought to be the way of every general,” growled
Forrest. “You cut down a tree by keepin' on cuttin' out chips with an
axe, an' you smash up an army by hittin' an' hittin' an' keepin' on
hittin'. We ought to charge right out of our works an' jump on the
Yankees with all our stren'th.”
The two walked on, followed by the soldiers who had come with them, and
Dick heard no more. But he was too cautious to stir for a long while.
He lay there until the cold began to make its way through his boots and
heavy overcoat. Then he rose carefully, brushed off the snow, and began
his retreat toward the Union lines. Four or five hundred yards further
on and he met Colonel Winchester and his own comrades come back to
search for him. They welcomed him joyfully.
“We did not miss you until we were nearly to our own pickets,” said the
colonel. “Then we concluded that you had fallen and had been taken
by the enemy, but we intended to see if we could find you. We've been
hovering about here for some time.”
Dick told what he had seen and heard, and the colonel considered it of
much importance.
“I judge from what you heard that they will attack us,” he said.
“Buckner and Forrest will be strongly for it, and they're likely to have
their way. We must report at once to General Grant.”
The Southern attack had been planned for the next morning, but it did
not come then. Pillow, for reasons unknown, decided to delay another
day, and his fiery subordinates could do nothing but chafe and wait.
Dick spent most of the day carrying orders for his chief, and the
continuous action steadied his nerves.
As he passed from point to point he saw that the Union army itself
was far from ready. It was a difficult task to get twenty thousand
raw farmer youths in proper position. They moved about often without
cohesion and sometimes without understanding their orders. Great
gaps remained in the line, and a daring and skilful foe might cut the
besieging force asunder.
But Grant had put his heavy guns in place, and throughout the day he
maintained a slow but steady fire upon the fort. Great shells and solid
shot curved and fell upon Donelson. Grant did not know what damage they
were doing, but he shrewdly calculated that they would unsteady the
nerves of the raw troops within. These farmer boys, as they heard the
unceasing menace of the big guns, would double the numbers of their foe,
and attribute to him an unrelaxing energy.
Thus another gray day of winter wore away, and the two forces drew a
little nearer to each other. Far away the rival Presidents at Washington
and Richmond were wondering what was happening to their armies in the
dark wilderness of Western Tennessee.
The night was more quiet than the one that had just gone before. The
booming of the cannon as regular as the tolling of funeral bells had
ceased with the darkness, but in its place the fierce winter wind had
begun to blow again. Dick, relaxed and weary after his day's work,
hovered over one of the fires and was grateful for the warmth. He
had trodden miles through slush and snow and frozen earth, and he was
plastered to the waist with frozen mud, which now began to soften and
fall off before the coals.
Warner, who had been on active duty, too, also sank to rest with a sigh
of relief.
“It's battle tomorrow, Dick,” he said, “and I don't care. As it didn't
come off today the chances are at least eighty per cent that it will
happen the next day. You say that when you were lying in the snow last
night, Dick, you saw your uncle and that he's a colonel in the rebel
army. It's queer.”
“You're wrong, George, it isn't queer. We're on opposite sides, serving
at the same place, and it's natural that we should meet some time or
other. Oh, I tell you, you fellows from the New England and the other
Northern States don't appreciate the sacrifices that we of the border
states make for the Union. Up there you are safe from invasion. Your
houses are not on the battlefields. You are all on one side. You don't
have to fight against your own kind, the people you hold most dear.
And when the war is over, whether we win or lose, you'll go back to
unravaged regions.”
“You wrong me there, Dick. I have thought of it. It's the people of the
border, whether North or South, who pay the biggest price. We risk our
lives, but you risk your lives also, and everything else, too.”
Dick wrapped himself in a heavy blanket, pillowed his head on a log
before one of the fires and dozed a while. His nerves had been tried too
hard to permit of easy sleep. He awoke now and then and over a wide area
saw the sinking fires and the moving forms of men. He felt that a
sense of uneasiness pervaded the officers. He knew that many of them
considered their forces inadequate for the siege of a fortress defended
by a large army, but he felt with the sincerity of conviction also, that
Grant would never withdraw.
He heard from Colonel Winchester about midnight in one of his wakeful
intervals that General Grant was going down the river to see Commodore
Foote. The brave leader of the fleet had been wounded severely in the
last fight with the fort, and the general wished to confer with him
about the plan of operations. But Dick heard only vaguely. The statement
made no impression upon him at that time. Yet he was conscious that
the feeling of uneasiness still pervaded the officers. He noticed it
in Colonel Winchester's tone, and he noticed it, too, in the voices of
Colonel Newcomb and Major Hertford, who came presently to confer with
Winchester.
But the boy fell into his doze again, while they were talking. Warner
and Pennington, who had done less arduous duties, were sound asleep near
him, the low flames now and then throwing a red light on their tanned
faces. It seemed to him that it was about half way between midnight and
morning, and the hum and murmur had sunk to a mere minor note. But his
sleepy eyes still saw the dim forms of men passing about, and then he
fell into his uneasy doze again.
When he awoke once more it was misty and dark, but he felt that the dawn
was near. In the east a faint tint of silver showed through the clouds
and vapors. Heavy banks of fog were rising from the Cumberland and the
flooded marshes. The earth began to soften as if unlocking from the hard
frost of the night.
Colonel Winchester stood near him and his position showed that he was
intensely awake. He was bent slightly forward, and every nerve and
muscle was strained as if he were eager to see and hear something which
he knew was there, but which he could not yet either see or hear.
Dick threw off his blanket and sprang to his feet. At the same moment
Colonel Winchester motioned him to awaken Warner and Pennington, which
he did at once in speed and silence. That tint of silver, the lining of
the fogs and vapors, shone more clearly through, and spread across the
East. Dick knew now that the dawn was at hand.
The loud but mellow notes of a trumpet came from a distant point toward
Donelson, and then others to right and left joined and sang the same
mellow song. But it lasted only for a minute. Then it was lost in the
rapid crackle of rifles, which spread like a running fire along a
front of miles. The sun in the east swung clear of the earth, its beams
shooting a way through fogs and vapors. The dawn had come and the attack
had come with it.
The Southerners, ready at last, were rushing from their fort and works,
and, with all the valor and fire that distinguished them upon countless
occasions, they were hurling themselves upon their enemy. The fortress
poured out regiment after regiment. Chafing so long upon the defense
Southern youth was now at its best. Attacking, not attacked, the farmer
lads felt the spirit of battle blaze high in their breasts. The long,
terrible rebel yell, destined to be heard upon so many a desperate
field, fierce upon its lower note, fierce upon its higher note, as
fierce as ever upon its dying note, and coming back in echoes still as
fierce, swelled over forest and fort, marsh and river.
The crackling fire of the pickets ceased. They had been driven back in a
few moments upon the army, but the whole regiment of Colonel Winchester
was now up, rifle in hand, and on either side of it, other regiments
steadied themselves also to receive the living torrent.
The little band of Pennsylvanians were on the left of the Kentuckians
and were practically a part of them. Colonel Newcomb and Major Hertford
stood amid their men, encouraging them to receive the shock. But Dick
had time for only a glance at these old comrades of his. The Southern
wave, crested with fire and steel, was rolling swiftly upon them, and as
the Southern troops rushed on they began to fire as fast as they could
pull the trigger, fire and pull again.
Bullets in sheets struck in the Union ranks. Hundreds of men went down.
Dick heard the thud of lead and steel on flesh, and the sudden cries of
those who were struck. It needs no small courage to hold fast against
more than ten thousand men rushing forward at full speed and bent upon
victory or death.
Dick felt all the pulses in his temples beating hard, and he had a
horrible impulse to break and run, but pride kept him firm. As an
officer, he had a small sword, and snatching it out he waved it, while
at the same time he shouted to the men to meet the charge.
The Union troops returned the fire. Thousands of bullets were sent
against the ranks of the rushing enemy. The gunners sprang to their guns
and the deep roar of the cannon rose above the crash of the small arms.
But the Southern troops, the rebel yell still rolling through the woods,
came on at full speed and struck the Union front.
It seemed to Dick that he was conscious of an actual physical shock.
Tanned faces and gleaming eyes were almost against his own. He looked
into the muzzles of rifles, and he saw the morning sun flashing along
the edges of bayonets. But the regiment, although torn by bullets, did
not give ground. The charge shivered against them, and the Southern
troops fell back. Yet it was only for a moment. They came again to be
driven back as before, and then once more they charged, while their
resolute foe swung forward to meet them rank to rank.
Dick was not conscious of much except that he shouted continuously to
the men to stand firm, and wondered now and then why he had not been
hit. The Union men and their enemy were reeling back and forth, neither
winning, neither losing, while the thunder of battle along a long and
curving front beat heavily on the drums of every ear. The smoke, low
down, was scattered by the cannon and rifles, but above it gathered in a
great cloud that seemed to be shot with fire.
The two colonels, Winchester and Newcomb, were able and valiant men.
Despite their swelling losses they always filled up the ranks and held
fast to the ground upon which they had stood when they were attacked.
But for the present they had no knowledge how the battle was going
elsewhere. The enemy just before them allowed no idle moments.
Yet Grant, as happened later on at Shiloh, was taken by surprise. When
the first roar of the battle broke with the dawn he was away conferring
with the wounded naval commander, Foote. His right, under McClernand,
had been caught napping, and eight thousand Southern troops striking it
with a tremendous impact just as the men snatched up their arms, drove
it back in heavy loss and confusion. Its disaster was increased when a
Southern general, Baldwin, led a strong column down a deep ravine near
the river and suddenly hurled it upon the wavering Union flank.
Whole regiments retreated now, and guns were lost. The Southern
officers, their faces glowing, shouted to each other that the battle
was won. And still the combat raged without the Union commander, Grant,
although he was coming now as fast as he could with the increasing roar
of conflict to draw him on. The battle was lost to the North. But
it might be won back again by a general who would not quit. Only the
bulldog in Grant, the tenacious death grip, could save him now.
Dick and his friends suddenly became conscious that both on their right
and left the thunder of battle was moving back upon the Union camp.
They realized now that they were only the segment of a circle extending
forward practically within the Union lines, and that the combat
was going against them. The word was given to retreat, lest they be
surrounded, and they fell back slowly disputing with desperation every
foot of ground that they gave up. Yet they left many fallen behind. A
fourth of the regiment had been killed or wounded already, and there
were tears in the eyes of Colonel Winchester as he looked over the torn
ranks of his gallant men.
Now the Southerners, meaning to drive victory home, were bringing up
their reserves and pouring fresh troops upon the shattered Union front.
They would have swept everything away, but in the nick of time a fresh
Union brigade arrived also, supported the yielding forces and threw
itself upon the enemy.
But Grant had not yet come. It seemed that in the beginning fortune
played against this man of destiny, throwing all her tricks in favor
of his opponents. The single time that he was away the attack bad been
made, and if he would win back a lost battle there was great need to
hurry.
The Southern troops, exultant and full of fire and spirit, continually
rolled back their adversaries. They wheeled more guns from the fort into
position and opened heavily on the yielding foe. If they were beaten
back at any time they always came on again, a restless wave, crested
with fire and steel.
Dick's regiment continued to give ground slowly. It had no choice but to
do so or be destroyed. It seemed to him now that he beheld the wreck
of all things. Was this to be Bull Run over again? His throat and eyes
burned from the smoke and powder, and his face was black with grime.
His lips were like fire to the touch of each other. He staggered in the
smoke against some one and saw that it was Warner.
“Have we lost?” he cried. “Have we lost after doing so much?”
The lips of the Vermonter parted in a kind of savage grin.
“I won't say we've lost,” he shouted in reply, “but I can't see anything
we've won.”
Then he lost Warner in the smoke and the regiment retreated yet further.
It was impossible to preserve cohesion or keep a line formed. The
Southerners never ceased to press upon them with overwhelming weight.
Pillow, now decisive in action, continually accumulated new forces
upon the Northern right. Every position that McClernand had held at the
opening of the battle was now taken, and the Confederate general was
planning to surround and destroy the whole Union army. Already he
was sending messengers to the telegraph with news for Johnston of his
complete victory.
But the last straw had not yet been laid upon the camel's back.
McClernand was beaten, but the hardy men of Kentucky, East Tennessee and
the northwest still offered desperate resistance. Conspicuous among the
defenders was the regiment of young pioneers from Nebraska, hunters,
Indian fighters, boys of twenty or less, who had suffered already every
form of hardship. They stood undaunted amid the showers of bullets and
shells and cried to the others to stand with them.
Yet the condition of the Union army steadily grew worse. Dick himself,
in all the smoke and shouting and confusion, could see it. The regiments
that formed the core of resistance were being pared down continually.
There was a steady dribble of fugitives to the rear, and those who
fought felt themselves going back always, like one who slips on ice.
The sun, far up the heavens, now poured down beams upon the vast cloud
of smoke and vapor in which the two armies fought. The few people left
in Dover, red hot for the South, cheered madly as they saw their enemy
driven further and further away.
Grant, the man of destiny, ill clad and insignificant in appearance, now
came upon the field and saw his beaten army. But the bulldog in him shut
down its teeth and resolved to replace defeat with victory. His greatest
qualities, strength and courage in the face of disaster, were now about
to shine forth. His countenance showed no alarm. He rode among the men
cheering them to renewed efforts. He strengthened the weak places in the
line that his keen eyes saw. He infused a new spirit into the army.
His own iron temper took possession of the troops, and that core of
resistance, desperate when he came, suddenly hardened and enlarged.
Dick felt the change. It was of the mind, but it was like a cool breath
upon the face. It was as if the winds had begun to blow courage. A great
shout rolled along the Northern line.
“Grant has come!” exclaimed Pennington, who was bleeding from a slight
wound in the shoulder, but who was unconscious of it. “And we've quit
retreating!”
The Nebraska youth had divined the truth. Just when a complete Southern
victory seemed to be certain the reversal of fortune came. The coolness,
the courage, and the comprehensive eye of Grant restored the battle
for the North. The Southern reserves had not charged with the fire and
spirit expected, and, met with a shattering fire by the Indiana troops,
they fell back. Grant saw the opportunity, and massing every available
regiment, he hurled it upon Pillow and the Southern center.
Dick felt the wild thrill of exultation as they went forward instead of
going back, as they had done for so many hours. Just in front of him was
Colonel Winchester, waving aloft a sword, the blade of which had been
broken in two by a bullet, and calling to his men to come on. Warner and
Pennington, grimed with smoke and mud and stained here and there with
blood, were near also, shouting wildly.
The smoke split asunder for a moment, and Dick saw the long line of
charging troops. It seemed to be a new army now, infused with fresh
spirit and courage, and every pulse in the boy's body began to beat
heavily with the hope of victory. The smoke closed in again and then
came the shock.
Exhausted by their long efforts which had brought victory so near the
Southern troops gave way. Their whole center was driven in, and they
lost foot by foot the ground that they had gained with so much courage
and blood. Grant saw his success and he pressed more troops upon
his weakening enemy. The batteries were pushed forward and raked the
shattered Southern lines.
Pillow, who had led the attack instead of Floyd, seeing his fortunes
pass so suddenly from the zenith to the nadir, gathered his retreating
army upon a hill in front of their intrenchments, but he was not
permitted to rest there. A fresh Northern brigade, a reserve, had
just arrived upon the field. Joining it to the forces of Lew Wallace,
afterwards famous as a novelist, Grant hurled the entire division upon
Pillow's weakened and discouraged army.
Winchester's regiment joined in the attack. Dick felt himself swept
along as if by a torrent. His courage and the courage of those around
him was all the greater now, because hope, sanguine hope, had suddenly
shot up from the very depths of despair. Their ranks had been thinned
terribly, but they forgot it for the time and rushed upon their enemy.
The battle had rolled back and forth for hours. Noon had come and
passed. The troops of Pillow had been fighting without ceasing for
six hours, and they could not withstand the new attack made with such
tremendous spirit and energy. They fought with desperation, but they
were compelled at last to yield the field and retreat within their
works. Their right and left suffered the same fate. The whole
Confederate attack was repulsed. Bull Run was indeed reversed. There the
South snatched victory from defeat and here the North came back with a
like triumph.