University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
THE BATTLE.

BRIGHTLY, beautifully the Sabbath morning broke
over all the hills of the Northland, covering them
with floods of rosy light, burnishing the forest
trees with sheens of gold, and cresting each tall spire
with colors which seemed born of Paradise, so radiantly
bright they looked, flashing from their lofty resting-place,

and glancing off across the valleys where the
fields of waving corn and summer wheat were growing.
To the westward, too, where prairie on prairie stretches
on into almost interminable space, the same July sun
was shining, as quietly, as peacefully, as if in the hearts
of men there burned no bitter feeling of fierce and vindictive
hate,—no thirsting for each other's blood. Oh,
how calm, how still it was that Sunday morning both
east, and north and west, and as the sun rose higher in
the heavens, how soothingly the bells rang out their musical
chimes. From New England's templed hills to the
far-off shores of Oregon, the echoes rose and fell, ceasing
only when ceased the tramp of the many feet hastening
up to worship God in his appointed way. Old and
young, rich and poor, father and mother, sister and
brother, husband and wife, assembling together to keep
the holy day, that best day of the seven, praying not so
much for their own sins forgiven as for the loved ones
gone to war,—the dear ones far away,—and little, little
dreaming as they prayed, how the same sun stealing so
softly up the church's aisle, and shining on the church's
wall, was even then looking down on a far different
scene,—a scene of carnage, blood and death. For, off to
the southward, near where the waters of the Potomac
ripple past the grave of our nation's hero, another concourse
of people was gathered together; their Sunday bell
the cannon's roar; their Sunday hymn the battle-cry.

Long before the earliest robin had trilled its matin
song, they had been on the move, their bristling bayonets
glittering in the brilliant moonlight like the December
frost, as with regular, even tread they kept on their winding
way, knowing not if the pale stars watching their
course so pityingly, as it were, would ever shine on them
again. Onward,—onward,—onward still they pressed;

over the hills, through the ravines, down the valleys, across
the fields, till the same sun which shone so softly on their
distant homes rose also over the Federal Fly, as it has
been aptly termed, moving onward to the Web which lay beyond,
so well concealed and so devoid of sound that none
could guess that the treacherous woods, wearing so cool,
so inviting a look, were sheltering a mighty, expectant
host, watching as eagerly for the advancing foe as ever
ambushed spider waited for its deluded prey. Backward,
—backward, stretched the Confederate army, line after
line, rank after rank, battalion after battalion, until in
numbers it more than quadrupled that handful of men
steadily moving on. From out their leafy covert the enemy
peered, exulting that the fortunes of the great Republic,
their whilom mother, were so surely within their
power, and pausing for a time in sheer wantonness, just
as a kitten sports with the mouse she has already captured,
and knows cannot escape. Onward,—onward,—
onward swept the Federal troops; their polished arms
and glittering uniforms flashing in the morning sunlight
just as the flag for which they fought waved in the morning
breeze. They were weary and worn, and their lips
were parched with feverish thirst, for hours had passed
since they had tasted food or water. But not for this did
they tarry; there was no faltering in their ranks, no faintly
beating heart, no wild yearning to be away, no timid
shrinking from what the woods, now just before them,
might hold in store, and when the whisper ran along the
lines that the enemy was in view, there was nought felt
save joy, that the long suspense was ended and the fray
about to commence.

There was a halt in the front ranks, and while they
stand there thus, let us look once more upon those whom

we have known. Just where the good humored faces of
the Irish regiment, and the tall caps of the Highlanders
are perceptible, the 13th appears in view, our company
marching decorously on, no lagging, no faltering, no
cowards there, though almost every heart had in it
some thought of home and the dear ones left behind.
Prayers were said by lips unused to pray, and who shall
tell how many records of sins forgiven were that morning
written in heaven? Bibles, too, were pressed to
throbbing hearts, and to none more closely than to
George Graham's broad chest. He had prayed that
morning in the clear moonlight, and by the same moonlight
he had tried to read a line in Annie's well-worn
Bible, opening to where God promises to care for the
widow and the fatherless. Was it ominous, that passage?
Did it mean that he, so strong, so vigorous, so full of life,
should bite the dust ere many hours were done? He
could not believe it. He was too full of hope for that.
He could not die with Annie at home alone, so he buttoned
her Bible over his heart, and prayed that if a bullet
struck him it might be there, fondly hoping that
would break its force.

There was a shadow on his handsome face, and it communicated
itself to Isaac Simms, who was glancing so
stealthily at him, and guessing of what he was thinking.
Isaac, too, had prayed in the moonlight, and he, too, had
thought, “What if I should be killed!” wondering if
his mother ever would forget her soldier boy, even though
she might not weep over his nameless grave. This to
Isaac was the hardest thought of all. The boy that would
not tell a lie for the sake of promotion, was not afraid to
die, but he preferred that it should not be there 'mid piles of
bloody slain. He would rather death should come to him
up in the humble attic, where he had lain so oft and listened

to the patter of the rain on the roof above, or
feigned to be asleep when his mother stole noiselessly
across the threshold to see if he were covered from the
cold and shielded from the snow, which sometimes found
an entrance through a crevice in the wall. 'Tis strange
when we are in danger what flights our fancy often takes,
gathering up the minutest details of our past life, and
spreading them out before us with startling distinctness.
So Isaac, with possible death in advance, thought of his
past life; of every object connected with his home, from
the grass plat in the rear, where his mother bleached her
clothes in spring, to the blue and white checked blanket
hung round his attic bed to protect him from the winter
storm. That widow, so stern, so harsh, so sharp to almost
every one, had been the tenderest of parents to him,
and a tear glistened on the cheek of the fair-haired boy
as he remembered the only time he ever was hateful to
her. He had asked her forgiveness for it, and she surely
would not recall it when she read the letter Eli or John
would send, bearing the fatal line, “Mother, poor Isaac
is dead.” He knew they would call him “poor Isaac,”
for though they sometimes teased him as his “mother's
great girl baby,” they petted him quite as much as she,
only in a different way, and he felt now that both would
step between him and the bullet they thought would
harm him. Eli would any way, but John, perhaps, would
hesitate, as he now loved Susan best. Isaac was proud
of his brothers, and he glanced admiringly at them as
they marched side by side, keeping even step just as they
did down Main street, with his mother and Susan looking
on. One now was thinking of Susan, and one of his widowed
mother.

Close by Isaac walked Bill, quiet and subdued. He
had not prayed that morning,—he never prayed; but

when he saw Isaac kneeling on his blanket he had said to
him, “Manage to get in a word or two for me and Hal; we
need it, mercy knows.” And surely if ever poor mortal
needed prayer it was Hal, as his brother styled him.
Half stupefied with the vile liquor he had constantly managed
to get, he trudged on, boasting of what he could do;
“only give him a chance and he'd lick the entire Secession
army. He'd like to see the ball that could kill him; he
was good at dodging; he'd show 'em a thing or two in the
the way of fight; he'd take the tuck out of the Southern
gentlemen,—yes, he would,” and so he went thoughtlessly
boasting on to death!

Will Mather was not there. Indisposition had detained
him at Washington, and with a hearty God speed
he had sent his comrades on their way, lamenting that
he, too, could not join them, and bidding his brother-in
law do some fighting for him.

At the head of his company Capt. Carleton moved.
Firm, erect, and dignified, as if born to command, he did
full justice to the Carleton name, of which he was justly
proud; but his face was paler than its wont, and a tinge
of sadness rested upon it as his regiment halted at last in
front of what was supposed to be the hidden foe. Thomas
Carleton had wept bitter tears when he laid his Mary to rest
beneath South Carolina's sunny skies, and had thought
he could never be reconciled to the loss, but he was half
glad now that she was dead, for she was born of Southern
blood, and he would rather she should not know the
errand which had brought him to Virginia, where first he

met and loved her,—rather she should not know how he
had come to war with her people. There was another
thought, too, which made him sad that July day. The
green, beautiful woods standing there so silently before
him probably sheltered more than one with whom he had
in bygone days struck the friendly hand and bandied the
friendly joke, for his home was once in Richmond, and
there were there those who once held no small place in his
heart. And they were dear to him yet. He was not fighting
against them personally, he was contending only for his
nation's rights, his country's honor. He bore no malice toward
his Southern brethren, and like many of our staunchest,
bravest Northern men, he would even then have met
them more than half way with terms of reconciliation. He
knew they were no race of bloodthirsty demons, as some
fanatics had madly termed them. They were men, most
of them, like himself,—warm-hearted, impulsive men,
generous almost to a fault in peace, but firm and terrible
in war. Tom had lived among them,—had shared their
hospitalities,—had seen them in their various phases, and
making allowance for the vast difference which education
and habits of society make in one's opinions, he saw
many points wherein the North had misunderstood their
actions, and not made due concessions when they might
have done so without yielding one iota of their honor.
But time for concession was over now. Political fanatics
had stirred up the mass of the people till nought but
blood could wash away the fancied wrong. And they
were there that Sabbath morn to spill it. Tom, however,
did not know that the green, silent woods sheltered his
brother, for his mother had purposely withheld from him
the fact that Jimmie had joined the Southern Army.
She knew the struggle it had cost him to take up arms
against a people he liked so much, and she would not willingly
add to his burden by telling him of Jimmie's sin;
and it was well she did not, for had he known how near
he was to Jimmie, he could not have stood there so unmoved,
awaiting the first booming gun which should herald
the opening of the battle.

It came at last, a bellowing, thunderous roar, whose
echoes shook the hills for miles, as the hissing shell
went plowing through the air, bursting harmlessly at
last just beyond its destined mark. The enemy were in
no hurry to retort, for a deep silence ensued, broken ere
long by another heavy gun, which did its work more
thoroughly than its predecessor had done, for where several
breathing souls had been there was nought left save
the bleeding mutilated trunks of what were once human
forms. The battle had commenced. Sherman's Brigade,
in which was the N. Y. 13th, did its part nobly,
overrunning in its headlong charges battery after battery,
and recking little of the shafts of death falling so thick
and fast. Louder and more deafening grew the battle
din, hoarser and heavier the battle thunder, denser,
deeper the battle smoke, dimming the brightness of that
Sabbath morn. Louder, shriller grew the Gaelic scream,
fiercer rose the Celtic cry, wilder rang the yells of the
13th, as its members plunged into the thickest of the fight
their demoniacal shouts appalling the hearts of the foe
far more than the rain of shot so vigorously kept up, and
causing them to flee as from a pack of fiends.

Steady in its place George Graham's giant form was
seen; no thought of Annie now; no thought of home;
no thought of Bible buttoned over the heart; thoughts
only of the fray and victory.

Not far away, and where the fight was thickest,
the widow's boys, Eli and John, stood firm as granite
rocks, the beaded sweat dropping from their burning

brows, begrimed with battle smoke, as with unflinching
nerve and hands that trembled not, they took
their aims, seeing more than one fall before their sure
fire.

White as the winter snow one boyish face gleamed
amid the excited throng; the fair hair pushed back from
the girlish forehead, and the scorching sun falling upon
the unsheltered head, for Isaac's cap had been shot away,
and the ball which shot it lay swimming in the dark life
blood of poor Harry Baker, just behind, and just two
inches taller than the widow's youngest born. Poor
Harry! He had done his best to keep the promise made
so boastfully. In all the 13th Regiment there was not
one who played a braver part then he, firing off with
every gun a timely joke, which raised a smile even in
that dreadful hour. But Harry's work was done, and
Mrs. Baker had but one boy now, for her first-born lay
upon the ground so blackened and disfigured, with the
thick brains slowly oozing from his mangled head, and
the purple gore pouring from his lips, that only those
who saw him fall, could guess that it was Harry. Poor
Harry! We say it again, sadly, reverently, for rude and
reckless though he was, he fell fighting for his country;
and to all who perish thus we owe a debt of gratitude, a
meed of praise. Sacred, then, be the memory of those
whose graves are with the slain, far away beneath Virginia's
sky, and sacred be the memory of poor Harry
Baker. His own worst enemy, he lived his life's brief
span, and died at last a soldier's death.

“Shot plump through the upper story! Won't the
old woman row it, though?” was Bill's characteristic

comment, as the whizzing and the death shriek met his
ear, and the falling, bleeding figure met his view.

Spite of his jeering words there was a keen pang in
Billy's heart as he shrank away from the gory mass he
knew had been his brother,—a sudden up-heaving of
something in his throat and a blur before his vision, as
he began to realize what it was to go to war. But there
was then no time to waste over a fallen brother. The
dread work must go on, and with the whispered words,
“Poor Hal, I'll do the tender for you when we get the
varments licked,” he marked the position by signs he
could not miss, and then pressed closer to his comrade,
saying, as he did so—

“Ike, Hal's a goner. Shot right through his top-knot,
with a piece of your cap wedged in his skull. If you'd
been a leetle taller you'd been scalped instead of Hal.
So much you get for bein' `Stub.”'

Isaac shuddered involuntarily, but ere he could look
back the crowd behind pushed him forward, and so he
failed to see the ruin which, but for his short stature,
would have come to him. There were no marks upon
him yet,—nothing, save the uncovered head, to tell where
he had been. The balls which struck down others passed
him by, the wind they made lifting occasionally his fair
hair, but doing no other damage. Above, around, before,
behind, at right, at left, the grape shot fell like hail,
but left him all untouched, and Billy, grown timid since
poor Harry's fate, pressed closer to the boy who would
not tell a lie, as if there were safety there.

Onward, onward they pressed, Isaac wondering sometimes
how Tom Carleton fared, and looking again in
quest of their young Lieutenant Graham, still towering
above them all, in spite of Rose's prediction. The ball

for which he was the mark had not been fired yet, but it
was coming. An Alabamian volunteer had singled out
that form, yelling exultingly as he saw it reel and totter
like a broken reed. They were well matched in size, the
two combatants, both splendid marks, as Rose had said,
and Bill Baker's sure aim froze the laugh upon the Alabamian's
lips and sent him staggering to the ground,
just as Isaac received his captain's orders to lead the
fainting, wounded George to a place of comparative
safety.

“It's only my arm they've shattered,” George whispered,
glancing sadly at the disabled limb over which
Isaac's tears were falling. “Will it kill me, think?” was
the next remark, prompted by a thought of Annie.

Isaac did not believe it would, and with all a woman's
tenderness he bound it up and held his canteen to the
lips of the fainting, weary man, whispering,

“Water, boy, water.”

Isaac had not, like many others, thrown his canteen
away, and he gave freely to the thirsty George, who,
with each draught, felt his pulse grow stronger, while
his eyes kindled with fresh zeal as the noise of the battle
grew louder, and seemed to be coming nearer. The onslaught
was terrible now. Cannon after cannon belched
forth its terrific thunder, ball after ball sped on its deadly
track, battery after battery opened its blazing fire, shell
after shell cut the summer air, and burst with murderous
hiss; shout after shout rent the smoky sky, shriek after
shriek went down with the rushing wind, officer after
officer bit the dust, rank after rank was broken up, soul
after soul went to the bar of God, and then there came
a pause. The firing ceased, the stifling smoke rolled
gradually away, and showed a dreadful sight,—men mutilated

and torn, till not a vestige of their former looks
was left to tell who they had been. Mingled together,
in one frightful mass, the dead and dying lay, smiles
wreathing the livid lips of some, and frowns disfiguring
others. Arms, hands, and feet, heads, fingers, toes, and
clots of human hair, dripping red with blood, were scattered
over the field,—parts of the living mass we saw but
a few hours agone moving on so hopefully beneath the
morning moonlight, “Like leaves of the forest when autumn
hath blown,” they lay there now, their mangled remains
crying loudly to Heaven for vengeance on the
heads of those who brought this curse upon us.