University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
THE RETREAT.

THE day was ours, nobly won with sweat and toil
and blood, and the brave men who won it were
thinking of the laurels so laboriously earned,
when suddenly the entire scale was turned, and ere they
knew what they were doing, the tired, jaded troops found
themselves rushing headlong from the battle-field, never
so much as casting a backward glance, but each striving
to out-run the other, and so escape from they knew not
what! How that panic happened no one can tell. Some
charged it to the reckless conduct of a band of Regulars
sent back for ammunition, and others upon the idle
lookers-on, the curious ones, who had come “to see the
Rebels whipped,” and who at the first intimation of defeat

joined in the general stampede, making the confusion
worse, and adding greatly to the fright of the flying
multitude.

It was a strange retreat our soldiers made. All law
and order were at an end, company mixed with
company, regiment with regiment, and together they
rushed headlong down the hill, many in their dismay
fording the creek regardless of the shot and shell sent
after them by the astonished foe, now really in pursuit.

Some there were, however, who made the retreat more
leisurely, and among these, Bill Baker. Remembering
the mark he had fixed in his own mind, he sought among
the slain for Harry, finding him at last, trampled and
crushed by the flying troops, and wholly unrecognizable
by any save a brother's eye. Bill knew him, however,
in a moment, but there was no time now to “do the tender,”
as he had purposed doing. There was danger in
tarrying long, and with a shudder Bill bent over the
mangled form, and with his jack-knife severed a lock of
matted, bloodwet hair, taking also from the pockets
whatever of value they contained, not from any avaricious
motive, but rather from a feeling that the rebels
should get nothing save the body.

“A darned sight good Hal's carcass will do ye!” he
said, shaking his fist defiantly in the direction of the foe,
“but the wust is your own this hot weather, if you don't
bury him decently;” then turning to the lifeless gore, he
continued: “Poor Hal! I'm kinder sorry you are dead.
You had now and then a streak of good about you, and
I'm sorry we ever quarreled, I be, upon my word, and I
wish you could hear me say so; but you can't, knocked
into a cocked up hat as you are, poor Hal. If there was

a spot on your face as big as a sixpence that wasn't
smashed into a jelly, I'd kiss you just for the old woman's
sake, but I swan if I can stomach it! I might your
hands, perhaps,” and bending lower, Bill's lips touched
the clammy fingers of the dead.

There was something in the touch which brought to
Bill's heart a pang similar to the one he felt when he
saw his brother fall, and rising to his feet, he said,
mournfully:

“Good-bye, old Hal, I'm going now; I wish you might
go, too. Good-bye,” and wiping away a tear which felt
much out of place on his rough cheek, Bill walked away,
saying to himself, “Poor Hal. I didn't s'pose I had
such a hankerin' for him. Didn't s'pose I cared for
nobody; but such a day's work as this finds the soft spot
in a feller's heart if he's got any. Poor Hal! Mother'll
nigh about raise the ruff!”

Thus soliloquizing Bill moved on, not rapidly as others
did, but rather leisurely than otherwise. He seemed to
be benumbed, and did not care much what became of
himself. Wading the stream he trudged on, now wondering
“What the plague they all were running for,
when they'd got the rascals licked,” and again anathematizing
the shot which fell around him.

“S'pose I care for you,” he said, hitting a spent ball a
kick. “S'pose I care if I do get killed? better do that
than to run.”

Then reflecting that to be shot in the back was not
considered a distinguished mark of honor, he hastened
his lagging steps until the shelter of the wood was
reached. Bill was very tired, and feeling comparatively
safe, determined not to travel farther until he had had
some rest. Hunting out a thick clump of underbrush,

near a stream of water, where he would be sheltered
from observation, he crawled into its midst, and was ere
long sleeping soundly, wholly oblivious to the strange
sights and sounds around him, as squad after squad of
soldiers hurried by.

Meanwhile George Graham was sitting faint and weary
beneath the tree, when the first token of the retreat met
his view.

“See, they are running,” Isaac said, grasping his
sound arm in some affright. “Let us run, too. You
lean on me, and I'll lead you safely through.”

With a bitter groan, George attempted to rise, but
sank back again from utter exhaustion. A species of
apathy had stolen over him, and he would rather stay
there and die, he said, than make the attempt to flee.
He did not think of Annie, until Isaac, bending down,
said, entreatingly:

“It will be horrid for Annie to know you died, when
you might have got away. Try for Annie's sake, can't
you?”

Yes, for Annie's sake he could, and at the mere menof
her name, the dim eye kindled, and the pale cheeks
glowed, while the wounded man made another effort to
rise. He succeeded this time, and with slow steps the
two commenced their retreat. It was a novel sight, that
tall, muscular man, towering head and shoulders above
the frail boy, upon whom he leaned heavily for support,
—the generous Isaac, who would not leave him there
alone, even though he knew the danger he was incurring
for himself.

“They'll treat us decent if we're taken prisoners, won't
they, think?” he asked, as the possibility of such a calamity
was suggested to his mind.

Not till then had George thought of that. They
would not murder a wounded man, he was sure, but
they might take him prisoner, and death itself was almost
preferable to days of captivity and sickening suspense
away from Annie. The very idea roused him into
life, and with a superhuman effort, he hastened on, almost
outrunning Isaac, until they, too, had reached the
friendly woods where Bill had already taken shelter.
Just then a loaded wagon passed them, its frightened,
excited occupants paying no heed to Isaac's cry for help,
until one whose uniform showed him to be an officer,
sprang up, exclaiming:

“The strong must give place to the wounded. I can
find my way to Washington better than that bleeding
man!” and Tom Carleton seized the reins with a grasp
which brought the foaming steeds nearly to their
haunches. The vehicle was stopped, and the next instant
Tom had leaped upon the ground, spraining his
ankle severely, and reeling in his first pain against the
astounded Isaac, who cried out, joyfully:

“Oh, Captain Carleton, save Lieutenant Graham, won't
you? We can walk, you and I.”

Tom had not the least suspicion as to whom he was
befriending until then, and now, unmindful of his own
aching foot, he assisted George to the seat he had vacated,
and watched the party without a pang as they drove
rapidly away, leaving him alone with Isaac.

“We'll do the best we can, my boy,” he said, cheerily,
as he met the confiding, inquiring look bent upon him
by Isaac, who, relieved of his former charge, felt now
like leaning for protection and guidance upon Captain
Carleton.

Alas, his hopes were short-lived, for a groan just then
escaped from Tom's white lips, wrung out by the agony

it cost him to step. Isaac saw him stagger when he
sprang to the ground, and comprehending the case at
once, he resumed his burden of care, and kneeling before
poor Tom, who had sunk upon the grass, he rubbed
the swollen limb as tenderly as Rose herself could have
done.

“If we could only find some water,” Tom said, scanning
the appearance of the woods, and judging at last by
indications which seldom failed, that there must be some
not very far away. “There where the bushes are,” he
said, pointing toward the very spot where Bill lay
snoring soundly, and dreaming of robbing Parson
Goodwin's orchard, in company with Hal. “There must
be water there, and human beings too, for I hear singing,
don't you?”

Isaac listened till he, too, caught a strain of melody, as
sad and low as if it were a funeral dirge some one was
trilling there.

“What can it mean?” Tom said. “Lend me your
hand, my boy, and I'll soon find out.”

It was a harder task to move than he anticipated, for
the ankle was swelling rapidly, and bearing the least
weight upon it made the pain intolerable. Leaning on
Isaac's shoulder, he managed to make slow progress toward
the stream bubbling so deliciously among the
grass, and toward the music growing more and more distinct.

It was reached at last, and the mystery was solved.
Leaning against a tree was a Confederate officer, whose
white face told plainer than words could tell that never
again would he be seen in the pine-shadowed home he
had left so unwillingly but a few months before. Beside
him upon the grass lay a boy, scarcely more than twelve
years old, a drummer in a company of New England

volunteers, both little hands shot entirely off, and the
bleeding stumps bound carefully up in the handkerchief
of the Rebel, who had smothered his own dying anguish
for the sake of comforting that poor child, sobbing so
piteously with pain.

“I didn't s'pose any of you was so good, or I shouldn't
have come to fight you. Oh, mother, mother, they do
ache so,—my hands,—my hands!” he said, the cry of
contrition ending in a childish wail for the mother sympathy
never more to be experienced by that drummer
boy.

A smile flitted across the officer's face as he replied:
“`Had we all known each other better, this war would
not have been,” and the noble foe held the boy closer to
his bleeding bosom, dipping his hand in the running
stream, and laving the feverish brow where the drops
of sweat were standing.

“What makes you so kind to me?” the dying boy
asked, his dim eyes gazing wistfully into the face bending
so sadly over him.

“I have a boy about your size,—Charlie we call him,”
the stranger said.

“And I am Charlie, too,” the child replied, “Charlie
Younglove, and my home is in New Hampshire, right on
the mountain side. Father is dead, and we are poor,
mother and I. That's why I came to the war. I wanted
to go to college, sometime. Do you think I'll die? Will
I never go home again?—never see mother nor little sister
either?”

The soldier groaned, and bent still closer to the drummer-boy,
asking so earnestly if he must die. How could
he tell him yes, and yet he felt he must; he would not
be faithful to his trust if he withheld the knowledge, or
failed to point that dying one to the only source of life.

“Yes, Charlie,” he answered, mournfully, “I think you
will. Are you afraid to die? Did your mother never
tell you of the Saviour?”

“Yes, yes, oh yes!” and the little face lighted up as at
the mention of a dear friend. “I went to Sunday School,
and learned of Jesus there. I've prayed to him every
night and every morning since I came from home. I
promised her I would,—mother, I mean,—and she prays,
too. She said so in her letter, right here in my jacket
pocket. Don't you want to read it?”

The officer shook his head, and Charlie went on:

“I didn't want to fight to-day, because I knew it was
Sunday, but I had to, or run away. Will God punish
me for that, think? Will he turn me out of Heaven?”

“No, no, oh no!” and the North Carolinian's tears
dropped like rain upon the troubled face, upturned so
anxiously to his. “God will never punish those who
put their trust in Jesus.”

“I do, I do, I do!” and the trembling voice grew
fainter, adding, after a pause: “You are a good man, I
know. You have been to Sunday School, I guess, and
you prayed this morning, didn't you?”

The soldier answered, “Yes,” and the child continued:

“You are dying, too, I 'most know, for there's blood
all over us. We'll go together, won't we, you and I?
Will there be war in Heaven, between the North and
South?”

“No, Charlie. There is naught but peace in Heaven,”
and again the white hands laved the feverish forehead,
for the soldier would fain keep that little spirit till his
could join it company, and speed away to the land where
trouble is unknown.

But it could not be, for Charlie's life was ebbing away;
the last sand was dropping from the glass. Closer the

fair curly head nestled to its strange pillow,—the bleeding
bosom of a foe,—and the lips murmured incoherently
of the elm-trees growing near the mountain home, and
the mother watching daily for tidings of her boy. Then
the train of thought was changed, and Charlie heard the
bell, just as it pealed that morning from his own village
spire. How grand the music was echoing through the
Virginia woods, and the blue eyes closed, as with a
whisper he asked:

“Don't you hear the old bell at home, calling the
folks to church? It has stopped now, and the children
are singing before the organ, `Glory to God on high.' I
used to sing it with them. Do you know it, `Gloria in
excelsis?”

“Yes, yes!” the soldier eagerly replied, glad to find
they were both of the same faith,—that little Yankee
boy, born among the granite hills, and he a North Carolinian,
born on Southern soil.

“Then sing it,” Charlie whispered; “sing it, won't
you? Maybe I'll go to sleep. I don't ache any now.”

With a mighty effort the soldier forced down his bitter
grief, and in a low, mournful tone, commenced our
beautiful church chant, the dying child for whom he
sang, faintly joining with him for a time, but the sweet
voice ceased ere long, the curly head pressed heavier, the
bleeding stumps lay motionless, and when the chant was
ended, Charlie had gone to his last sleep.

Carefully, reverently, the North Carolinian laid the
little form upon the grass, and kissed the stiffened lips
for the sake of the mother, who might never know just
how Charlie died.

Just then footsteps sounded near. Tom and Isaac
were coming, and the face of the soldier darkened when
he saw them, as if they had been intruders upon him and

his beautiful dead. Their appearance, however, disarmed
him at once, and with a faint smile he pointed to his
companion, and said:

“He was in the Federal army two hours ago; he has
joined God's army now. Poor Charlie! I would have
done much to save him!” and with his hand he smoothed
the golden hair, on which the flecks of western sunshine
lay.

Isaac knew it was a Rebel speaking to him, and for an
instant he experienced the same sensation he had felt in
the midst of the fray, but only for an instant, for though
he knew it was a sworn foe, he knew, too, that 'twas a
noble-hearted man, and with a pitying glance at the
dead, he asked if aught could be done for the living.

“No,” and the soldier smiled again; “my passport is
sealed; I am going after Charlie. Some one of your men
did his work well—see!” and opening his coat, he disclosed
the frightful wound from which the dark blood
was gushing.

Then, in a few words he had told them Charlie's story,
adding in conclusion,

“You will escape; you will go home again: and if you
do, write to Charlie's mother, and tell her how he died.
Tell her not to weep for him so early saved. Her letter
is in his pocket: take it as a guide where to direct your
own.”

This he said to Isaac, for he saw Tom was disabled.
Isaac did as he was bidden, and the letter from Charlie's
mother, written but a week before, was safely put away
for future reference, and then Isaac did for the North
Carolina soldier what the North Carolina soldier had done
for the Yankee boy: he staunched the flowing blood as best
he could, bathed the throbbing head, and held the cooling
water to the dry, parched lips, which feebly murmured
their thanks.

The stranger saw the distinction there was between
his new-found friends, and feeling that Tom was the one
to whom he must appeal, he turned his glazed eyes upon
him, and said:

“Whose government will answer for all this, yours or
the one that I acknowledge?”

“Both, both!” Tom replied vehemently; and the
stranger rejoined:

“Yes, both have much to answer for,—one for not
yielding a little more, and the other for its rash impetuosity.
Oh, had we, as a people, know each other; could
we have guessed what brave, kind hearts there were both
North and South, we should never have come to this;
but we believed our leaders too much; trusted too implicitly
in the dastardly falsehoods of a lying press; and it
has brought us here. For myself I am willing to die in
a good cause; and of course I think ours is just; exactly
as you think of yours; but who will care for my poor
Nellie I left in my Southern home? What splendid victory
can repay her for the husband she will lose ere yonder
sun has set, or what can compensate my daughter
Maude or my boy Charlie for their loss?

The North Carolinian paused from exhaustion, and
Tom essayed to comfort him.

Bending over him, and supporting the drooping head
which dropped lower and lower, the lips whispering of
Nelly, of Maud and Charlie, and of the Tar River winding
past their door, until there seemed no longer life in
that once vigorous frame.

“He's dead,” Isaac was about to say, but the words
froze on his lips, for in the distance he caught sight of
two other men coming towards them,—one strong and
powerful, the other slight and girlish-looking. Tom saw
them, too, and turning to Isaac, said hurriedly,

“Run, my boy, and leave me. They will think far
more of capturing an officer than a private. You can escape
as well as not,—run, quick.”

But Isaac would share Capt. Carleton's fate, whatever
that might be, and with a deep flush on his boyish face,
he drew nearer to his companion and stood gazing defiantly
at the Rebels as they came up.

“We have nothing to hope,” Tom whispered, “but
we'll sell ourselves dearly as possible,” and bracing himself
against the tree, he prepared to do battle, refusing
at once the bullying Rebel's command,

“Surrender or die.”

“Never!” was the firm response, and while Isaac engaged
hand to hand with the smaller of the two, Tom
parried skillfully each thrust of his antagonist, who accused
him of having murdered the North Carolina officer
lying near.

Both Tom and Isaac had thought the stranger dead,
but at this accusation the white lips quivered, and whispered
faintly, “No, no, they were kind to me, the officer
and the boy.”

For an instant the Rebel's uplifted hand was stayed,
and it is difficult to say what the result might have been
had not another voice called through the leafy woods,
“No quarter to the Yankee!”

Tom's cheek blanched to an unnatural whiteness, as
with partial lips and flashing eyes he watched the new
comer hastening to the rescue, the handsome, graceful
stranger, whose appearance riveted Isaac's attention at
once, causing him to gaze spell-bound upon the face of
the advancing foe, as if it were one he had seen before.
How handsome that young man was, with his saucy,
laughing eyes of black, his soft, silken curls of hair, and
that air of self-assurance, which bespoke a daring, reckless

spirit. Isaac could not remove his eyes from the
young Rebel, and his late antagonist met with no resistance,
as he passed his arms around him and held him
prisoner at last. Isaac did not even think of himself;
his thoughts were all upon the stranger, at whom poor
Tom sat gazing, half bewildered, and trying once to
stretch his arms toward him, while the lips essayed to
speak. But the words he would have uttered died away
as a sudden faintness stole over him, when he saw that
he was recognized. There was a violent start,—a fading
out of the bright color on the Rebel's cheek, and Isaac,
still watching him, heard him exclaim, “No, no, not him,
leave him alone,” while at the same time he attempted
to free Tom from the firm grasp the enemy now had
upon him.

With an oath the soldier shook him off, then rudely
bade his half-senseless victim rise and follow as a prisoner
of war. And Tom, unmindful of the pain, arose
without a word, and leaning heavily upon his captor,
hobbled on, caring little now, it would seem, what fate
was in reserve for him. He seemed benumbed, and only
an occasional groan, which Isaac fancied was wrung out
by pain, told that he was conscious of anything.

“He's lame,” Isaac cried, the hot tears raining over
his face, while he begged of them to stop, or at least to
carry poor Capt. Carleton, if they must go on. “I won't
run away,” he said, imploringly to his own captor, feeling
intuitively that his was the kinder nature. “Don't
be afraid of me. I'll help you carry him if necessary.
Do have some pity. He's fainting, see!” and Isaac almost
shrieked as poor Tom sunk upon the grass, utterly
unable to move another step. They must carry him now
or leave him there, and anxious for the honor a captured
officer of Tom Carleton's evident rank in life would confer

upon them, the Rebels availed themselves of Isaac's
proffered aid, and the three, bearing their heavy burden,
moved slowly on until far beyond the bushes by the
stream, where the other soldier sat upon the ground, his
laughing black eyes heavy with tears, and his heart
throbbing with a keener pain than he had ever known before.

“I was wrong to let him go,” he said aloud. “Three
against two would surely have carried the day, and that
boy at his side was brave, I know. But it cannot now be
helped. He is their prisoner, and all that remains for
me to do is to see that the best of treatment comes to him
until he is released. But what! are the dead coming
back to life?” and the soldier started up as he caught a
sound of bending twigs near by.