University of Virginia Library

98. XCVIII.
HOW PELHAM FOUGHT HIS HORSE ARTILLERY

I turned my back upon The Oaks with a heavy heart, and the
solitary ride I was about to take back over that ground, traversed
so gayly in the morning, appeared inexpressibly dreary.

I had reached a lofty hill at some distance from the house,
when the last regiments of cavalry appeared falling slowly back,
and Pelham's guns were seen bringing up the rear. On the
long column of pieces, caissons, and mounted cannoneers, the
red light of the setting sun was streaming splendidly, and in
front was seen the slender form of Pelham, with his smooth,
girlish face, and his brave, gay smile. The crimson light illuminated
his figure, and fell around him like a glory.

I would have avoided him, for I was in no humor then to
speak with anybody; but his first words as he recognized me
gave me something like a thrill of satisfaction.

“How are you, old fellow?” was Pelham's friendly greeting.
“Where did you come from? You are just in time. We are
going to have a thundering fight here before night!”

And he grasped my hand with that cordial, kindly manner
which made him so many friends.

“Ah!” I said, “are they pressing you?”

“Yes, in heavy force.”

“You don't seem in a hurry.”

“Well,” was his reply in a tranquil tone, “I don't like to be hurried,
but they'll be here by the time I get into position yonder.”

And he pointed to the next hill.

“The boys are in splendid spirits,” he added gayly; “listen!”

In fact, the horse artillery were singing at the top of their
voices:

There was something stirring in the jovial voices, and Pelham's
face lit up as he listened.

“There never were better cannoneers!” he said; “they will
fight the Yankees to the very muzzles of the guns!”

As he spoke, a French song resounded—a gay and lilting air
—and he began to laugh.

“That's my `Napoleon detachment,' ” said Pelham; “and
Dominic the No. I. is leading.”

All at once, above the voices, was heard rapid firing from the
small rear-guard, and a cavalry-man came on at full gallop, with
the intelligence that the enemy were pressing forward rapidly
to charge the guns.

Pelham rode quietly to a point near, from which he could get
a better view; then he suddenly came back like lightning, and
ordered:

“Forward! gallop!”

The column of pieces moved at the word, broke into a gallop,
and, thundering across a flat, mounted the opposite hill.

Pelham was beside them, and they were instantly placed in
battery, and opened fire.

It was not a moment too soon. A heavy force of Federal
cavalry had charged the rear-guard, broken through it, and
were now seen advancing at a headlong gallop to charge the
pieces.

All at once, the bronze war-dogs of Pelham opened their
grim mouths, and a storm of solid shot tore through the Federal
ranks, overthrowing men and horses; and this was succeeded, as
they still pressed on, by a deadly fire of canister.

At the same moment, Gordon, that brave and noble North
Carolinian, one of my best friends, charged them at the head of
the “Old First,” and, had it not been for a stone wall and
ditch, would have swept them back at every point. As it was,
his horses floundered in the deep ditch, the sharpshooters behind
the wall poured in a destructive fire, and Gordon was forced to
fall back to the hill.[1]

The fine face of the North Carolinian was flushed with rage;
his eyes glared; he could ill brook such a repulse.

Pelham met him with a calm smile:

“Don't annoy yourself, Colonel,” he said, “they won't ride
over me.”

And, turning to an officer, he said coolly:

“Double-shot all the guns with canister.”

As he spoke, the enemy, who had rapidly re-formed their
line, charged straight upon the pieces.

Pelham sat his horse, looking coolly at the dark column as it
swept upon him. He did not move a muscle, but his teeth were
clinched beneath the thin lips, and the blue eyes blazed. The
enemy were suffered to advance within less than a hundred
yards of the guns, when Pelham rose in his stirrups, and in his
ringing voice shouted:

“Fire!”

The ground shook; a huge cloud for an instant obscured the
scene; then, as it drifted, the Federal ranks were seen to break
in disorder and retreat, leaving the ground strewed with their
dead.

“All right!” said Pelham, coolly. “Reload with canister.

The cannoneers sprang to the pieces, and they were soon
ready again. But the enemy did not seem willing to renew the
charge. They dismounted a heavy line of sharpshooters, advanced,
and taking advantage of every species of cover, were
evidently preparing to close in upon the guns.

The bullets now began to fly thick and fast. Pelham sat his
horse motionless, and gazing at the advancing line.

“They will make a rush directly, Surry,” he said coolly, “and
I'll show you how my boys will mow them down.”

“They do seem determined to come to close quarters.”

“Why don't they do it, then? They are after something I
don't understand. What is it?”

The reply came from our rear. Suddenly a loud cheer was
heard directly in rear of the guns; and a regiment, which the
enemy had sent round through a clump of woods, charged the
pieces at full gallop.

“Action rear!” Pelham shouted, darting to his guns; and two
pieces were whirled about, and opened upon the charging column.
The fire raked the enemy with deadly effect; and they wavered
for an instant. Then they re-formed, and came on again headlong.
At the same moment the line of sharpshooters in front
charged at a run, right up to the muzzles of the guns.

We were surrounded; and from that moment the fight became
desperate. Pelham was everywhere, cheering on the men, with
his drawn sabre flashing in the last rays of sunlight—and as that
blood-red light streamed on his slender figure, and countenance
all ablaze with the fire of battle, his appearance was grand.

The boy-artillerist was in his proper sphere—fighting his guns
to the very muzzle, determined to die where he stood, or drive
the enemy back.

More than one of the dismounted Federal cavalry charged up
to the mouths of the pieces and were hurled back, torn to pieces
with shell or canister; and, as each deadly discharge swept their
enemies back, the cannoneers uttered triumphant shouts, in
which might be discerned the fierce joy of fighting which these
veritable war-dogs experienced.

Suddenly above the thunder of the guns resounded the loud,
imperial Marscillaise, sung with a species of ferocious roar by
the men of the “Napoleon detachment,” as they worked the
guns, driving back the charge upon the rear.[2] There was something
in the voices of these men inexpressibly defiant and determined—the
martial chorus rang out splendid and triumphant; it
seemed to say, “Come! we will die here, where we stand!”

Above them, on his horse, towered the form of Pelham, and
his voice made the men grow wild.

Never have I seen such a fight. It was an episode from the
wars of the Titans—the conflict of the giants and the thunderbolts.

The force in front was swept back, decimated, and completely
routed. As they gave way, Gordon charged and drove them
with the sabre. At the same moment the force in rear was seen
to recoil.

Then was presented a spectacle which made the heart leap,
and brought a fierce cheer from the men.

Right down on the enemy's flank burst a column of Southern
cavalry, and then followed the quick work of the sabre. A
desperate combat followed—but it did not last ten minutes.
The enemy gave way—the Southern horsemen pressed them, cutting
right and left; and as the scattered Federal cavalry darted
over the hill, I saw in front of their pursuers the tall form of
Mordaunt.

At every sweep of his heavy sabre a man was cut out of the
saddle; and not until he had struck their main body did he
sheathe his weapon and slowly retire, with a firm and defiant
front, which the enemy made no attempt to charge.

“Well, P elham,” he said, as he rode up, “you have had
pretty hot work, but I think they have got enough for the
present.”

And he grasped the hand of Pelham, whose face blushed
proudly.

When I took the hand of Mordaunt in my turn, something
wet and clammy attracted my attention.

“It is only blood,” he said, laughing grimly; “there is a good
deal on my hands.”

The fighting was now evidently over for the day. Night had
come, and the enemy would not attempt to renew the attack
before morning.

I woke to the consciousness, as the artillery limbered up and
prepared to move on, that I was mounted on a weary horse,
with night and a journey of about thirty miles before me. I
was thinking of the dreary ride, when, all at once, the voice of
Mordaunt said:

“Come and sup with me, Surry—we are not far from my
house, and I must go there for an hour or two, to get some
papers.”

To this I agreed, especially as the place was on my route.
Pelham bade me farewell with a laugh.

“Tell General Jackson that we are all right, Surry!” he said;
“and come and see me soon.”

With a pressure of the hand I parted with the brave boy, and
he rode on.

As the horse artillery took up the line of march, I heard the
cannoneers again strike up the lilting chorus: