Dora Darling the daughter of the regiment |
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| 15. | CHAPTER XV. |
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 | CHAPTER XV. Dora Darling |  |
15. CHAPTER XV.
Meantime most of the rebels' guns had been either
dismounted or silenced; but one piece continued to fire,
and, having at last got the range, began to do some execution,
taking off with one of its balls the arm of an
artillery man, and with the next killing outright a gunner
of the same corps.
At this sight, a young fellow attached to Daum's gun,
who had never before been under fire, became panic-stricken,
and turned to fly; but the choleric captain pursued,
overtook, and stopped him, and, in spite of the poor
boy's piteous cries, and protestations that he should
certainly be killed with the next shot, drove him relentlessly
back to his gun with a shower of blows from the
flat of his sword, and a storm of reproaches and opprobrium
as the reward of his cowardice.
“Golly!” remarked Picter from his tree, whence he
had watched this little incident with great attention.
“Dey say, `Honesty de bes' policy;' but, for my part, I
tink courage de bes' policy fer us sojers. Might as well
stan' you chance o' bein' shot as to be licked to def wid
a sword, an' den be called coward all de res' you life.”
“Look, look, Picter!” said Dora, in a low, excited
voice.
“Look whar', honey?”
“On the road coming down from the mountains, there
behind the rebel camp. The others are coming. That
is what the rockets meant!”
“Lor' 'a' massy, so dey be! How dey comes peltin'
down de hill! an' see de cannon a shinin', an' de horses
a galloppin'! Dere be four, five, rijiments, for sart'in.
Hark! Hear de ole fools a hootin' and singin' out
'hin' dere mud-banks! Tinks dey's got us now, shore.
Dat shows how scar't dey was, any way. Reckon dey'd
better wait now, till dey's out o' de woods, 'fore dey
begins ter holler dat-a-way. Reckon dey'll fin' dey's
got more dan dere match, if dey has got 'forcements.
So's we got 'forcements, an' plenty ob 'em too, if we was
a min' to fotch 'em up. 'Tain't our way, dough, to turn
up all han's to drive a leetly yaller dog out de door-yard,
even if he has got a bull-pup to help him. Holler away
— won't ye?”
Thus grumbled Epictetus, forgetting, in his alarm and
anger at the sight of powerful reënforcements to the
enemy, the calm dignity befitting a namesake of the old
Greek philosopher and moralist.
But his sneers and boasts met with no response, for
Dora, his only possible auditor, was absorbed in watching
the glittering line of bayonets descending the mountain
camp, where they were received with vociferous cheers
of welcome, ringing loud and clear above the sterner
sounds of battle.
The new pieces were quickly placed in position upon
the upper line of fortifications, and opened fire amid renewed
cheers upon the part of the besieged. These,
however, were of short duration, for the federal batteries
reopened, after their brief rest, with renewed energy, and
soon proved that both their guns and their practice were
better than those of their enemy.
“What for de fools want ter aim so high? Dere
ain't noffin' to shoot up here 'cept we,” muttered Picter,
uneasily, as a round shot fell into the field a few hundred
yards below his position.
The next moment a shell, rising in a bold curve from
the new battery, swept across the sky with a shrill scream
to be remembered but not described, and finally swooped
down, like some horrible bird of prey, upon the little
grove where Dora was concealed.
“O! O! De Lord in heben sabe us! O, missy! O,
de Lord!” yelled Picter, clinging to his own tree, while,
with blanched face and starting eyeballs, he watched the
iron death that now lay directly behind Jump's hind feet,
its smoking fuse threatening instant destruction to the
whole party.
Dora, without speaking, slipped from her saddle. “It's
up?” asked she, hurriedly.
“Yis, yis; it'll go in a secon'! Run, missy, run fer
de woods!” gasped Picter, beginning to come down the
pine tree as fast as his limbs, paralyzed by fear, would
permit.
Before he could reach the ground, however, Dora had
seized the smouldering end of the fuse in the skirt of her
woollen dress, and held it firmly compressed in her hand,
as she knelt beside the shell, with pallid face and eyes
dilated with excitement.
“O, de Lord! O, honey, chile! You leetly fool!
You bressed leetly angel!” stammered Picter, quite unconscious
of what he said, as he staggered back against
the bole of the pine tree.
“It's out,” said Dora, quietly, as she unclasped her
hand, and pointed to the black end of the fuse, charred
down to the very surface of the shell.
“O! O! O! missy!” gasped Picter again, as he sank
upon the ground, and, hiding his face in his folded arm,
began to cry lustily.
Dora looked at him a moment, then looked at the
shell, but said never a word. It was only by her marble
face and shining eyes that one could have guessed how
much was stirring within that little heart. When she
did speak, it was very quietly.
“Perhaps we'd better go away from here, Pic. They
balls go over it. There is another falling in the field
just down here.”
“Go 'way from dis, says you!” exclaimed Picter,
almost angry at the child's coolness. “Course we will,
'thout we's ready to be blowed inter kin'dom come 'thout
stoppin' fer make our wills. Should ha' been dere now
if dat 'ere fuss had been de proper len'f. Reckon de
shells we's frowin' up dere can't be pinched out like um
candle snuff.”
While speaking, Picter had hastily loosed Jump's
bridle from the sapling where it had been tied, and replaced
Dora upon his back.
He now led him up into the woods, and as quickly as
possible placed the brow of the hill between himself and
the enemy. So soon as they were in safety, however,
the negro paused, and seemed to consider.
“Dey came from dat-a-way,” muttered he, pointing in
a northerly direction. “An' by keepin' roun' dat way
we shall fall in wid some ob 'em gwine back. I reckon
de fight's 'bout played out, an' 'tain't wuff w'ile to try fer
see any more dis time.”
“Let us get round where the wounded men have been
carried, Uncle Pic,” said Dora, decidedly. “I want to
see if I can't do something for them.”
“Well, honey, de amberlances'll be in de rear, an' I
'spect dat we shall get at dat by keepin' right 'long dis
some ob de rebels skulkin' roun' de back way to dey
camp. Dey'd be sure to shoot a nigger dat didn' b'long
to deyse'fs, ef dey should meet him now, dey's so mad.”
“Then keep along here in the woods, but do make
haste,” said Dora, impatiently. “O, Picter, I never
shall forget, when our guns left off firing that time, just
before the other rebels came up, how the horrid groans
and screams of the wounded men over in their trenches
seemed to fill the whole air.”
“Yis, missy, I hear um,” replied Pic, with an animation
that was not wholly horror. “Golly! I reckon we
gib some on 'em fits.”
“But, Pic, do they have doctors, and nurses, and comfortable
beds over there?” asked Dora, piteously.
“Reckon so, missy; bud I 'xpect mos' o' de fellers
dat got hit with de sugar-plums we frowed 'em to-day,
won't neber want no doctor. We doesn' fire shells wid
tails as long as de pussy-cat's.”
“But those that groaned so horribly were only wounded,
not dead,” persisted Dora.
“Good for um lay an' groan a leetly while, an' 'flect
on dey sins, 'fore dey die. Like ter fill dem trenches
right in wid quick-lime, an' finish 'em off,” said Picter,
with a curious mingling of recklessness and ferocity in
his tone.
“Picter, I don't like to have you talk that way,” said
his face.
“'Xcuse me, missy,” said the negro, his glowing eyes
falling before hers. “I know dat ain't de way dey talks
in de Bible; bud you knows, missy, we niggers doesn'
hab de buckra ways 'bout some fings. Now you washes
you face in de mornin', an' forgib you enemy ebery day;
but my fader come from Afriky, an' use to go fight an'
kill he enemy ebery chance he git, an' den eat 'em up.”
“Eat them up!” echoed Dora, in horror.
“Sart'in, missy. Dat de way he eddicate; an' I
don' s'pose he wash his face hardly neber, 'cause dey
didn' hab no water where he lib. So you see, missy,
we diff'ent.”
“But, Picter, your father died when you were a little
boy, and you have always been taught just as I have.
You are a Christian, you know, Pic, and your father
wasn't.”
“Yis, missy; bud I's de son ob my own daddy fer all
dat. De Bible says dat de wil'-cat can't change he fur,
nor de nigger wash hese'f w'ite.”
“Well, never mind,” said Dora, after a few minutes
of puzzled thought, “whether you are just like me or not;
you're a dear, kind old uncle, and never was cross or
ugly to me, or any one else, that I know of; so it don't
make so much difference what you say.”
“Dat's it, missy. It's de doin', an' not de sayin', dat's
de way you doesn' like, honey, you mus' 'flect dat it's
on'y de ole nigger daddy dat's talkin', an' dat it'll be
Uncle Pic dat'll do de doin'.”
Dora laughed, and perfect harmony was once more
restored between the two.
For nearly an hour Picter pursued the course he had
adopted, as likely to bring him to the rear of the federal
army, keeping all the time within the shelter of the
woods, and below the crest of the hills.
He now, however, judged it time to keep up a little
so as to intersect the high road, along which it was probable
the troops would make their line of march in returning
to their encampment.
Striking a ravine between two of the hills dividing the
valley from their own position, the negro cautiously followed
it up, until, nearing the edge of the woodland, he
hitched the bridle to a tree, and went forward to reconnoitre.
In a few moments he returned with far less precaution.
“All right, missy,” said he, gleefully. “We'm hit
jes' on de right spot. Here's de amberlances an' de
surgeons, an' de Twenty — Ohier; dat's our own rijimint,
you 'member, all in a heap. De res' ob de army
is marchin' ahead, an' we'm waitin' ter fotch up de rear,
I reckon, from de looks. Come, ole hoss, step 'long —
will ye?”
In a few moments Dora found herself upon the edge
of the wood, and only a few hundred feet from a line
of ambulances already nearly filled with wounded men,
whose groans attested the severity of their sufferings.
A surgeon and his assistant, distinguished by their
green sashes, stood close at hand, their faces pale, their
hands stained with blood. Their work had been severe,
for wounded rebels had shared equally with federal soldiers
in their care and attention.
A party of men carrying stretchers were slowly moving
up the valley. Beyond them stood the Ohio regiment,
to which Picter considered himself attached, drawn
up in a solid phalanx, ready to close the rear of the retreating
army, when the hospital train should be prepared
to precede them.
Several officers were standing around the surgeon,
talking with him and each other, and in the shade of
the trees sat or lay men slightly wounded, or suffering
from heat and exhaustion.
Picter, after a slight pause, walked boldly up to the
group of officers, still leading Jump with Dora upon his
back.
“Hullo! What have we here?” cried a young captain,
who had just asked for a strip of sticking-plaster to
apply to a slight bayonet scratch upon his beardless
cheek.
“Here's our prince of sable cooks and strategists,
company. Who is it, Picter?”
“Sarvent, Cap'n Bruff,” said Picter, passing him with
a military salute, and keeping on towards the surgeon.
“Well, Picter,” said that gentleman, carelessly,
“where did you drop from?”
“I's been off wid a furlough, doctor,” said the negro,
modestly. “An' dis yer young lady is my leetly mist's,
an' she'm gwine to de Norf by an' by, long wid us, an'
I'd like 'o keep her wid me in camp till we goes. She
jes' wild now, to come an' help you take care dese yere
pore fellers. Made me fotch her straight ter you.”
“Ah!” said the surgeon, benevolently, as he glanced
again at Dora, and smiled. “So you'd like to be an
army nurse, my dear, would you?”
“Yes, sir,” said Dora, meeting his eyes in an unabashed,
earnest manner, that made the kindly surgeon
smile again.
“Well, you look like a brave little girl, who would
do all she was able. But it's rough work this.”
“May I help you now?” asked Dora, eagerly, as she
slipped down from Jump's back, and went close up to her
new friend.
“What is your name, child?”
“Dora, sir. Dora Darley.”
“And how old are you?”
“Twelve, sir.”
The surgeon would evidently have asked more questions,
but the party of men detailed to bring in the
wounded and dead now came up, and his attention was
immediately absorbed in his fresh cares.
Before turning away, however, he said, hurriedly,
“Dora, if you like to, you may fill this canteen from
the brook down there, and carry water to the wounded
men in those ambulances. They are always thirsty,
poor fellows.”
Dora eagerly hastened to do as she was bid, and with
some help from Picter, soon supplied the occupants of
the ambulances with all the water they chose to drink.
Murmured thanks and blessings repaid the kindness.
Dora then approached the exhausted groups beneath
the trees.
“Will you have some water?” asked she, gently, of a
grizzled veteran, suffering from a blow on the head,
given by the breech of a dying rebel's musket.
“Ah, thin, an' it's one of the `good people' has
started up out o' these woods — isn't it?” murmured the
Irishman, opening his aching eyes.
“Ye ould fool,” retorted a comrade, who had just
thrown himself upon the grass to rest for a few moments,
“there ain't none o' them kind in 'Meriky. They all
stay to home in the owld country, like sensible little men.
This purty little gal is a runaway rebel, come in wid the
nagur there.”
Relieved by this explanation from the fear of an enchanted
draught, private O'Sullivan drained the canteen
offered him, and returned it with a “Blissin' on yer
purty face, my darlint!”
Dora, delighted with her new office, next approached,
with a shy, serious grace, the lines of soldiers, who,
most of them, looked hot and tired after their exertions
of the forenoon, although they stood steadily to their
ranks, ready at any instant to repel the most unexpected
attack on the part of the enemy, who might, very possibly,
attempt to harass the rear of the army they had not
dared to meet openly in the field.
| CHAPTER XV. Dora Darling | |