The Blue and The Gray
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"What are the prospects for crossing?" asked Sergeant Gregory of an officer who passed at that moment.
"We'll be over somewhere about doomsday, judging from the outlook. The three bridges we need the most can't be laid under the present regime. We've got to evict those sharpshooters from the houses along the river bank, for it's worse than murder to post our men there to be picked off in that cruel fashion—all to no purpose, for bridges can never be built when men are shot down as fast as they show their heads."
The country was hilly, now and then dotted with clumps of trees, while barns, fences, and everything that was combustible, had been converted to use by the two armies, as each in turn had passed over the land. All was dreary and desolate. The sky was leaden-hued, save when a burst of flame from the cannonading would lighten it for a short space, and then it would die down, leaving it almost a pitchy blackness.
General Burnside's resolve to bombard the place had no power to oust the sharpshooters, even when tons of shells were thrown into its streets, setting fire to many of the buildings. When, after a brief rest, the engineers resumed the construction of the bridges, the same result followed—destruction of their numbers.
The town itself was almost impregnable, being completely encircled by hills, save on the river side. These heights were bristling with forts, entrenchments seamed them in every direction, and batteries were planted in such profusion that no opening presented itself for attack.
How long this slaughter would have continued it is hard to tell, but a happy inspiration came to General Hunt, chief of artillery. He suggested that a body of men could make a dash for the river, cross in boats, and besiege the sharpshooters in the houses, driving them out, and taking possession.
The daring of the plan almost took away one's breath, but it seemed the only way to silence the enemy's murderous fire, and it was quickly put in execution. The pontoon boats lay at the river bank. A band of tried men was selected for the perilous undertaking, who at a sign, without a sound or word of command, rushed from their concealment, leaped into the boats, shot out from the shore, and were half across the stream before the Confederates realized their intention. Then came a shower of bullets from their rifles, rattling like hailstones about the heads of the brave men, who held boards up before them for protection, dodging the murderous fire as well as they could, while those who were rowing pulled with a will, and the boats were across the stream in swift time. A few were shot, falling into the river, but the largest number went over safely.
Reaching the shore, the regiments ran up the hills, and succeeded in forcing the sharpshooters from their lairs, capturing over a hundred of them, while the rest fled to the hills.
The way was now clear for the completion of the bridges. A pontoon bridge is a fine piece of ingenuity.
Heavy boats, perfectly flat, often twenty feet in length, are anchored at equal distances from each other, lengthwise of the current, and beams are placed upon them to unite them; then strong, thick planks are laid across the beams, thus making a steady, wide roadway, strong enough to endure the weight of horses, heavy pieces of artillery, and the tramp of thousands of men.
While the bridge was being made, the enemy did not remain quiet, but dropped shells at various points along the river, which exploded, but happily did little injury.
The smoke of the artillery, the flames bursting from the houses, and the struggling army of the Union exposed to a pitiless fire made a picture which was never effaced from Ralph's mind, and years after, when he saw the panorama of "The Battle of Gettysburg," in Chicago, the memory of that day at Fredericksburg came back with vivid force. He was once more a stripling, in the midst of the noise and shock of battle, with comrades falling about him, torn and mangled out of all semblance of human beings, while he was miraculously preserved.
That night the Union forces rested on the ground, in the mud and frost, not far away from the pontoon bridge; and though they knew the morning would plunge them into further conflict, yet tired limbs and aching heads found the refreshing slumber which they needed. Early next morning, after a hasty breakfast, they were ready for any events which the day might bring forth.
A heavy fog hid the other shore, while the air was cold and raw. Long before the sun scattered the mists, cannonading began at the bridge, the main point of attack, but the firing became so severe that orders were issued for them to retire behind the bluffs.
At last the bridges were finished, and the army crossed to the other side of the river, under the continuous shells of the enemy. Now began a terrific struggle. General Franklin had advanced against the troops on the hill, but they had repulsed him, with much loss. General Meade's division was chosen to lead the attack. Down across the railroad they dashed, under heavy fire, their skirmishers having been sent forward, while the well-directed batteries hurled against the hills did some execution.
But the Confederates from their elevated positions poured destruction into their ranks, mowing them down. The Union forces were not daunted, but made an entering wedge between two rebel divisions, turned back their flanks, and captured prisoners and battle flags. Scaling the heights, they were met by the second line, which drove them back in confusion, and they were only saved from utter rout by General Birney, who threw his command in front of the enemy, who were pursuing them.
The sounds of battle grew louder, and as the divisions of French and Hancock moved in columns through the town, the Confederate batteries burst upon them, but they charged across the open ground, to be met by a veritable sheet of flame, which swept into their faces, and literally consumed them. No bravery, no determination, could withstand that awful fire of the enemy, who had taken advantage of an ambush which nature had seemed to furnish them, from whence they sent forth their deadly aim.
A road ran at the foot cf Marye's Hill, which had sunken so much as almost to be unobserved, at a little distance. This road was bounded at its outside edge by a stone wall, where were hidden two brigades of Confederates, who had sent forth this sheet of flame and death. Their numbers were so great, that every man at the wall was assisted by several behind him, who loaded muskets as fast as they could, and passed them to him, while he discharged them as rapidly, leaving only his head exposed for an instant, as he raised it to take aim.
In the face of these fearful odds, the Union soldiers were undismayed. No disorganization, no wavering in their ranks, but they kept on, only to meet certain death.
And now General Hancock, he whose presence was an inspiration, led the charge with 5,000 men, whose intrepid daring carried them within twenty yards of the fatal wall, only to be beaten back, leaving 2,000 dead to tell the tale of the slaughter at Marye's Hill.
General Burnside was beside him himself with rage. In the face of these defeats, he demanded that General Hooker make a bayonet charge, and those doomed men rushed forward, with a valor never surpassed, rallying again and again, until nearly half their number lay dead on the road, or torn with fearful wounds.
The rebel artillery was not idle, but as the Federals retreated, sent shells after them, still plowing their numbers with deadly effect.
A heavy storm of rain came on in the night, and under cover of its inclemency, the Union troops withdrew to the north bank of the Rappahannock, although it had been General Burnside's determination to renew the assault the next day, and lead it in person. This was a step which needed a vast deal of dissuasion on the part of his generals ere he relinquished his mad attempt.
Mud was over the shoe-tops, and the rain was falling fast when the Union army received orders to evacuate the town, and no time was lost in obeying. The pontoon bridges carried them safely across from the scene of disaster, and left the army in a sorry plight.
Decimated in numbers, the dead alone counting 12,000, disappointed, hospitals full to overflowing, the dead to bury, the predictions of defeat had been bitterly realized. It is said that the brave and dashing General Meagher went into that battle with the Irish brigade, over 1,200 strong, and came out with a little over 200.
It was plain that the men had been sacrificed through incompetency and stubbornness. Murmurs and discontent were abundant, as the army prepared to settle down in its winter quarters.
CHAPTER XV. RALPH IS SENT HOME
AFTER the slaughter at Fredericksburg, Ralph rapidly failed in strength. The excitement of that scene of carnage and his increasing exhaustion told upon his frame. He fulfilled his duty as well as he could; he was cheerful and alert; he wrote more often to his dear mother without ever alluding to his health.
"I can't understand what ails me," he thought. "I have never received a wound, while some of the boys who have been badly cut up are well again, and seem as strong as ever. I do believe I miss Old Bill more every day. I never felt sad or lonely when I had him to cheer me up."
He grew daily worse. Often when on duty he would halt, with weak and failing breath. He lost all desire for food, and his lusterless eyes and pale skin told how he suffered.
"What seems to be the matter, sergeant?" one of his comrades asked, anxiously. "You don't pear to have any vim about you. Why, if you hadn't shown such pluck—fact is, if it was any one but you, I mout 'cuse you of playing off."
"I'm all right, Hank. I feel a little weak and have hard chills sometimes—but I'll be better soon. I'm a little sick, that's all."
"That's enough. You ain't been yerself since we fit at Fair Oaks I've seen it a long time. That malary from the swamps has finished many a strong man."
At last Ralph had to succumb. His condition was observed by the doctor, who called the attention of his captain to the fact that he was no longer fit for duty. And when one morning he was not able to report at early roll call, it was with gloomy forebodings that he heard the order that he be removed to the hospital at once.
"Is this the end of my ambitious hopes?" he queried. "Am I going to die when I am willing to serve my country? I would not mind being killed in battle, as a soldier should be, but to die in hospital, far from my mother. It is hard!" And he buried his face in his pillow to hide the hot tears that he could not keep back.
When weeks passed, and Ralph grew no better, the Colonels attention was directed to his case. He was a severe disciplinarian, but he had a kindly heart, and he speedily forwarded a recommendation to the war department that Sergeant Gregory, Company K, Massachusetts Volunteers, be honorably discharged from the service of the United States. A document granting the request came back in due time, to the Colonel, who passed it to the captain, and he handed it to Ralph, who could not repress his emotion.
"I enlisted to the end of the war. I do not want a discharge. Could you not have obtained me a sick leave? I know I shall be strong soon."
The doctor shook his head solemnly.
"You are not fit to march, or do active duty—perhaps' never will be. The hardships incident to a campaign have broken you down. You were very young to have undertaken them. I do not wish to wound your pride, but the government does not want sick men on its rolls."
So Ralph was given his papers, and after writing his mother a few lines, saying that he was quite sick, lest his sudden coming should alarm her, he was sent home by the same route by which he came. It was a painful journey, not alone from his physical suffering, but his heart bled as he noted the ruin that had been wrought in the land—the deserted houses, the neglected fields, miserable-looking people, mostly women and children, whose woe-begone faces told of the privations they were daily enduring, uncomplainingly. The contrast between the early days of the war and the present was bitter, and he felt how terribly real that war was to these people. Their farms had been overrun by the tramping of two armies, and each had equally despoiled them of their possessions—both were alike unmindful and indifferent to their sorrow.
But brighter thoughts succeeded these gloomy musings, as he drew nearer to his home, and already saw his beloved mother's sweet face, and felt her warm kiss upon his cheek. But even in the Western country, as the train stopped at the various stations, he noted careworn faces, and anxious glances, as the murmured "God bless you!" was sent after the boys in blue. There were several soldiers on the train, some going home on furlough, and some on the same errand as Ralph—going home to recuperate, or, perchance, to die.
When Ralph reached Chicago, he was glad to lie down on one of the benches in the depot. He found he had to wait three hours for the train that would convey him to his prairie home. The rest was welcome, and after a nap, and a strong cup of coffee, he felt a little better; so much so that he thought he would take a short walk of a block or so. The city was, so to speak, in holiday attire. The streets were teeming with an excited yet happy-looking people, and an unusual bustle pervaded them. He wondered why every one was crowding to the edge of the sidewalks, and as he was about to ask a bystander, he heard the tramp of many feet. How familiar the sound of the steps was to his ear. The boys in blue were coming, he thought, and again a wave of wounded pride came over him, as he realized that he was shut out from the ranks, by reason of an illness which he could not understand or conquer.
But no—these were not his comrades, he saw, as he looked curiously at the long procession filing past him, closely guarded by the boys in blue, who kept step, while the men they hurried along were the subjects of ridicule from the thoughtless crowd. They were prisoners—these men, some clad in the well-known gray, some wearing butternut suits, some of them without coats or hats, their pants frayed and torn clear up to the knees. Here would proudly march a clean-shaven, erect young fellow, with a suit of gray, scarcely soiled, while at his side a mere shadow of a man, ragged and dirty, would shamble along, barefooted and wild-eyed.
Nearly all of them were emaciated, while the expression upon their faces was one of sullen despair. Men were there who were the flower and chivalry of the South, who had staked their lives and fame upon the success of their cause, and there were men who scarce knew for what or who they were fighting. To the former defeat was bitter humiliation—to the latter capture meant something to eat, and beyond that, they did not look. But to the careless crowd who watched them pass, they were merely rebel prisoners. No sympathy their anguish and shame was felt; no pity for their long months of captivity, when heart and brain would chafe restlessly, moved the crowd, who jeered and exulted. It was so, we know, the country over. The boys in blue were hooted at and mocked, when the fortunes of war threw them into the hands of the enemy. They all forgot that those who wore the blue and those who wore the gray were alike animated by a love of country, and that all were brothers—equally brave, equally earnest, equally true-hearted.
Thoughts like these passed through Ralph's mind as he saw the wretched men on their way to Camp Douglas, the military prison at Chicago. To him they were objects of sympathy, and he shuddered as he asked himself what would have been his feelings had he been taken prisoner. He was startled by a smart blow upon the shoulder, under whose force he almost staggered. He turned in astonishment, and saw Alfred Boneel, a merry French boy, who had been a schoolmate of his.
"Why, Alph, is it possible—you are looking well. You're as brown as a nut, and say, where did you get those whiskers?"
"In the service, of course. There's nothing like army life to bring out a man's good qualities. But say, Ralph, I'm sorry I can't return compliments. You are neither brown nor rugged looking. What's up?"
"They are sending me home as unfit to serve any longer," Ralph replied, dejectedly. "I don't know why they should single me out for such a distinction."
"Oh, you'll come out all right. I see you've done something besides get sick, judging by your sergeant's stripes."
"Yes, I won them, and was hoping for something better. But tell me all about yourself, Al."
"I haven't got much to tell, but I've seen some fighting, too. I was at the Fort Donelson scrimmage, and it was the coldest time I ever saw—snowing and blowing, and afterward turning out clear, but bitter cold. The storm of rain and snow had been pretty severe, and the fellows who were in the trenches must have been frost-bitten. I know we had no shelter and were hungry besides, as rations had given out, and had nobody round to ask us in to take dinner with 'em. We had pulled up stakes at Cairo, and had to go up the Ohio to Smithland, and then up the Cumberland River. Cavalry was no good in that country, for there was too much big timber, and the ground was too rough. We were kept busy trying to plant a battery, for those fellows in gray have some sharpshooters worthy of their name, and though not one of them showed himself, it was whiz! pang! every few minutes, and some one was sure to go down. We lost Eddie Downing that way."
Al paused a moment to brush an imaginary fly from before his eyes.
"Eddie Downing was shot? He was a noble boy. So he's dead!"
Al nodded assent.
"Where's George Martin? Do you know what regiment he joined?"
"Oh, sure. He was in the gunboat service. Poor fellow, he fared worse than Eddie. He was on the Cumberland and had his right arm shot away."
"Is he at home?"
"He was sent home as soon as the stump healed, and his only regret is, so his father says, that it wasn't the left arm, for he declares he'd try it again. But of course they wouldn't have him in any branch of the service."
"Of course not. But George always had grit. But how did you come out at Fort Donelson?"
"We had taken Fort Henry, but didn't feel so certain about Donelson. General Buckner had swelled the Confederate numbers there by about ten thousand men. Then the fort stood on high ground, and had a fine battery on the river front, as well as several lines of strong fortifications on the land side, such as immense logs, bags of sand, were well protected, and their riflemen were in little pits dug in the side of a hill. All the time the weather staid stinging cold, and we suffered terribly. They were resting when the gunboats came to the front. Their gunners looked death right in the face every instant, but the way they made the shells fly was lively. Commodore Foote is a hero, and he bombarded them in gallant style. He had six boats, and the sight was worth seeing, as they would come up toward the fort, getting nearer, one by one, and then each delivering its fire, and circling round to give the other boats a shot at the rebs. And the fort was giving them trouble, too, for they were sending solid shot over the decks, which were doing damage.
"When a bomb from the enemy struck the iron plates a terrible racket would be heard, as they crashed into them, wrecking smoke pipes, and tearing down the rigging, and wounding the crews. The Commodore kept his flagship, the St. Louis, in the front. But he received a bad wound in the ankle, which did not make him give up, though, but when his boat and the Louisville began to fall behind, and they could not be managed, it was seen something was wrong. It seems they had their machinery hurt, and their steering gear gave out. So he had to stop, for the guns of Fort Donelson were making sad havoc with his disabled fleet, and it was found that the fort could not be captured by an attack on its water side. The flagship had been hit fifty-nine times and the others twenty or thirty times apiece, before it became clear that Fort Donelson must be assaulted by the land forces.
"That night kept us all well occupied, in making preparations for the next day's fight. That day was an awful one, and hundreds went down before the desperate fire of the butternut boys, but we drove them back into their entrenchments. Sunday didn't see us ready for church, for we had other engagements. The boys in blue had just enough taste of the excitement to make them want more, and General Grant had us all up in line of battle early in the morning, and we were waiting impatiently for the order to attack, when the word flashed along our ranks that an officer carrying a white flag had come to visit the General. We knew what that meant—some sort of an understanding, and we were not very sorry after all, for we had lost many a gallant soldier, and didn't know who'd be called away next. Still, we were ready, if it had to be.
"Ralph, I tell you, when we heard that the distinguished looking gentleman on the black horse had come to ask that the battle might be stopped for a time, so that they could argue it out on some terms, every man amongst us felt like throwing up his hat and hurrahing for the plain, unassuming little man who commanded us, when he sent his answer—'No terms other than an unconditional and immediate surrender can be accepted. I propose to move immediately upon your works.' That speech is as grand as any you'll ever find in history. It will be repeated through all the ages. Why, it's good enough to have been uttered by the great Napoleon." Alph's eyes glistened, as he unconsciously expanded his chest, and took on a more dignified air, as he walked proudly by the side of his friend, who was trembling with the effort to keep up with his robust companion.
"The whole world knows what his firm answer did. General Buckner sent another flag of truce, with the acceptance of General Grant's terms, and the Union troops moved in to Fort Donelson."
"You must have been glad."
"Glad! Indeed we were. You should have heard us shout and yell. We pulled the Confederate colors down in a hurry, and ran up the Union flag. The very earth almost shook with the cheering of the boys, while the band played 'Star Spangled Banner,' 'Red, White and Blue,' and a dozen other patriotic airs. We almost felt like having that bright little ditty 'In Dixie's Land' served up to us, we all felt so jubilant. Before an hour had gone by, we were on the most friendly terms with them all. We were trading off our greenbacks for tobacco, and they were getting bacon and biscuits from us. They didn't have any hard feelings against us, and I know we didn't have any, for they showed themselves brave and worthy foes wherever we met the Confederates in battle."
Ralph had listened with delight to his description of the taking of Fort Donelson. But he suddenly recollected that the train must be due, and he reminded Al of the fact.
"That's so, and here I am, going home on a furlough, and forgot all about it, while I was spouting. We'll hurry a little; we are only a block or so from the depot. You're all out of breath!" he said, half alarmed, as he observed Ralph's short, quick breathing, and the pallor of his face. "We'll be there in a jiffy, and you can rest. It's a good thing I'm going to be on the same train, for when we reach Marion, I can take you to your own place. Pa's expecting me, and we'll drop you down at your own door."
This was pleasant news to Ralph, for his home was over a mile from the station, and he sighed as he recalled how little that distance affected him when he was leaving home, but now that he was returning, alas! he knew that he could not walk so far.
CHAPTER XVI. RALPH AT HOME
HOME at last! And when that longing mother took her boy in her arms once more, and looked long and earnestly into his weary face, she saw only the boyish Ralph, whom sickness could not change; he was to her the same lad who had left his home with strong hopes and sunny smile. True, he was older and more careworn looking, but the honest look of his childhood shone from his eyes, and the same truthful, frank expression was on his features.
Ralph, as he rode up from the depot, with his friends, the Boneels, looked around at the old familiar place with eagerness. He expected to find everything changed—he had been absent so long, that to him it seemed as though the landscape, even, must have taken on new features, or at least changed its old. But there was the same gentle slope in front of the door, the same trees in the fields beyond, the same sunny knoll where he had played when a little boy. Oh, how long ago that seemed to him, now, when he reviewed the experiences of the past four years! Al and his father would not enter the house, though cordially invited to do so; they did not wish to intrude upon the sacredness of the first meeting with his mother.