Sergeant Hunter Charging the Confederates

Brave Deeds of Union Soldiers

By
SAMUEL SCOVILLE, Jr.

PHILADELPHIA
GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1915, by
George W. Jacobs & Company
Published November, 1915

All rights reserved
Printed in U.S.A.

To Theodore Roosevelt

Commissioner, Governor, Colonel and President, who believes in peace with honor, but never in peace at the price of righteousness and whose own life has been full of deeds of physical and moral courage, this book of brave deeds is dedicated.

Foreword

In these days when even our skies are shadowed by wars and rumors of wars, it is fitting to remember what men and women and children of our blood have done in the past. In this chronicle have been included not alone the great deeds of great men, but also the brave deeds of commonplace people. May the tale of their every-day heroism be an inspiration to each one of us to do our best endeavor when we find ourselves in the crisis-times of life.

Contents

Illustrations

CHAPTER I

THE BARE BRIGADE

Kipling wrote one of his best stories on how Mulvaney and his captain with an undressed company swam the Irriwaddy River in India and captured Lungtungpen. It was a brave deed. The average man can't be brave without his clothes.

In the Civil War there was one unchronicled fight where a few naked, shoeless men swam a roaring river, marched through a thorny forest and captured a superior and entrenched force of the enemy together with their guns. This American Lungtungpen happened on the great march of General Sherman to the sea. He had fought the deadly and lost battle of Kenesaw Mountain, and failing to drive out the crafty Confederate General Johnson by direct assault outflanked him and forced him to fall back. Then the Union Army celebrated the Fourth of July, 1864, by the battle of Ruffs Station and drove Johnson back and across the Chattahoochee River. The heavy rains had so swollen this river that all the fords were impassable, while the Confederates had destroyed all boats for miles up and down the river to prevent them from being used by the Union Army and had settled down for a rest from their relentless pursuers. General McCook was commanding the part of the Union line fronting directly on the river. Orders came from General Sherman to cross at Cochran's Ford and Colonel Brownlow of the First Tennessee Regiment was ordered to carry out this command. He was the son of Fighting Parson Brownlow and had the reputation of not knowing what fear was. The attempt was made at three o'clock in the morning. It was raining in torrents and the men at the word of command dashed into the river. The water kept getting deeper and deeper and the bottom proved to be covered with great boulders over which the horses stumbled and round which the cross torrents foamed and rushed. When the men had finally reached the middle of the river and were swimming for dear life, suddenly a company of Confederates on the other side opened up on them at close range. As the bullets zipped and pattered through the water, the floundering, swimming men turned around and made the best of their way back, feeling that this was an impossible crossing to make. Once safely back they deployed on the bank and kept up a scattering fire all that morning against the enemy.

As the day wore on, Colonel Dorr, who commanded the brigade, made his appearance and inquired angrily why the First Tennessee was not on the other side and in possession of the opposite bank. Colonel Brownlow explained that he had made the attempt, that there was no ford and that to attempt to make a swimming charge through the rough water and in the face of an entrenched enemy would be to sacrifice his whole regiment uselessly. Colonel Dorr would listen to no explanations.

"If you and your men are afraid to do what you're told, say so and I'll report to General Sherman and see if he can't find some one else," he shouted and rode off, leaving Colonel Brownlow and his command in a fighting frame of mind. The former called nine of his best men to the rear and it was some time before he was calm enough to speak.

"Boys," he said at last, "we've got to cross that river. It's plain it can't be forded. We've no pontoons and I am not going to have my men slaughtered while they swim, but you fellows come with me and we'll drive those Rebs out of there before dark."

He then gave directions for the rest of his men to keep up a tremendous fire to divert the attention of the enemy. In the meanwhile he and his little squad marched through the brush to a point about a mile up the river behind a bend. There they stripped to the skin and made a little raft of two logs. On this they placed their carbines, cartridge boxes and belts and swam out into the rough water, pushing the little raft in front of them. It was hard going. The water was high, and every once in a while the fierce current would dash and bruise some of the men against the boulders which were scattered everywhere along the bed of the river. The best swimmers, however, helped the weaker ones and they all worked together to keep the precious raft right side up and their ammunition and rifles dry. After a tremendous struggle they finally reached the opposite bank without having seen any Confederates. There they lined up, strapped on their cartridge belts, shouldered their carbines and started to march through the brush. Every step they took over the sharp stones and twigs and thorns was agony and the men relieved themselves by using extremely strong language.

"No swearing, men!" said Colonel Brownlow, sternly.

At that moment he stepped on a long thorn and instantly disobeyed his own order. He halted the column, extracted the thorn and amended his order.

"No swearing, men,—unless it's absolutely necessary," he commanded.

They limped along through the brush until they reached a road that led to the ford some four hundred yards in the rear of the enemy whom they could see firing away for dear life at the Union soldiers on the other side. The Confederate forces consisted of about fifty men. Colonel Brownlow and his nine crept through the brush as silently as possible until they were within a few yards of the unconscious enemy. Then they straightened up, cocked their carbines, poured in a volley and with a tremendous yell charged down upon them. The Confederates upon receiving this unexpected attack from the rear sprang to their feet, but when they saw the ten white ghostly figures charge down upon them, yelling like madmen, it was too much for their nerves and they scattered on every side. Twelve of them were captured. The last one was a freckle-faced rebel who tried to hide behind a tree. When seen, however, he came forward and threw down his gun.

"Well, Yanks, I surrender," he said, "but it ain't fair. You ought to be ashamed to go charging around the country this way. If you'd been captured, we'd have hung you for spies because you ain't got any uniforms on."

Colonel Brownlow hustled his prisoners up the river to the raft and made them swim across in front of them and then reported to General McCook that he had driven the enemy out of the rifle-pits, captured twelve men, one officer and two boats. Shortly afterward the Confederates withdrew from their position for, as some of the prisoners explained, they felt that if the Yanks could fight like that undressed, there was no telling what they'd do if they came over with their clothes on.

CHAPTER II

THE ESCAPE FROM LIBBY PRISON

It takes a brave man to face danger alone. It takes a braver man to face danger in the dark. This is the story of a man who was brave enough to do both. It is the story of one who by his dogged courage broke out of a foul grave when it seemed as if all hopes for life were gone and who rescued himself and one hundred and eight other Union soldiers from the prison where they lay fretting away their lives.

Libby Prison, the Castle Despair of captured Union officers, stood upon a hilltop in Richmond, the capital and center of the Confederacy. It was divided into three sections by solid walls, also ringed around by a circle of guards and there seemed to be no hopes for any of the hundreds of prisoners to break out and escape.

In September, 1863, Colonel Thomas Rose, of the 77th Pennsylvania Volunteers, was taken prisoner at the terrible battle of Chickamauga. From the minute he was captured he thought of nothing else but of escape, although he had a broken foot which would have been enough to keep most men quiet. On the way to Richmond, he managed to crawl through the guards and escape into the pine-forests through which they were passing. There he wandered for twenty-four hours without food or water and suffering terribly from his wound. At the end of that time he was recaptured by a troop of Confederate cavalry and this time was carefully guarded and brought to Libby Prison. This prison was a three-story brick building which had formerly been occupied by Libby & Company as a ship-chandlery establishment. There were several hundred Union officers imprisoned there when Colonel Rose arrived. First he was taken into the office of the commandant. Back of his desk was a United States flag fastened "Union down," an insult for every loyal Union man that had to pass through this office.

"We'll teach you to take better care of the old flag," remarked Colonel Rose as he stood before the commandant's desk for examination.

The commandant scowled at this prisoner, but Rose looked him in the eye without flinching.

"You won't have a chance to do much teaching for some years," said the commandant at last, grimly, "and you'll learn a lot of things that you don't know now."

As Colonel Rose went up the ladder which led to the upper rooms and his head showed above the floor, a great cry went up from the rest of the prisoners of "Fresh fish! fresh fish! fresh fish!" This was the way that each newcomer was received and sometimes he was hazed a little like any other freshman.

Although not as bad as some of the prisons, Libby Prison was no health resort. At times there were nearly a thousand prisoners crowded in there with hardly standing room. At night they all lined up in rows and laid down at the word of command, so closely packed that the floor was literally covered with them. Each one had to go to bed and get up at the same time. These crowded conditions made for disease and dirt, and the place was alive with vermin.

"Skirmish for gray-backs," was the morning call in Libby Prison before the men got up. Each prisoner then would sit up in his place, strip off his outer garments and cleanse himself as much as possible from the crawling gray-backs, as they had nicknamed the vermin which attacked all alike. The food was as bad as the quarters. Soon after Rose arrived one man found a whole rat baked in a loaf of corn-cake which had been furnished as a part of his rations. The rat had probably jumped into the dough-trough while the corn-cake was being made and had been knocked in the head by the cook and worked into the cake. Another officer made himself one night a bowl of soup by boiling a lot of beans together with a fresh ham-bone. He set it aside to wait until morning so as to enjoy his treat by daylight. Afterward he was glad he did, for he found his soup full of boiled maggots. At times the men were compelled to eat mule-meat and sometimes were not even given that but had to sell their clothing to keep from starving. In each room was a single water faucet without basin or tub. This was all that perhaps a couple of hundred men had to use both for washing and drinking purposes. The death-rate from disease in these crowded quarters was, of course, terribly high.

Libby Prison

From the day Rose entered the prison he made up his mind that he would not die there like a sick dog if there was any way of escape and there was not a moment of his waking hours in which he was not planning some way to get out. Although the prisoners were not supposed to have communication with each other or from outside, there was a complete system under which each one had news from all over the prison as well as from the outside world. This was done by a series of raps constituting the prison telegraph. As the guards usually visited the prison only at intervals in the daytime, the prisoners managed to pass back and forth down through the chimney throughout the whole prison in spite of locked doors and supposedly solid walls. Messages and money were frequently sent in from outside. A favorite trick was to wind greenbacks around a spool and then have the thread wound by machinery over this money. Gold pieces were sealed up in cans of condensed milk. Maps, compasses and other helps for escaping prisoners were sent in a box. In order to prevent suspicion of the fact that the box had a double bottom, two double bottoms were placed on the box side by side with a space between them. When the contents were turned out, the prison inspectors could see the light shining through the bottom of the box and were thus convinced that there could be no double bottom there. Letters were sent in containing apparently harmless home-news. Between the lines, information as to routes and guards was written in lemon juice. This was invisible until exposed to heat, when the writing would show.

Colonel Rose was placed in the topmost room of the eastern wing. This was named Upper Gettysburg. From there he saw workmen entering a sewer in the middle of a street which led to the canal lying at the foot of the hill on which the prison stood. He at once decided to tunnel into this sewer and crawl through that into the canal which was beyond the line of the guards. With this plan in view, he began to explore the prison. One dark afternoon he managed to make his way down through the rooms to one of the dungeons underneath, which was known as Rat Hell. This had been used as a dead-house and was fairly swarming with rats. As he was fumbling around there he suddenly heard a noise and in a minute another man came in. Each thought the other was a guard, but finally it turned out that the intruder was a fellow-prisoner, a Kentucky major named Hamilton. This Major and Rose at once became fast friends and immediately planned a tunnel from a corner of Rat Hell after securing a broken shovel and two kitchen knives. They had no more than begun this, however, before alterations were made in the prison which cut them off from this dungeon. By this time the other prisoners had noticed the midnight visits of Rose and Hamilton as well as their constant conferences together and it was buzzed around everywhere that there was a plot on hand to break out of Libby. For fear of spies or traitors, Rose decided to organize a company of the most reliable men and plan a dash out through one of the walls and the overpowering of the guards. Seventy-two men were sworn in and everything was arranged for the dash for freedom one cloudy night. The little band had all gathered in Rat Hell and sentries had been placed at the floor opening into the kitchen above. Suddenly footsteps were heard and the signal was given that the guards were making a tour of inspection of the prison. In perfect silence and with the utmost swiftness, each man went up the rope-ladder to the floor above and stole into his bed. Rose was the last man up. He managed to reach the kitchen and hide his rope-ladder about ten seconds before the officer of the guard thrust his lantern into the door of the lowest sleeping chamber. Rose had no time to lie down, but with great presence of mind sat at a table and stuck an old pipe into his mouth and nodded his head as if he had gone to sleep while sitting up and smoking. The guard stared at him for a moment and passed on.

The next day the leaders decided that some news of the attempt must have reached the authorities outside to account for this sudden and unusual visit. It was decided to raise the numbers and make an immediate attempt. The band was increased from seventy-two to four hundred and twenty. With the increase in numbers, however, there seemed to be a decrease of courage. Many of the officers feared that it was a hopeless plan for a crowd of unarmed men to break through a ring of armed guards and that such an attempt would merely arouse the town and they would be hemmed in, driven back and shot down in crowds inside the prison walls. Finally a vote was taken and it was decided to abandon this plan.

Once more Rose and Hamilton found themselves the only two left who were absolutely resolved on an escape. After talking the matter over, they decided to begin another tunnel. This time they had only an old jack-knife and a chisel to work with and they could only work between ten at night and four in the morning. They started back of the kitchen fireplace and there removed twelve bricks and dug a tunnel down to Rat Hell so that they could reach this base without disturbing any other prisoners and without being exposed to detection by the guard. One would work and the other would watch. At dawn each day the bricks were replaced and the cracks filled in with soot. They had no idea of direction and this tunnel was nearly the death of Rose. The digging was done by him while Major Hamilton would fan air to him with his hat, but so foul was the air below ground that bits of candle which they had stolen from the hospital would go out at a distance of only four feet from the cellar wall. In spite of this terrible atmosphere, Rose dug his tunnel clear down to the canal, but unfortunately went under the canal and the water rushed in and he had a narrow escape from being drowned. By this time both men were so nearly exhausted that they decided to take in helpers again. Thirteen men were chosen to work with them and were all sworn to secrecy. The flooded passage was plugged and a fresh one started in the direction of a small sewer which ran from a corner of the prison down to the main sewer beyond. Night after night in the mud and stench and reek underground they dug their tunnel. At last they reached the small sewer only to find that it was lined with wood. The only cutting tools they had were a few small pen-knives. With these they slowly whittled a hole through the wooden lining and the fourteen men were all in high hopes of an escape. The night came when only a few hours of work would be necessary to make a hole large enough to enter the small sewer. It was then hoped they could all crawl from this into the larger one and down into the canal safe past the guards. Once again they were all grouped shivering at the entrance to the tunnel, waiting for the man who was working inside to pass the word back that the opening was made. Suddenly the news came back that the entrance into the large sewer was barred by planks of solid, seasoned oak six inches thick. The chisel and the penknives were worn down to the handles. For thirty-nine nights these men had worked at the highest possible pitch under indescribable conditions. There was not an inch of steel left to cut with or an ounce of reserved strength to go on farther. Despairingly, the party broke up, put away the kits which they had prepared for the march and once again Rose and Hamilton were left alone by their discouraged comrades.

After a day's rest, these two decided to start another tunnel in the north corner of the cellar away from the canal. This tunnel would come out close to the sentry beat of the guards, but Rose had noticed that this beat was nearly twenty yards long and it was decided that in the dark there would be a fair chance of slipping through unseen. Once again Rose and Hamilton started on this new task alone. They had finally obtained another chisel and this was the only tool which they had. Once more Rose did the digging. Hamilton would fan with all his strength and Rose would work until he felt his senses going, then he would crawl back into the cellar and rest and get his breath. The earth was dragged out in an old wooden cuspidor which they had smuggled down from their room and Hamilton would hide this under a pile of straw in the cellar. The tunnel became longer and longer, but Rose was nearly at the end of his strength. It was absolutely impossible to breathe the fetid air in the farther end of the tunnel, nor could Hamilton alone fan any fresh air to him. Once again, and with great difficulty, a new party of ten was organized. These worked in shifts—one man dug and two or three fanned the air through the tunnel with their hats, another man dragged the earth into the cellar and a fifth kept watch. The first five would work until exhausted and then their places would be taken by the second shift. They finally decided to work also by day and now the digging went on without interruption every minute of the twenty-four hours. Finally, the little band of exhausted workers had gone nearly fifty feet underground. They were on the point of breaking down from absolute exhaustion. The night-shift would come out into Rat Hell and be too tired and dazed to find their way out and would have to be looked after in the dark and led back to the rooms above like little children.

Rose, in spite of all that he had been through, was the strongest of the lot and could work after every other man had fallen out. It was still necessary for the tunnel to be carried five feet further to clear the wall. Once again a sickening series of accidents and surprises occurred. The day-shift always ran the risk of being missed at roll-call, which was held every morning and afternoon. Usually this was got around by repeating—one man running from the end of the line behind the backs of his comrades and answering the name of the missing man. On one occasion, however, there were two missing and a search was at once begun which might have resulted in finding the entrance to the tunnel. There was just time to pull these two up out of the dark and brush off the telltale dirt from their hands and clothes and tell them to lie down and play sick. Neither one of them needed to do much pretending and they both showed such signs of breakdown that the prison inspector came near sending them to the hospital, which would also have delayed operations. The next day, while one man was inside the tunnel, a party of guards entered Rat Hell and remained there so long that it was evident they must have suspected that something was going on. Colonel Rose called his band together for a conference. He believed that two days of solid work would finish the tunnel. The rest of the men, however, pleaded for time. They were half sick, wholly exhausted and discouraged. Rose decided that he would risk no further delay and that the last two days' work should be entrusted to no one except himself. The next day was Sunday and the cellar was usually not inspected on that day. He posted his fanners and sentries and at early dawn crawled into the tunnel and worked all day long and far into the night lying full length in a stifling hole hardly two feet in diameter. When he dragged himself out that night, he could not stand but had to be carried across the cellar and up the rope ladder and fanned and sponged with cold water and fed what soup they could obtain until he was able to talk. He then told the band that he believed that twelve hours more of work would carry the tunnel beyond the danger line. He slept for a few hours and then, in spite of the protests of the others, crawled down into the reeking hole again, followed by the strongest of the band who were to act as fanners.

For seventeen days they had been working and the tunnel was now fifty-three feet long. In order to save time, Rose had made the last few feet so narrow that it was impossible for him to even turn over or shift his position. All day long he worked. Night came and he still toiled on, although his strokes were so feeble that he only advanced by inches each hour. Finally it was nearly midnight of the last day and Rose had reached the limit of his strength. The fanners were so exhausted that they could no longer push the air to the end of the tunnel. Rose felt himself dying of suffocation. He was too weak to crawl backward, nor had he strength to take another stroke. The air became fouler and thicker and he felt his senses leaving him and he gasped again and again in a struggle for one breath of pure air. In what he felt was his death agony, he finally forced himself over on his back and struck the earth above him with his fists as he unconsciously clutched at his throat in the throes of suffocation. Thrusting out his arms in one last convulsive struggle, he suddenly felt both fists go through the earth and a draught of pure, life-giving air came in. For a moment Rose had the terrible feeling that it was too late and that he was too sick to rally. Once again, however, his indomitable courage drove back death. For some minutes he lay slowly breathing the air of out-of-doors. It was like the elixir of life to him after long months of breathing the foul atmosphere of the prison and tunnel. Little by little his strength came back and he slowly enlarged the hole and finally thrust his head and shoulders cautiously out into the yard. The first thing that caught his eye was a star and he felt as if he had broken out of the grave and come back again to hope and life. He found that he was still on the prison side of the wall, but directly in front of him was a gate which was fastened only by a swinging bar. Rose spent some moments practicing raising this bar until he felt sure he could do it quietly and swiftly. Just outside was the sentry beat. Rose waited until the sentry's back was turned, opened the gate and peered out, convincing himself that there was plenty of time to pass out of the gate and into the darkness beyond before the sentry turned to come back. He then lowered himself again into the stifling tunnel, drew a plank which he found in the yard over the opening, after first carefully concealing the fresh earth, and crept back again into Rat Hell.

It was three o'clock in the morning when Rose gathered together his little band and told them that at last Libby Prison was open. Rose and Hamilton, the leaders, were anxious to start at once. They had seen so many accidents and so many strokes of misfortune that they urged an instant escape. The others, however, begged them to wait and to leave early the next evening so that they could gain a whole night's start before their absence was found at the morning roll-call. With many misgivings, Rose at last consented to do this. The next day was the most nerve-racking day of his life. Every noise or whisper of the guard seemed to him to be a sign that the tunnel had been discovered. The time finally dragged along and nothing happened and once again the party met in Rat Hell at seven o'clock in the evening of February 9th and Rose and the faithful Hamilton led the way through the tunnel to freedom. Every move was carefully planned. The plank was raised noiselessly and Rose had taken the precaution to leave the gate half-open so that the sentry on duty that night would see nothing unusual. He found it just as he had left it. All that was necessary now to do was for each man to wait until the sentry had passed a few yards beyond the gate and then to start noiselessly through and out to freedom. All thirteen escaped easily. The last man left a message that the prison was open to any one who dared try the tunnel. By nine o'clock that night the message flashed through each ward that the colonel and a party had escaped. There was a rush for the hole at the fireplace and one hundred and nine other prisoners slipped through and got safely past the guard. After days and weeks of hiding, starving and freezing, the original party and many of the others got safely through to the Union lines.

Castle Despair had again been broken by Mr. Great Heart.

CHAPTER III

TWO AGAINST A CITY

It takes brave men to fight battles. It takes braver men to face death without fighting.

In the spring of 1862 New Orleans, the Queen City of the South, was blockaded by the Union fleet. No one could come in or go out. The grass grew in her empty streets. The wharves were deserted and cobwebs lay on the shut and barred warehouses. The river itself, which had been thronged with the masts and funnels of a thousand crowded craft, flowed yellow and empty as the Amazon.

As business stopped and wages grew scarce and scarcer, the fierce, dangerous part of the population which comes to the surface in times of siege began to gain more and more control of the city. For years there had been a secret society of criminals in New Orleans which had often controlled her city government. It was known as the "Thugs." Heretofore they had always worked in secret and underground. Now criminals who formerly would only come out at night and secretly, were seen on the streets in open day. As the Union lines closed around the city by sea and land, the crowds of men and women without money and without work became as fierce and bitter and dangerous as rats in a trap. For a while they told each other that the city could never be taken. Nothing afloat, they said again and again, can pass by the great chain and the sunken ships that block the river. If they could they would sink under the withering fire of Fort Jackson, a great star-shaped fort of stone and mortar, or Fort St. Phillip with its fifty-two guns which could be brought to bear on any vessel going up or down the river. Beyond the forts was a fleet of rams and gunboats and in a shipyard over at Jefferson, one of the suburbs of New Orleans, was building the great iron-clad Mississippi, which alone they felt would be equal to the whole blockading fleet. So thought and said the swarming unemployed thousands of New Orleans. Finally came a dreadful day when the tops of the naked masts of the hated Yankee fleet showed against the evening sky across one of the bends of the river. Then came the roar of distant guns for a day and a night as the Union vessels attacked the forts and concealed batteries. Still the people believed in their defenses although the firing came nearer and nearer. Not until they saw the city troops carry the cotton out of the cotton-presses down to the wharves to be burned in miles of twisting flame to save it from the Union Army did they realize how close was the day of the surrender of the city. Then all the empty ships which had been moored out in the river were fired and the warehouses of provisions still left were broken open. Mobs of desperate men and women surged back and forth fighting for the sugar and rice and molasses with which the wharves were covered. Suddenly around Slaughter House Point, silent, grim and terrible, came the black fleet which had safely run the gauntlet of forts, gunboats, batteries and torpedoes. For the first time since the war had begun, the Stars and Stripes floated again in sight of New Orleans. As the fleet came nearer and nearer, the crowds which blackened the wharves and levees of New Orleans shouted for the Mississippi.

"Where is the Mississippi? Ram the Yanks! Mississippi! Mississippi! Mississippi!" thousands of voices roared across the water and through the forsaken streets of the doomed city. And then, as if called by the shout of her city, around a bend suddenly floated the great iron-clad Mississippi which was to save New Orleans,—a helpless, drifting mass of flames. There was a moment of utter silence and then a scream of rage and despair went up that drowned the crackling of the flames.

"Betrayed! Betrayed! We have been betrayed!" was the cry which went up everywhere. No stranger's life was worth a moment's purchase. One man whose only crime was that he was unknown to the mob was seized at one of the wharves and in an instant was swinging, twisting and choking, from the end of a rope at a lamp-post. Through the crowds flitted the Thugs and began a reign of terror against all whom they hated or feared. Men were hung and shot and stabbed to death that day at a word. The mob was as dangerous, desperate and as unreasoning as a mad dog. Through this roaring, frothing, cursing crowd it was necessary for Admiral Farragut to send messengers to the mayor at the City Hall to demand the surrender of the city. It seemed to the men in the ships like going into a den of trapped wild beasts, yet instantly Captain Theodorus Bailey, the second in command, demanded from the admiral the right to undertake this dangerous mission. With a little guard of twenty men he was landed on the levee in front of a howling mob which crowded the river-front as far as the eye could reach. They offered an impenetrable line through which no man could pass. Captain Bailey drew his marines up in line and tried to reason with the mob, but could not even be heard. He then ordered his men to level their muskets and take aim. In an instant the mob had pushed forward to the front crowds of women and children and dared the Yanks to shoot. Captain Bailey realized that nothing could be done by force without a useless slaughter of men and women and children. In order to save this he decided to try what could be done by two unarmed men. If this plan failed, it would be time enough to try what could be done by grape and canister. Taking a flag of truce and choosing as his companion a young midshipman named Read, whom he knew to be a man of singular coolness, Captain Bailey started up the street to the City Hall. It was a desperate chance. The mob had already tasted blood and it was almost certain that some one would shoot or stab these two representatives of the hated Yanks as soon as they were out of sight of the ships. The slightest sign of fear or hesitation would mean the death of both of them. Captain Bailey and Midshipman Read, however, were men who would take just such a chance. Slowly, unconcernedly, they walked along the streets through a roar of shouts, and curses, and cheers for Jeff Davis. As they reached the middle of the city, the crowd became more and more threatening. They were pushed and jostled while men, many of them members of the dreaded Thugs, thrust cocked revolvers into their faces and waved bowie-knives close to their throats. Others rushed up with coils of rope which had already done dreadful service. Captain Bailey never even glanced at the men around him, but looking straight ahead walked on as unconcernedly as if he were treading his own quarter-deck. Young Read acted as if he were bored with the whole proceeding. He examined carefully the brandished revolvers and knives and smiled pleasantly into the distorted, scowling, gnashing faces which were thrust up against his. Occasionally he would half pause to examine some building which seemed to impress him as particularly interesting and would then saunter unconcernedly along after his captain.

Captain Bailey and Midshipman Read Facing the New Orleans Mob

Right on through the gauntlet of death passed the two men with never a quiver of the eye or a motion of the face to show that they even knew the mob was there. Little by little, men who had retained something of their self-control began to persuade the more lawless part of the rabble to fall back. It was whispered around that Farragut, that old man of iron and fire, had said that he would level the city as flat as the river if a hand were even laid on his envoys. Finally through the surging streets appeared the City Hall and the end of that desperate march was in sight. At the very steps of the City Hall the mob took a last stand. Half-a-dozen howling young ruffians, with cocked revolvers in either hand, stood on the lower step and dared the Union messengers to go an inch farther. Midshipman Read stepped smilingly ahead of his captain and gently pushed with either hand two of the cursing young desperadoes far enough to one side to allow for a passageway between them. Both of them actually placed the muzzles of their cocked revolvers against his neck as a last threat, but even the touch of cold steel did not drive away Read's amused smile. The mob gave up. Evidently these men had resources about which they knew nothing.

"They were so sure that we wouldn't kill them that we couldn't," said one of the Thugs afterward in explaining why the hated messengers had been allowed to march up the steps.

They sauntered into the mayor's room where they met a group of white-faced, trembling men who were the mayor and his council. Captain Bailey delivered the admiral's summons for the surrender of the city to the mayor. The mob, which at first had stayed back, at this point surged up to the windows and shouted curses and threats into the very mayor's room, threatening him and the council if they dared to surrender the city. Captain Bailey and his companion gave the trembling city officials a few minutes in which to make up their minds. Suddenly there was heard a roar outside louder than any which had come before. The mob had torn down the Union flag which had been hoisted over the custom house and rushing to the mayor's office, tore it to pieces outside the open windows and threw the fragments in at the seated envoys. This insult to their flag aroused Captain Bailey and young Read as no threats against them personally had been able to do. Turning to the mayor and the shrinking council, Bailey said, "As there is a God in heaven, the man who tore down that Union flag shall hang for it." Later on this promise was carried out by the inflexible General Butler when he took over the city from Admiral Farragut and hanged Mumford, the man who tore down the flag in the city square, before the very mob which had so violently applauded his action. This incident was the last straw for the mayor and his associates. They neither dared to refuse to surrender the city lest it should be bombarded by Farragut nor did they dare to surrender it for fear of the mob which had gathered around them with significant coils of rope over their arms. In a half-whisper they hurriedly notified Captain Bailey that they could not surrender the city, but that they would make no resistance if the Union forces occupied it. Looking at them contemptuously, Captain Bailey turned away, picked up the fragments of the torn flag and faced the mob outside threateningly. The man who had torn the flag slunk back and his example was contagious. One by one men commenced to sneak away and in a minute the City Hall was deserted and Captain Bailey and Midshipman Read were able to leave the building and drive back to the vessels in a carriage obtained for them by the mayor's secretary.

So ended what one of the mob, who afterward became a valued citizen of his state, described as the bravest deed he had ever seen—two unarmed men facing and defeating a mob of murderers and madmen.

CHAPTER IV

BOY HEROES

One doesn't have to be big, or old, or strong to be brave. But one does have to believe in something so much and so hard that nothing else counts, even death. An idea that is so big that everything else seems small is called an ideal. It is easy for a boy with an ideal to be brave. Cassabianca, the boy who stayed on the burning ship because he had been ordered to wait there by his dead father, had made obedience his ideal. The boy of Holland who found a leak in the dyke which could only be stopped by his hand, and who stayed through the long night and saved his village but lost his right hand had learned this great ideal of self-sacrifice. The shepherd boy who saved his sheep from a lion and a bear and who afterward was the only one who dared enter the fatal valley and meet the fierce giant-warrior had as his ideal faith. He believed so strongly that he was doing God's will that he shared God's strength.

In the great war between slavery and freedom which swept like fire over the country, boys learned the ideals for which their fathers fought. They learned to believe so entirely in freedom that there was no room left for fear. Many of them went to the war as drummer boys, the only way in which boys could enlist. One of these was Johnny McLaughlin of the Tenth Indiana. Johnny lived at a place called Lafayette and was not quite eleven years old. From the minute that the war broke out he thought of nothing but what he could do for his country and for freedom. Other boys played at drilling and marching, but this was not enough for him. He made inquiries and found that if he could learn to drum, there was a chance that he might be allowed to enlist. He said nothing at first to his father and mother about his plans, but saved all his spending-money and worked every holiday in order to get enough to buy a drum. Times were hard, however. There was little money for men, much less for boys, and after Johnny had worked for over two months, he had saved exactly two dollars. In the village was a drummer who had been sent home to recover from his wounds and to him Johnny went one day to ask how much more he would have to save before he could buy a drum. The man told him that a good drum would cost him at least ten dollars. Johnny sighed and turned away very much discouraged.

"Why don't you play something else?" said the man. "You can get more fun out of ten dollars than buying a drum with it."

"I don't want it to play with," said Johnny. "I want to learn to drum so that I can enlist."

At first the man laughed at the boy—he seemed so little, but when he found that Johnny had made up his mind to do his share for his country in the great fight, Donaldson, as he was named, became serious.

"I tell you what I'll do," he said at last. "If you are really in earnest about learning to drum, I'll give you lessons myself, for," said he modestly, "I was the best drummer in my regiment. If you can learn and they will take you, I'll give you the old drum. I'll send it to the front even if I can't go myself."

This was enough for Johnny. Morning, noon and night he was with his friend Donaldson and it was a wonder that the drum-head was not worn out long before he learned. Learn he did, however, and in a few months there was not a roll or a call which he could not play. One morning as the school-bell was ringing, Johnny presented himself to his parents with the big drum around his neck looking nearly as large as he was.

"I'm going to enlist," he said simply.

At first his father and mother, like Donaldson, were inclined to laugh at him, he was such a little boy, but Johnny was in earnest and a boy who is in earnest always gets what he wants. A few days later found him a drummer for the Tenth Indiana and as he led the regiment, beating the long roll, Johnny was the proudest boy that had ever come out of Indiana. He had his first taste of fire at Fort Donelson and afterward at the bloody battle of Shiloh. Johnny drummed until the terrible drumming of the muskets drowned out even his loud notes. Then he laid down his sticks, carefully hid his drum, took a musket and cartridge box from off one of the dead soldiers and ran on with his regiment and fought in the front with the bravest of them all. He had a quick eye and it was not long before he could shoot as accurately as any man there.

It was just after Shiloh that Johnny had a narrow escape from being captured. Wanting to try everything, he obtained permission to do picket duty at night although this work was not required of drummer boys. As he had shown himself such a cool and ready fighter, his colonel felt that he was entirely able to do this duty and one dark night put him on picket. His post was some distance away from the camp. Just at dawn he was suddenly rushed by a party of rebel cavalry. As they burst out of the bushes Johnny fired his carbine at the first one, dropping him, and ran across an open field about fifty yards wide. At the other side was an old, rotten, log fence and beyond that a mass of briers and underbrush where he was sure the horses could not follow. Fortunately for him the rains had made the field a mass of mud. There his lightness gave him the advantage, for the horses slumped through at every step. The rebels fired constantly at him as they rode with their pistols. One ball went through his hat, another clear through his cartridge box and lodged in his coat, fortunately without exploding any of the cartridges. Beyond the middle of the field the ground was drier and the horsemen commenced to gain on him, but he reached the fence well ahead and with one jump landed on the top. The rotten rails gave way underneath him and he plunged headlong over into the brush, right on the back of a big sleeping wild pig who had rooted out a lair at this place. The pig jumped up grunting and crashed through the underbrush and Johnny heard his pursuers smashing through the broken fence not a rod away. He curled up into the round hole which the pig had left, drew down the bushes over his head and lay perfectly quiet. The horsemen, hearing the rustling of leaves and the smashing of branches as the pig dashed off down a pathway, followed after at full gallop and were out of sight in a minute. As soon as the sound of their galloping had died away, Johnny crawled cautiously out of his hole and made the best of his way back to camp. The next day some of the rebel cavalry were taken prisoners and Johnny recognized one of them as the leader of the squad which had so nearly caught him. The prisoner recognized the boy at the same time and they both grinned cheerfully at each other.

"Did you catch that pig yesterday?" finally said Johnny.

"We did that," retorted the prisoner, "but it wasn't the one we were after."

Johnny had always been able to ride the most spirited horses on the farm and after Shiloh he asked to be transferred from the infantry to Colonel Jacob's Kentucky Cavalry. There he attracted the attention of the colonel so that the latter gave him one of the best horses in the regiment and a place in the Fighting First, as the best-mounted company was called, which the colonel always led personally in every charge. In this company Johnny was taught how to handle a sabre. The regular sabre was too heavy for him, but Colonel Jacob had one light, short one specially made which Johnny learned to handle like a flash. A German sergeant, who had been a great fencer on the Continent, taught him all that he knew and before long Johnny was an expert in tricks of fence which stood him in good stead later on. One in special he so perfected that it was never parried. Instead of striking down with the sabre as is generally done, Johnny learned a whirling, flashing upper-cut which came so rapidly that generally an opponent could not even see much less parry it. He was also armed with the regulation revolver and a light carbine instead of the heavy revolving rifle used by the rest of the troop. At Perryville he fought his first battle with his new regiment. In the charge he stuck close to Colonel Jacob and received a ball through his left leg above the knee. Fortunately it did not break any bone and Johnny tore a strip off his shirt, bandaged the hole and went on with the fight. While he was doing this, the greater part of the regiment passed on and when Johnny started to join his colonel, he could not find him. He rode like the wind over the field and soon behind a little patch of woods saw Colonel Jacobs with only six or seven men, the rest having been scattered in the fight. Johnny spurred his horse over to him and the colonel was delighted to be joined by his little body-guard. As they were riding along to rejoin the rest of the regiment, from out a clump of bushes a squad of fifty men led by a Confederate major dashed out calling on them to surrender. Colonel Jacob hesitated, for some of his men were wounded and the odds seemed too great for a fight. Before he had time to answer, Johnny slipped in front of him, drew out his revolver and fired directly into the Confederate officer's face, killing him instantly and then drawing his sabre dashed into the ranks of the enemy. The first man he met was a big fellow whose bare, brawny arm and blood-stained sabre proved him a master with his weapon. Johnny never gave him a chance to strike. At the whirl of his light sabre his opponent instinctively raised his weapon in the ordinary parry of a down-blow and the point of Johnny's sabre caught him under the chin and toppled him off his horse. The Union men gave a cheer, followed their little leader, breaking clear through the demoralized Confederates and joined their command at the other side of the field.

A few weeks later they had a skirmish with the troop of John Morgan, the most dreaded cavalry leader and fighter in all the South. Johnny, as usual, was in the front of the charge and had just cut at one man when another aimed a tremendous blow at his head in passing. There was just time for Johnny to raise the pommel of his sabre to save his head, but the deflected blow caught him on the leg and he fell from the horse with blood spurting out of his other leg this time. He lay perfectly quiet, but another rebel had seen him fall and spurring forward, caught him by the collar, saying:

"We'll keep this little Yankee in a cage to show the children."

Johnny did not approve of this cage-idea and although there was no room to use the sabre, managed to work his left hand back into his belt, draw his revolver and shoot his captor dead. In another minute his company came riding back and he was whirled up behind his colonel and rode back of him to safety. This last wound proved to be a serious one and he was sent back to Indiana on a furlough to give it time to heal. On the way back he was stopped by a provost guard and asked for his pass.

"My colonel forgot to give me any passes," said Johnny, "but here are two that the rebels gave me," showing his bandaged legs, and the guard agreed with him that this was pass enough for any one. As his wound refused to heal, against his wishes he was discharged and once more returned home. He then tried to enlist again, but each time he was turned down because of the unhealed wound. Finally, Johnny traveled clear to Washington and had a personal talk with President Lincoln and explained to him that his wound would never heal except in active service. His arguments had such force with the President that a special order was made for his enlistment and he fought through the whole war and afterward joined the regular army.

The littlest hero of the war was Eddie Lee. Shortly before the battle of Wilson's Creek, one of the Iowa regiments was ordered to join General Lyon in his march to the creek. The drummer of one of the companies was taken sick and had to go to the hospital. The day before the regiment was to march a negro came to the camp and told the captain that he knew of a drummer who would like to enlist. The captain told him to bring the boy in the next morning and if he could drum well he would give him a chance. The next day during the beating of the reveille, a woman in deep mourning came in leading by the hand a little chap about as big as a penny and apparently not more than five or six years old. She inquired for the captain and when the latter came out, told him that she had brought him a drummer boy.

"Drummer boy," said the captain; "why, madam, we don't take them as small as this. That boy hasn't been out of the cradle many months."

"He has been out long enough," spoke up the boy, "to play any tune you want."

His mother then told the captain that she was from East Tennessee where her husband had been killed by the rebels and all her property destroyed and she must find a place for the boy.

"Well, well," said the captain, impatiently, "Sergeant, bring the drum and order our fifer to come forward."

In a few moments the drum was produced and the fifer, a tall, good-natured fellow over six feet in height, made his appearance.

"Here's your new side-partner, Bill," said the captain.

Bill stooped down, and down and down until his hands rested on his ankles and peered into the boy's face carefully.

"Why, captain," said he, "he ain't much taller than the drum."

"Little man, can you really drum?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said the boy. "I used to drum for Captain Hill in Tennessee. I am nearly ten years old and I want the place."

The fifer straightened himself up slowly, placed his fife at his mouth and commenced to play "The Flowers of the Forest," one of the most difficult pieces to follow on the drum. The little chap accompanied him without a mistake and when he had finished began a perfect fusillade of rolls and calls and rallies which came so fast that they sounded like a volley of musketry. When the noise had finally died out, the captain turned to his mother and said:

"Madam, I'll take that boy. He isn't much bigger than a minute but he certainly can drum."

The woman kissed the boy and nearly broke down.

"You'll surely bring him back to me, captain," she said.

"Sure," said the captain; "we'll all be discharged in about six weeks."

An hour later Eddie was marching at the head of the Iowa First playing "The Girl I Left Behind Me" as it had never been played before. He and Bill, the fifer, became great chums and Eddie was the favorite of the whole regiment. Whenever anything especially nice was brought back by the foraging parties, Eddie always had his share and the captain said that he was in far more danger from watermelons than he was from bullets. On heavy marches the fifer would carry him on his back, drum and all, and this was always Eddie's position in fording the numerous streams.

At the Battle of Wilson's Creek the Iowa regiment and a part of an Illinois regiment were ordered to clear out a flanking party concealed in a ravine upon the left of the Union forces. The ravine was a deep, long one with high trees and heavy underbrush and dark even at noontime. The Union regiments marched down and there was a dreadful hand-to-hand fight in the brush in the semi-twilight. Men became separated from each other and as in the great battle between David and Absalom, the wood devoured more people that day than the sword devoured. The fight was going against the Union men when suddenly a Union battery wheeled into line on a near-by hill and poured a rain of grape and canister into the Confederates which drove them out in short order. Later on the word was passed through the Union Army that General Lyon had been killed and soon after came the order to fall back upon Springfield. The Iowa regiment and two companies of a Missouri regiment were ordered to camp on the battle-field and act as a rear guard to cover a retreat. When the men came together that night there was no drummer boy. In the hurry and rush of hand-to-hand fighting, Eddie had become separated from Bill and although the latter raged back and forth through the brush like an angry bull, never a trace of his little comrade could he find. That night the sentries stood guard over the abandoned field and along the edge of the dark ravine now filled with the dead of both sides. It was a wild, desolate country and as the men passed back and forth over the stricken field, they could hear the long, mournful, wailing howl of the wolves which were brought by the smell of blood from the wilderness to the battle-field from miles around. That night poor Bill was unable to sleep and moaned and tossed on his blanket and said for the thousandth time:

"If only I had kept closer to the little chap."

Suddenly he sprang to his feet and roused the sleeping men all around him.

"Don't you hear a drum?" said he.

They all listened sadly, but could hear nothing.

"Lie down, Bill," said one of them. "Eddie's gone. We all did the best we could."

"He's down there in the dark," cried poor Bill, "drumming for help, and I must go to him."

The others tried to hold him back for it was impossible to see a foot through the tangled ravine at night and moreover the orders were strict against any one leaving camp. Bill went to the sentry who guarded the captain's tent and finally persuaded the man to wake up the captain. The latter lay exhausted with fatigue and sorrow, but came out and listened as did all the rest for the drum, but nothing could be heard.

"You imagined it, my poor fellow," he said. "There's nothing you could do to-night anyway. Wait until morning."

Bill paced restlessly up and down all through that dark night and just as the dawn-light came in the sky, he heard again faint and far away a drum beating the morning call from out of the silence of the deep ravine. Again he went to the captain.

"Of course you can go," said the latter, kindly, "but you must be back as soon as possible for we march at daybreak. Look out for yourself as the place is full of bushwhackers and rebel scouts."

Bill started down the hill through the thick underbrush and wandered around for a time trying to locate the drum-beats which were thrown back by the trees so that it was difficult to determine from what point they came. As he crept along through the underbrush, they sounded louder and louder and finally in the darkest, deepest part of the ravine, he came out from behind a great pin-oak and saw his little comrade sitting on the ground leaning against the trunk of a fallen tree and beating his drum which was hung on a bush in front of him.

"Eddie, Eddie, dear old Eddie," shouted Bill, bursting through the thicket. At the sound the little chap dropped his drumsticks and exclaimed:

"Oh, Bill, I am so glad to see you. I knew you would come. Do get me a drink."

Bill started to take his canteen down to a little near-by brook when Eddie called him back.

"You'll come back, Bill, won't you," he said, "for I can't walk."

Bill looked down and saw that both of his feet had been shot away by a cannon-ball and that the little fellow was sitting in a pool of his own blood. Choking back his sobs, the big fifer crawled down to the brook and soon came back with his canteen full of cold water which Eddie emptied again and again.

"You don't think I am going to die, do you, Bill?" said the little boy at last. "I do so want to finish out my time and go back to mother. This man said I would not and that the surgeon would be able to cure me."

For the first time Bill noticed that just at Eddie's feet lay a dead Confederate. He had been shot through the stomach and had fallen near where Eddie lay. Realizing that he could not live and seeing the condition of the boy, he had crawled up to him and taking off his buckskin suspenders had bandaged with them the little fellow's legs so that he would not bleed to death and on tying the last knot had fallen back dead himself. Eddie had just finished telling Bill all about it in a whisper, for his strength was going fast, when there was a trampling of horses through the ravine and in a minute a Confederate scouting party broke through the brush, calling upon Bill to surrender.

"I'll do anything you want," said Bill, "if you will only take my little pal here safe back to camp and get him into the hands of a surgeon."

The Confederate captain stooped down and spoke gently to the boy and in a minute took him up and mounted him in front of him on his own horse and they rode carefully back to the Confederate camp, but when they reached the tents of the nearest Confederate company they found that little Eddie had served out his time and had given his life for his country.

On June 30, 1862, was fought the stubborn battle of Glendale, one of the Seven Days' Battles between McClellan, the general of the Union forces, and Lee, the Confederate commander. This battle was part of McClellan's campaign against Richmond, the capital of the Confederacy which he had within his grasp when he was out-generaled by Lee, who that month for the first time had been placed in supreme command of the Confederate Army. With him were his two great generals, Stonewall Jackson and Longstreet. McClellan was within sight of the promised land. The spires of Richmond showed against the sky. Instead of fighting he hesitated and procrastinated away every chance of victory. Lee was even then planning that wonderful strategy which was to halt a victorious army, turn it away from the beleaguered capital of the Confederacy and send it stumbling back North in a series of defeats. It was necessary for him to have a conference with Stonewall Jackson, his great fighting right-hand in military matters. Jackson rode almost alone fifty miles and attended a conference with Lee, Longstreet and Generals D. H. and A. P. Hill. To each of them General Lee assigned the part that he was to play. In the meantime, knowing that McClellan always read and pondered the Richmond papers, he arranged that simultaneously every paper should publish as news the pretended facts that strong reinforcements had been sent to the Shenandoah Valley. McClellan fell into the trap and instead of pressing forward to attack Richmond, which was now only guarded by a small force, he, as usual, waited for reinforcements and allowed his antagonists to march around him and start flanking battles which threatened to cut off his line of communications. The battle of Gaines Mill was fought in which battle General Fitz John Porter with thirty-one thousand men stubbornly faced Lee and Jackson's forces of fifty-five thousand and with sullen obstinacy only retreated when it was absolutely impossible longer to hold his ground. This defeat, which occurred simply because McClellan could not bring himself to send Porter the necessary reinforcements, made General McClellan resolve to withdraw, although even then, with a superior army, he could have fought his way to Richmond. From June 25th to July 1, 1862, occurred the Seven Days' Battles fought by the retreating Union Army. By one of the few mistakes which General Lee made in that campaign, the Union Army was allowed a respite of twenty-four hours to organize its retreat and were well on their way before pursuit was given. On June 29th there was a battle between the rear guard of the Union force and the Confederate's under General Magruder in which the Confederates were defeated. The next day came the battle of Glendale. Generals Longstreet and A. P. Hill commanded the Confederate Army while the rear guard of the retreating Union forces was made up of General McCall's division and that of General Heintzelman and a part of the corps under General Sumner which had done such gallant fighting the day before. It was a stern and stubborn battle. If the Confederates could cut through the rear guard, they would have the retreating army at their mercy. On the other hand, if they could be held back, the main army would have time to occupy a favorable position and entrench and could be saved. For a time it seemed as if the Confederate attack could not be checked. Every available man was called into action. Back at the rear were posted the hospital corps where the sick and wounded lay. With them were stationed the band and the drum-corps made up of drummer boys who were supposed to keep out of actual fighting as much as possible. Among them was a little Jewish boy named Benjamin Levy, who was only sixteen years old and small for his age. Benjamin stayed back with the hospital while the roar of the battle grew louder and louder. Finally there was a tremendous chorus of yells and groans and shouts mingled with the rattle of rifle-shots and the heavy thudding sounds which sabres and bayonets make as they slash and pierce living flesh. Little groups of wounded men came straggling back or were carried back to the hospital and each one told a fresh story of the fierce fight which was going on at the near-by front. Benjamin could stand it no longer. The last wounded man that came in hobbled along with a broken leg, using his rifle for a crutch. The boy helped him to a near-by cot and made him as comfortable as he could.

"Now you lie quiet," he said, "until the doctor comes and I'll just borrow this rifle of yours and do a little fighting in your place," and Benjamin picked up the gun and slipped on the other's cartridge belt.

"Hi there, you come back with my gun," yelled the wounded man after him. "That front's no place for kids like you."

Benjamin, however, was well on his way before the man had finished speaking and slipping past an indignant doctor who was trying to stop him, he ran forward, keeping as much as possible in the shelter of the trees among which the bullets and grape-shot were whining and humming. He passed many wounded limping to the rear and rows of prostrate men, some still, some writhing in the agony of their wounds. These were the men who had fallen on their way back to the hospital. A minute later Benjamin found himself in the thick of the fight. There had been a Confederate charge which the Union soldiers had just barely been able to drive back. The men were still panting and shouting and firing volleys at the gray forces who were reluctantly withdrawing to rally for another attack. The boy lay down with the rest and loaded and fired his borrowed rifle as rapidly as he could. No one seemed to notice him except the color-bearer who happened to be the man next to him. He had stopped firing to wipe his face and saw the little fellow close by his arm.

"Why don't you get back to the rear where you belong?" he said, pretending to talk very fiercely. "This is no place for little boys. When those gray-backs come back, you'll scamper quick enough, so you had better be on your way now."

"No I won't," said Benjamin positively. "I guess boys have got as much right to fight in this war as men have. Anyway, you won't see me do much running."

Benjamin was mistaken in that last statement, for a minute later the colonel of this particular regiment decided that instead of waiting for a Confederate attack, he would do a little charging on his own account. The signal came. The men sprang over the earthworks and Benjamin found himself running neck and neck with the color-bearer at the head of them all. It was a glorious charge. The ground ahead was smooth, the fierce flag of the regiment streamed just in front and all around were men panting and cheering as they ran. It was almost like a race on the old school-green at home. They came nearer and nearer to the masses of gray-clothed men who were hurriedly arranging themselves in regular ranks out of the hurry and confusion of their retreat. When they were only a short hundred yards distant, suddenly a wavering line of fire and smoke ran all up and down the straggling line in front of them. Men plunged headlong here and there and Benjamin noticed that he and the color-bearer seemed to have drawn away from the rest and were racing almost alone. Suddenly his friend with the colors stopped in full stride, swung the flag over his head once with a shout and dropped backward with a bullet through his heart. As he fell the colors slowly dropped down through the air and were about to settle on the blood-stained grass when the boy, hardly knowing what he did, shifted his rifle to his left hand, caught the staff of the flag and once more the colors of the regiment were leading the men on. Right up to the gray line he carried them, followed by the whole regiment. Firing, cutting and stabbing with their bayonets they broke straight through the Confederates and after a hand-to-hand fight, drove them out of their position. They carried the boy, still clinging to the colors, on their shoulders to their colonel and to the end of his life Benjamin remembered the moment when the colonel shook hands with him before the cheering regiment as the climax of the greatest day of his life.

CHAPTER V

THE CHARGE OF ZAGONYI

In battle the charge is the climax. In other kinds of fighting men have a certain amount of shelter and respite and at long range it makes little difference whether the fighter is strong or weak. In a charge, however, the fighting is hand to hand. As in the days of old, men fight at close grips with their enemy and each one must depend upon his own strength and skill and bravery.

There have been three charges in modern battles which have been celebrated over and over again. The first of these was the last desperate charge of the Old Guard at Waterloo. A thin red line of English held a hill which Napoleon, the greatest of modern generals, saw was the keystone of the battle. If that could be taken, the whole arch of the English and Belgium forces would crumble away into defeat. Again and again the French stormed at this hill and each time were driven back by the coolly-waiting deadly ranks of the English. Toward nightfall Napoleon made one last desperate effort. The Old Guard was to him what the great Tenth Legion had been to Julius Cæsar, the best and bravest veterans of his army who boasted that they had never yet been defeated. Calling them up with every last one of his reserves, he ordered a final desperate charge to break the battle center. To the grim drumming of what guns the little general had left, they rushed again up that blood-stained slope in desperate dark masses of unbeaten men. With a storm of cheers, the columns surged up in a vast blue battle-wave which seemed as if it must dash off by its weight the little group of silent, grim defenders. The Englishmen waited and waited and waited until the rushing ranks were almost on them. Then they poured in a volley at such close range that every bullet did the work of two and with a deep English cheer sprang on the broken ranks with their favorite weapon, the bayonet. That great battle-wave broke in a foam of shattered, dying and defeated men and the sunset of that day was the sunset of Napoleon's glory.

Fifty years later in the great war which England with her allies was waging to keep the vast, fierce hordes of Russia from ruling Europe, happened another glorious, useless charge. Owing to a misunderstanding of orders, a little squad of six hundred cavalrymen charged down a mile-long valley flanked on all sides by Russian artillery against a battery of guns whose fire faced them all the way. Every schoolboy who has ever spoken a piece on Friday afternoon knows what comes next. How the gallant Six Hundred, stormed at with shot and shell, made the charge to the wonder and admiration of three watching armies and how they forced their way into the jaws of death and into the mouth of hell and sabred the gunners and then rode back—all that was left of them.

In our own Civil War occurred the most famous charge of modern days, Pickett's charge at the battle of Gettysburg. For three days raged the first battle which the Confederates had been able to fight on Northern soil. If their great General Lee, with his seventy thousand veterans, won this battle, Washington, Philadelphia and even New York were at his mercy. On the afternoon of the third day he made one last desperate effort to break the center of the Union forces. Pickett's division of the Virginia infantry was the center of the attacking forces and the column numbered altogether over fifteen thousand men. For two hours Lee cannonaded the Union center with one hundred and fifteen guns. He was answered by the Union artillery although they could only muster eighty guns. Finally the Union fire was stopped in order that the guns might cool for Hunt, the Union chief of artillery, realized that the cannonade was started to mask some last great attack. Suddenly three lines, each over a mile long, of Virginia, North Carolina, Alabama, Georgia and Tennessee regiments started to cover the mile and a half which separated them from the Union center. The Union crest was held by the Pennsylvania regiments who were posted back of the stone wall on the very summit. As the gray lines rushed over the distance with a score of fierce battle flags flaming and fluttering over their ranks, the eighty guns which had cooled so that they could now be used with good effect opened up on them first with solid shot and then with the tremendous explosive shells. As they charged, the Virginia regiments moved away to the left leaving a gap between them and the men from Alabama on the right. The Union leaders took advantage of this gap and forced in there the Vermont brigade and a half brigade of New York men. By suddenly changing front these men were enabled to attack the charging thousands on their flank. The Union guns did terrible execution, opening up great gaps through the running, leaping, shouting men. As the charge came nearer and nearer the batteries changed to the more terrible grape and canister which cut the men down like grass before a reaper. Still they came on until they were face to face with the waiting Union soldiers who poured in a volley at short range. For a moment the battle flags of the foremost Confederate regiments stood on the crest. The effort had been too much. Over half of the men had been killed or wounded and many others had turned to meet the flank attack of the Vermont and New York regiments so that when the Pennsylvania troops met them at last with the bayonet, the gray line wavered, broke, and the North was saved.

All three of these great charges were brave, glorious failures. This is the story of a charge, an almost forgotten charge, just as brave, just as glorious, which succeeded, a charge in which one hundred and sixty men and boys broke and routed a force of over two thousand entrenched infantry and cavalry.

At the breaking out of the war, one of the most popular of the Union commanders was John C. Fremont, the Pathfinder. He had opened up the far West and had made known to the people the true greatness of the country beyond the Mississippi. At the birth of the Republican or Free-Soil Party, he was the first candidate. The country rang with a campaign song sung to the tune of the Marseillaise, the chorus of which was:

"March on, march on, ye braves,

And let your war cry be,

Free soil, free press, free votes, free men,

Fremont and victory."

He was one of the first generals appointed. Among those whom the fascination of his romantic and adventurous life had attracted to his side was a Hungarian refugee named Zagonyi. In his boyhood he had fought in the desperate but unsuccessful war which Hungary made to free herself from the Austrian yoke. He served in the Hungarian cavalry; and in a desperate charge upon the Austrians, in which half the force were killed, Zagonyi was wounded and captured and for two years was a prisoner. He was finally released on condition that he leave his country forever. As an experienced soldier, he was welcomed by General Fremont and was authorized to raise a company to be known as Fremont's Body-Guard. In a few days two full companies, composed mostly of very young men, had been enrolled. A little later another company composed entirely of Kentucky boys was included in the guards. They were all magnificently mounted on picked horses and very handsomely uniformed. Because of their outfit and name they soon excited the envy of the other parts of the army who used to call them the "kid-glove brigade." Although well-trained and enthusiastic, they had no active service until October, 1861, when Zagonyi, who had been appointed their major, was ordered to take one hundred and sixty of his men and explore the country around Springfield, Missouri, through which the main army was intending to advance. There were rumors that a Confederate force was approaching to take possession of the city of Springfield and the body-guard marched seventeen hours without stopping in order to occupy this town before the enemy should arrive. As they came within two miles of Springfield, however, they were met by a farmer who informed them that the Confederates had beaten them in the race to Springfield and were already in camp on a hill about half a mile west of the town. Their rear was protected by a grove of trees and there was a deep brook at the foot of the hill. The only way to approach them was through a blind lane which ran into fences and ploughed fields. This was covered by sharpshooters and infantry while four hundred Confederate horsemen were posted on the flank of the main body of infantry which guarded the top of the hill. Altogether the force numbered over two thousand men. It seemed an absolutely hopeless undertaking for a little body of tired boys to attack twenty times their own number. Zagonyi, however, had been used to fighting against odds in his battles with the Austrians. He hurriedly called his men together and announced to them that he did not intend to go back without a fight after riding so far.

"If any of you men," he said, "are too tired or too weak, or too afraid, go back now before it is too late. There is one thing about it," he added grimly, "if there are any of us left when we are through we won't hear much more about kid gloves."

Not a man stirred to go back. Zagonyi gathered them into open order and drawing his sabre gave the word to start up the fatal lane. At first there was no sight or sound of any enemy, but as the horses broke into a run, there was a volley from the woods and a number of men swayed in their saddles and sank to the ground. Down the steep, stony lane they rushed in a solid column in spite of volley after volley which poured into their ranks. Some leaped, others crashed through fences and across the ploughed fields and jumped the brook and finally gained the shelter of the foot of the hill. There was a constant whistle of bullets and scream of minie balls over their heads. They stopped for a minute to re-form, for nearly half the squad was down. Zagonyi detached thirty of his best horsemen and instructed them to charge up the hill at the Confederate cavalry which, four hundred strong, were posted along the edge of the wood, and to hold them engaged so that the rest of the force could make a front attack on the infantry. The rest of the troop watched the little band gallop up the hillside and they were fully half-way up before it dawned upon the Confederates that these thirty men were really intending to attack a force over ten times their number. As they swept up the last slope, the Confederate cavalry poured a volley from their revolvers instead of getting the jump on them by a down-hill charge.

Lieutenant Mathenyi, another Hungarian and an accomplished swordsman, led the attack and cut his way through the first line of the Confederate horsemen, closely followed by the score of men who had managed to get up the hill. With their sabres flashing over their heads, they disappeared in the gray cloud of Confederates which awaited them. At that moment Zagonyi gave the word for the main charge and his column opened out and rushed up the hill from all sides like a whirlwind. Even as they breasted the slope they saw the solid mass of Confederate cavalry open out and scatter in every direction while a blue wedge of men cut clear through and turned back to sabre the scattering Confederates. With a tremendous cheer, Zagonyi and the rest of the band rushed on to the massed infantry.

They had time for only one volley when the young horsemen were among them, cutting, thrusting, hacking and shooting with their revolvers. In a minute the main body followed the example of the cavalry and broke and scattered everywhere. Some of them, however, were real fighters; they retreated into the woods and kept up a murderous fire from behind trees. One young Union soldier dashed in after them to drive them out, but was caught under the shoulders by a grape-vine and swept off his horse and hung struggling in the air until rescued by his comrades. Down into the village swarmed the fugitives with the guards close at their heels. At a great barn just outside of the village a number of them rallied and drove back the Kentucky squad which had been pursuing them. This time Zagonyi himself dashed up, and shouting, "Come on, old Kentuck, I'm with you," rushed at the group which stood in the doorway. As he came on, a man sprang out from behind the door and leveled his rifle at Zagonyi's head. The latter spurred his horse until he reared, and swinging him around on his hind legs, cut his opponent clear through the neck and shoulders with such tremendous force that the blood spurted clear up to the top of the door.

Another hero of the fight was Sergeant Hunter, the drill-master of the squad. It had always been an open question with the men as to whether he or Major Zagonyi was the better swordsman. In this fight Hunter killed five men with his sabre, one after the other, showing off fatal tricks of fence against bayonet and sabre as coolly as if giving a lesson, while several men fell before his revolver. His last encounter was with a Southern lieutenant who had been flying by, but suddenly turned and fought desperately. The sergeant had lost three horses and was now mounted on his fourth, a riderless, unmanageable horse which he had caught, and was somewhat at a disadvantage. In spite of this he proceeded to give those of his squad who were near him a lecture on the fine points of the sabre.

"Always parry in secant," said he, suiting his action to the word, "because," he went on, slashing his opponent across the thigh, "a regular fencer like this Confed is liable to leave himself open. It is easy then to ride on two paces and catch him with a back-hand sweep," and at the words he dealt his opponent a last fatal blow across the side of the head which toppled him out of his saddle.

A young Southern officer magnificently mounted refused to follow the fugitives, but charged alone at the line of the guards. He passed clear through without being touched, killing one man as he went. Instantly he wheeled, charged back and again broke through, leaving another Union cavalryman dead. A third time he cut his way clear up to Zagonyi's side and suddenly dropping his sabre, placed a revolver against the major's breast and fired. Zagonyi, however, was like lightning in his movements. The instant he felt the pressure of the revolver he swerved so that the bullet passed through his tunic, and shortening his sabre he ran his opponent through the throat killing him before he had time to shoot again.

Holding his dripping sabre in his hand, the major shouted an order to his men to come together in the middle of the town. One of the first to come back was his bugler, whom Zagonyi had ordered to sound a signal in the fiercest part of the fight. The bugler had apparently paid no attention to him, but darted off with Lieutenant Mathenyi's squad and was seen pursuing the flying horsemen vigorously. When his men were gathered together, Major Zagonyi ordered him to step out and said:

"In the middle of the battle you disobeyed my order to sound the recall. It might have meant the loss of our whole company. You are not worthy to be a member of this guard and I dismiss you."

The bugler was a little Frenchman and he nearly exploded with indignation.

"No," he said, "me, you shall not dismiss," and he showed his bugle to his major with the mouthpiece carried away by a stray bullet. "The mouth was shoot off," he said. "I could not bugle wiz my bugle and so I bugle wiz my pistol and sabre."

The major recalled the order of dismissal.

So ended one of the most desperate charges of the Civil War. One hundred and forty-eight men had defeated twenty-two hundred, with the loss of fifty-three killed and more than thirty wounded.

CHAPTER VI

THE LOCOMOTIVE CHASE

Courage does not depend upon success. Sometimes it takes a braver man to lose than to win. A man may meet defeat and even death in doing his duty, but if he has not flinched or given up, he has not failed. A brave deed is never wasted whether men live or die.

In the spring of 1862, James J. Andrews and a little band of nineteen other men staked their lives and liberty for the freedom of Tennessee and although they lost, the story of their courage helped other men to be brave.

At the beginning of the Civil War, the eastern part of Tennessee was held by the Confederates although the mountaineers were for the most part Union men. The city of Chattanooga was the key to that part of the state and was held by the Confederates. A railroad line into that city ran through Georgia and was occupied by the Southern army. If that could be destroyed, Chattanooga could be cut off from reënforcements and captured by the small body of Union troops which could be risked for that purpose. This road was guarded by detachments of Confederate troops and extended for two hundred miles through Confederate territory and it seemed as if it could not be destroyed by any force less than an army. There was no army that could be spared.

One April evening a stranger came to the tent of General O. M. Mitchel, commander of the Union forces in middle Tennessee, and asked to see the general. The sentry refused to admit him unless he stated his name and errand.

"Tell the general," said the man quietly, "that James J. Andrews wants to speak to him on a matter of great importance."

The sentry stared at him for there were few in the army who had not heard of Andrews, the scout, but fewer still who had ever seen him. No man had passed through the enemy's lines so many times, knew the country better or had been sent more often on dangerous errands. In a minute he was ushered in to where General Mitchel sat writing in the inner tent. With his deep-set gray eyes and waving hair brushed back from his broad, smooth forehead, he looked more like a poet than a fighter. The general noticed, however, that his eyes never flickered and that although he spoke in a very low voice, there was something about him that at once commanded attention. Andrews wasted no time.

"General Mitchel," he said, "if you will let me have twenty-four men, I will capture a train, burn the bridges on the Georgia railroad and cut off Chattanooga."

"It can't be done," returned General Mitchel.

"Well, general," answered Andrews slowly, "don't you think it's worth trying? You know I generally make good on what I set out to do. In this matter if we lose, we lose only twenty-five men. If we win, we take Chattanooga and all Tennessee without a battle."

There was a long pause while the general studied the scout.

"You shall have the men," he said finally.

Andrews saluted and left the tent. That night twenty-four men from three regiments were told that they were to have the first chance to volunteer for secret and dangerous service. Not a man chosen refused to serve. The next evening they were told to meet at a great boulder at sunset about a mile below the camp and wait until joined by their captain. Each man was furnished with the camp countersign as well as a special watchword by which they could know each other. One by one the men gathered at dusk, recognized each other by the watchword and sat down in the brush back of the boulder to wait. Just at dark there was a rustling in the underbrush at the other side of the road and the scout stepped out, joined them and gave the countersign. Without a word, he moved to the thick bushes at one corner of the boulder and pushing them aside showed a tiny hidden path which wound through the brush. Into this he stepped and beckoned them to follow. The path twisted back and forth among the great stones and trees and through patches of underbrush and the men in single file followed Andrews. Finally nearly a mile from the road, he led them down into a dense thicket in a little ravine. There the brush had been cut out so as to make a kind of room in the thicket about ten feet square. When they were all inside, the scout motioned them to sit down and then circled around through the underbrush and doubled back on his track so as to make sure that they had not been followed by any spy. Then he returned and lighted a small lantern which hung to one of the saplings and for the first time his men had a good look at their captain. As usual, Andrews wasted no time.

"Boys," he said simply, "I have chosen you to come with me and capture a train from an army and then run it two hundred miles through the enemy's country. We will have to pass every train we meet and while we are doing this we must tear up a lot of track and burn down two bridges. There is every chance of being wrecked or shot and if we are captured, we will be hung for spies. It is a desperate chance and I picked you fellows out as the best men in the whole army to take such a chance. If any of you think it is too dangerous, now is the time to stand up and draw out."

There was a long pause. Each man tried to see what his companions were thinking of in the dim light.

"Well, captain," at last drawled a long, lank chap with a comical face, who had the reputation of being the worst daredevil in his regiment, "I would like to stand up for you've got me kind of scared, but my foot's asleep and I guess I'll have to go with you."

"That's the way I feel," said the man next to him, as every one laughed, and the same answer went all around the circle.

In a whisper the scout then outlined his plan. The men were to change their uniforms and put on the butternut-colored clothes of the South and to carry no arms except a revolver and bowie-knife. Then they were to cross the country on foot until they got to Chattanooga and were then to go back on their tracks by train and meet at a little town called Marietta in the middle of Georgia. No one would, of course, suspect men coming out of a Confederate city to be Union soldiers. If questioned they were to say that they were Kentuckians on their way to join the Southern army. At Marietta they were to take rooms at the Marietta Hotel and meet at the scout's room on the following Saturday morning at two o'clock.

Disguised as a quinine seller, Andrews reached Marietta ahead of the others. At the time appointed, he sat fully dressed in the silent hotel waiting for the arrival of his little company and wondering how many would appear. Just as the town clock struck the hour from the old-fashioned court house, there came a light tapping at the door and one by one nineteen of the twenty-four glided in and reported for duty. All had gone through various adventures and several had only escaped capture by quick thinking and cool action. One of the missing ones had been delayed by a wreck and did not reach Marietta in time, two others were forced to enlist in the Southern army, and two more reached Marietta but by some mistake did not join the others. The twenty who were left, however, were the kind of men whose courage flares highest when things seem most desperate and they were not at all discouraged by the loss of a fifth of their force, and they all agreed with Brown, the man whose foot had been asleep, when he drawled out in his comical way, "The fewer fellows the more fun for those who are left."

After reporting, they went back to their rooms and got what sleep they could. At daylight they were all at the ticket office in time for the north-bound mail train. In order to prevent any suspicion, each man bought a ticket for a different station along the line in the direction of Chattanooga. Eight miles out of Marietta was a little station called Big Shanty where the train was scheduled to stop twenty minutes for breakfast. It was a lonely place at the foot of Kenesaw Mountain and there were only the station, a freight-house, a restaurant and one or two dwelling houses. Andrews had planned to capture the train there, believing that there would be few, if any, bystanders at so small a place early in the morning. As the train came around the curve of the mountain, however, the scout and his men, who were scattered through the train, were horrified to see scores of tents showing white through the morning mist. A detachment of Confederate soldiers was in camp there and it was now necessary for the little squad of Union soldiers to capture the train not only from its crew and passengers, but under the very eyes of a regiment. There was no flinching. The minute the train stopped there was the usual wild scramble by the passengers for breakfast in which the engineer, fireman and conductor joined. In a minute the engine was left entirely unguarded. In those days engines were named like steamboats, and this one had been christened "General." Andrews and his men loitered behind. In his squad were two engineers and a fireman. These at once hurried forward and began to uncouple the engine with its tender and three baggage-cars. The rest of the party grouped around, playing the part of bystanders, but with their hands on their revolvers, for within a dozen feet of the engine stood a sentry with his loaded musket in his hand watching the whole thing, while other sentries and a large group of soldiers were only a few yards farther off. The men worked desperately at the coupling and finally succeeded in freeing the cars. Then the engineers and fireman sprang into the cab of the engine while Andrews stood with his hand on the rail and foot on the step, and the rest of the band tumbled into the baggage-cars. This was the most critical moment of all, for although the watching soldiers might think it natural to change the crew, yet their suspicions would certainly be aroused at the sight of fifteen men climbing into baggage-cars. The nearest sentry cocked his musket and stepped forward to investigate. At this moment Brown climbed into the engine along with one of the engineers, coolly smoking a cigar. Poking his head out of the window he called back as if to one of the crew, "Tell those fellows not to eat up all the breakfast. We'll be back just as soon as we can take those other cars on at the siding." All this time Andrews was standing with his foot on the step watching the men enter the baggage-cars. The track was on a high bank and it was necessary for the first man to be raised up on the shoulders of two others in order to open the door. Once inside, the other men were tossed up to him and he pulled them in like bags of meal. Finally there were only two left and these jumped, caught the outstretched hands of two inside and were hauled up into the car. Not until then did Andrews step aboard under the very nose of the suspicious sentry. The engineer was so anxious to start that he pulled the throttle wide open and for a few seconds the wheels spun round and round without catching on the rails. He finally slowed up enough to allow the wheels to bite and the engine started off with a jerk which took all the soldiers in the baggage-cars off their feet. Just at this moment the fat engineer waddled out of the eating-house shouting at the top of his voice, "Stop, thief! Stop, thief!" He was followed by the fireman who bellowed to the sentry, "Shoot 'em, shoot 'em! They're Yanks!" It was too late. The General was taking the first curve on two wheels, leaving the quiet little station swarming and buzzing like a hornet's nest struck by a stone. The train had been captured without losing a man.

Now came the even more difficult part of the undertaking, to run the engine for two hundred miles through an enemy's country and to force it past all the other trains between Big Shanty and Chattanooga. The first thing to do was to prevent any message of the capture being sent on ahead. There was no telegraph station at Big Shanty, but there was no telling how soon word would be sent back to the nearest telegraph operator. Accordingly, four miles out the engine was stopped and a man named Scott, who had been a great coon-hunter before entering the army, shinned up a telegraph pole and sawed through the wires. While he was doing this, the rest of the party took up one of the rails and loaded it into a baggage-car. Others piled in a lot of dry railroad ties to be used in burning the bridges. The General was an old-style engine the like of which is never seen nowadays. It had one of the round, funny smoke-stacks which we still see on old postage stamps and it burned cord-wood instead of coal, but it was a good goer for those times and was soon whirling through the enemy's country at what seemed to the raiders a tremendous rate of speed. Before long they were compelled to stop at one of the stations to take in wood and water. Andrews explained to the station-agent that they were agents of General Beauregard running a powder-train down to the Confederate headquarters at Corinth. At one station named Etowah, they found an old locomotive belonging to a local iron company standing there with steam up. It carried the name of Jonah and so far as the raiders were concerned, it certainly lived up to its name. Brown, who was acting as engineer, wanted to stop and put Jonah out of business, but Andrews decided to push on. It was a fatal mistake. At Kingston, thirty miles from their starting place, they learned that the local freight coming from Chattanooga was about due, so Andrews put his engine over on the siding and waited. After a long delay, the freight arrived, but it carried on its caboose a red flag showing that another train was behind. Andrews stepped up to the conductor and indignantly inquired how any train dared delay General Beauregard's special powder-cars.

"Well, you see," said the freight's conductor, "the Yanks have captured Huntsville thirty miles from Chattanooga and special trains are being run to get everything out."

Andrews realized that General Mitchel had started against Chattanooga and that if he could burn even one bridge, the capture of the city was certain. Another long wait and the special freight came in, but it carried another fatal red flag. It turned out that it was so large that it was being run in two sections. There was nothing to do but wait. By this time crowds of passengers and train-hands had gathered around the so-called powder-train, all curious to look it over. The four men in the engine sat there smoking, seemingly unconcerned. As a matter of fact, however, they were ready any moment to fight for their lives. If any of the crowd opened the baggage-cars and saw the other men hidden there, no amount of explanation could persuade them that there was not something wrong. If the waiting was hard on the men in the engine, it was still worse for the men crouched back in the cars, not knowing what was wrong and expecting to hear the alarm given any moment. For an hour and five minutes the Union train was kept at Kingston. At last a whistle was heard and the long-expected freight passed by and the General was again on its way. A mile out from Kingston the coon-hunter was sent up another telegraph pole and the wires again cut. The rest of the party were leisurely trying to loosen another rail with the poor tools which they had, when from far in the rear a sound was heard which brought the man at the wires down with a run. It was the whistle of an engine coming their direction and meant that in some mysterious way the enemy was on their track.

"Pull, you men!" shouted Andrews. "They've got word somehow and they're after us."

Again the whistle sounded, this time much nearer, and with a last frantic pull the rail broke and eight men tumbled head over heels down an embankment. They were up in a minute and scrambled into the baggage-car and the old General was off once more at top speed. At Adairsville, the next station, a freight and passenger train were waiting and there Andrews heard that another express was due from Chattanooga which had not yet arrived. There was no time to wait now that the pursuit had begun and the old General was pushed at full speed in order to reach the next siding before meeting the express. The nine miles between stations were covered in as many minutes, Brown and the fireman heaping on the cord-wood and soaking it with kerosene-oil until the fire-plate was red hot. They reached the station just in time, for the express was about to pull out when the whistle of Andrews' train was heard, and it backed down so as to allow the "powder-train" to take the side track. It stopped, however, in such a manner as to completely close up the other end of the switch. The engineer and conductor of the express were plainly suspicious and refused to move their train until Andrews had answered their questions. With the pursuing engine on his track, any more delay would be fatal. Cocking his revolver, Andrews poked it into the stomach of the engineer.

"My instructions from General Beauregard," he said, "are to rush this train through and to shoot any one that tries to delay it and I am going to begin on you."

The engineer lost all further desire to ask questions, climbed into his cab and pulled out. The way was now clear to Chattanooga. Beyond the next station Andrews stopped once more to cut the wires and to try to take up a section of the track, when right behind suddenly sounded the whistle of an engine like the scream of some relentless bird of prey that could not be turned from its pursuit. Far down the track rushed a locomotive crowded with soldiers armed with rifles. Two minutes more would have saved the day for Andrews. The rail bent, but did not break, although the men tugged at it frantically until the bullets began pattering around them. There was only just time to jump aboard and the General was off again with the Confederate engine thundering close behind.

The story of this pursuer is the story of two men who refused to give up and who won out by accepting the one chance in a thousand which ordinary men would let go by. When the stolen train whirled off at Big Shanty there were two men who didn't waste any time in shouting or swearing. They were Fuller, the conductor of the stolen train, and Murphy, the foreman of the Atlanta railway machine shops. There was no telegraph station nor any locomotive at hand in which to follow the runaways. Apparently it was hopeless, yet out of all the crowd of civilians and soldiers who rushed around and asked questions and shouted answers, Fuller and Murphy were the only two who took the long chance and ran after the flying train. The rest of the crew could not help laughing to see two men chase a locomotive on foot. But Murphy and the other let them laugh and ran on. Before they had gone a half mile they found a hand-car on a siding. This they lifted over to the main track, manned the pump-bars and were soon flying along at the rate of some fifteen miles an hour. As they came near Etowah the hand-car suddenly flew off the track and went rolling down the embankment. It had met the first of the broken rails. The two men were much bruised and shaken up, but no bones were broken and they managed to hoist the hand-car back on to the rails again and were soon on their way, this time keeping a lookout for any traps ahead. At Etowah they found old "Jonah" puffing on the siding, the engine that Brown had advised blowing up. It was at once pressed into service, loaded with soldiers and in a minute was flying toward Kingston, where Andrews had his life-shortening wait of over an hour. Fuller knew of the tangle of trains at that point and told his escort to get their muskets ready and be prepared for a fight, but Andrews had been away just four minutes when the pursuers reached the station, and Fuller there found himself stopped by three heavy trains. It was hopeless to wait for them to move, and besides old Jonah was not much on speed. Fuller and his men jumped out, ran through to the farthest train, uncoupled the engine and one car, in spite of the protests of its crew, filled it with forty armed men and once more started after the flying General.

It was their whistle which so startled Andrews and his men when they were breaking the second rail. Fuller and Murphy saw what they had done and managed to reverse the engine in time to prevent a wreck. Again at this point ordinary men would have given up the chase for it was impossible to go farther in that engine or to get it over the broken rail, but these Confederates were not ordinary men. Leaving their escort they started down the track again on foot alone, doggedly and relentlessly after their stolen General. Before they had gone far they met the mixed train that had told Andrews of the express. They signaled so frantically that it stopped and when the crew learned that the so-called "powder-train" was on its way to destroy the great bridges which formed the backbone of their railway, they consented to turn back. So uncoupling the locomotive and the tender and filling them with armed soldiers and civilians from among the passengers, Fuller and Murphy made their sixth start. On foot, by hand-car, in two locomotives, on foot again and now once more in a locomotive, they began what was to be the last lap of this race on which a city and a state depended.

Beyond Adairsville the Confederates could see far ahead in the distance Andrews and his men making desperate efforts to raise the rail. With long screams from her whistle, the Confederate engine fairly leaped over the tracks. The rail bent slowly, but the spikes still held. Two minutes, or even a minute more would break the track and the road and bridges would be defenseless before the Union raiders. But it was not to be. Andrews and his men tugged at the stubborn rail until the pursuing engine was so close that the bullets were dropping all around them and then sprang into the engine and thundered off again. If only a little time could be gained the Union men could burn the Oostinaula Bridge. So while the engine was running at a speed of nearly a mile a minute, the men in the last car crowded into the next and the last car was dropped off in the hope that it would block the road for the pursuer. But the engine behind pushed it ahead until the next station was reached where it could be switched off the main track. This slowed the chaser's speed, however, so that the General was able to take on wood and water and also to cut the wires beyond the station so that the news of their coming would not be telegraphed ahead and give the station-master a chance to either side-track them or block the track. The pursuing engine began to gain again and the little band of Union soldiers moved into the first car and the end of the second car was smashed and it was cut loose. Railroad ties were also dropped across the track and time enough was gained once more for the General to take on wood and water at two more stations and to cut the wires beyond each. Twice they stopped and tried in vain to raise a rail, but the pursuers came within rifle range each time before they could finish. The rain prevented the burning of the bridges and now slowly and surely the pursuing engine began to gain. The raiders tried every way to block the track. At one point they spied a spare rail near a sharp curve. Stopping the engine they fitted it into the track in such a way that it seemed certain to derail the Confederate engine. The latter came thundering on at full speed, struck the hidden rail, and leaped at least six inches from the rail, but came down safely and went whirling along as if nothing had happened. Not once in a hundred times could an engine have kept the track after such a collision. This was the time. Now they were too close to the General to allow of any more stoppages even for wood and water. Andrews decided to risk everything on one last stroke. A mile or so ahead was a wooden-covered bridge. At his orders out of the last car his men swarmed into the engine filling every inch of space, even the tender and the cow-catcher being covered with men. All of the fuel left was piled into the one remaining car, smeared with oil and set afire. Both the doors were opened and the draught as it was whirled along soon fanned the fire into furious flames. They dashed into the dark of the covered bridge with the car spurting flame from both sides. Right in the middle of the bridge it was uncoupled and left burning fast and furiously. It did not seem possible that any engine could pass through such a barrier. There was just enough pressure left in the boiler to reach the next wood-yard and the Union scouts looked back anxiously at the bridge. In a minute they heard around a far-away curve the whistle which sounded to them like the screech of a demon. The Confederates had dashed into the bridge and pushed the flaming car ahead of them to the next switch. The Union scouts had played their last card. There would be no chance of taking in wood before they were overtaken. One thing only was left. They stopped the engine, sprang out, reversed the locomotive and sent it dashing back to collide with their pursuer and then separated to try to make their way back some three hundred miles through the enemy's country to the Union lines. The Confederates, when they saw the engine coming, reversed their own and kept just ahead of this last attack of the old General until its fires died down and it came to a stop.

Mitchel, the Union general, but thirty miles west of Chattanooga, waited in vain for the engine which never came. Chattanooga was saved and the most daring railroad raid in history had failed.

The story of the fate of the brave men who volunteered for the forlorn hope is a sad one. Several were captured that same day and all but two within a week. These two were overtaken and brought back when they were just on the point of reaching the Union outposts and had supposed themselves safe. Even the two who reached Marietta but did not take the train with the others were identified and added to the band of prisoners. Being in civilian clothes within an enemy's lines, they were all held as spies and the heroic Andrews and seven others were tried and executed. Of the others, eight, headed by Brown, overpowered the guards in broad daylight and made their escape from Atlanta, Georgia, and finally reached the North. The other six started with them, but were recaptured and held as prisoners until exchanged in the early part of 1863.

So ends the story of an expedition that failed in its immediate object, but that succeeded in the example which these brave men set their fellows.

CHAPTER VII

SHERIDAN'S RIDE

There are as many different kinds of courage as there are different kinds of men. Some men are brave because they were born so. They are no more to be praised for their bravery than a bulldog deserves credit because it is a natural born fighter or a hare deserves blame because it specializes in running away. Some men belong to the bulldog class. They are brave because it is natural for them to be brave. Others belong to the hare-family and they show far more real courage in overcoming their natural instincts than does the other for whom it is natural to do brave deeds. Much also depends on the circumstances. We all know from our own experience of athletes who can play a good winning game, and who perform well against inferior competitors. The rarer type, however, is the boy or man who can play a good up-hill game and who with all the odds against him, is able to fight it out and never to let up or give up until the last point is scored or the last yard is run and who often is able to win against better, but less dogged, less courageous competitors. It is so in battles. It is easy for any commander to be courageous and to take unusual chances when he is winning. The thrill of approaching victory is a stimulant which makes even a coward act like a brave man. Even General Gates, the weak, vacillating, clerkly, self-seeking, cowardly general of the Revolutionary War, whose selfishness and timidity were in such contrast to Washington's self-sacrifice and courage, was energetic and decisive at the battle of Saratoga after Benedict Arnold, who was there only as a volunteer, had made his brave, successful charge on the British column in spite of Gates' orders. After attacking and dispersing the reserved line of the British army, Arnold called his men together again and attacked the Canadians who covered the British left wing. Just as he had cut through their ranks, a wounded German soldier lying on the ground took deliberate aim at Arnold and killed his horse and shattered his leg with the same bullet. As he went down, one of his men tried to bayonet the wounded soldier who had fired, but even while disentangling himself from his dead horse and suffering under the pain of his broken leg, Arnold called out, "For God's sake, don't hurt him, he's a fine fellow," and saved the life of the man who had done his best to take his. That was the hour when Benedict Arnold should have died, at the moment of a magnificent victory while saving the life of a man who had injured him. Gates went on with the battle, closed in on the British and in spite of their stubborn defense, attacked them fiercely for almost the only time in his career as a general and completely routed them. There is no doubt that on that occasion after Arnold's charge Gates displayed a considerable amount of bravery, yet such bravery cannot really be termed courage of the high order which was so often displayed by Washington, by William of Orange and later by his grandson, William of England, by Fabius the conqueror of Hannibal and by many other generals who were greatest in defeat.

Napoleon once said that the highest kind of courage was the two-o'clock-in-the-morning courage. He meant that at that gray hour, when the tide of life is at its ebb before the dawn, a man who is brave is brave indeed. The best test of this kind of courage is in defeat. Fabius showed that in the long, wasting campaign which he fought against Hannibal, one of the greatest generals of his or any other age. Following, retreating, harassing, Fabius always refused a pitched battle until his enemies at Rome forced the appointment of Minucius as joint dictator with him. In spite of the protests of Fabius, the army was divided and the younger and rasher Minucius offered battle with his army. He was like a child before the crafty Hannibal who concealed a great force of men in ravines around an apparently bare hill and then inveigled Minucius into attacking a small force which he sent up to the top of this hill as a bait to draw him on. Once there the ambuscade of Hannibal attacked the Roman army on all sides and almost in a moment it was in disorder and a retreat was commenced which was about to become a rout when Fabius hurried up and by his exhortations and steadfast courage rallied the men, re-formed them, drove through Hannibal's lighter-armed troops and finally occupied the hill in safety. The grateful Minucius refused to act as commander any further, but at once insisted upon thereafter serving under Fabius.

At the Battle of Boyne, that great battle between William of England and his uncle, James II, which was to decide whether England should be a free or a slave nation, William showed the same kind of courage. In spite of chronic asthma, approaching age and a frail body, King William was a great general. He never appeared to such advantage as at the head of his troops. Usually of reserved and saturnine disposition, danger changed him into another man. On this day, while breakfasting before the battle, two field-pieces were trained on him and a six-pound ball tore his coat and grazed his shoulder drawing blood, and dashing him from his horse. He was up in an instant, however, and on that day in spite of his feeble health and wounded shoulder, was nineteen hours in the saddle. The crisis came when the English soldiers charged across the ford of the Boyne River. General Schomberg, William's right-hand and personal friend, was killed while rallying his troops. Bishop Walker, the hero of the siege of Londonderry, had been struck by a chance shot and the English, who had hardly obtained a firm foothold on the opposite bank, commenced to waver. At this moment King William forced his horse to swim across, carrying his sword in his left hand, for his right arm was stiff with his wound, and dashed up to rally the troops. As he rode up, the disorganized regiment recognized their king.

"What will you do for me?" he cried, and almost in an instant he had rallied the men and persuaded them to stand firm against the attacks of the ferocious Irish horsemen.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I have heard much of you. Let me see something of you," and charging at their head, this middle-aged, wounded invalid by sheer courage shattered the Irish and French troops and saved his kingdom.

Our own Washington was never greater than in defeat and not once but many times rallied a defeated and disheartened army and saved the day. At the Battle of Monmouth, the traitorous Charles Lee had turned what should have been a great victory into a disorderly retreat. After outflanking Cornwallis, instead of pressing his advantage, he ordered his men to retreat into a near-by ravine. Lafayette's suspicions were aroused and he sent in hot haste to Washington who arrived on the field of battle just as the whole army in tremendous disorder was pouring out of the marsh and back over the neighboring ravine before the British advance. At that moment Washington rode up pale with anger and for once lost control of a temper which cowed all men when once aroused.

"What is the meaning of all this?" he shouted to Lee and when he received no answer, repeated the question with a tremendous oath. Then immediately realizing the situation, he sent Lee back to the rear and wheeled about to stop the retreat and form a new front. Riding down the whole line of retreating soldiers, the very sight of him steadied and rallied them and in less than half an hour the line was reformed and Washington drove back the British across the marsh and the ravine until night put an end to the battle. Before morning the whole British force had retreated, leaving their wounded behind and the Battle of Monmouth had been changed by the courage and fortitude of one man from defeat into a victory for the American forces.

The most striking instance in the Civil War of what the courage of one brave, enduring, unfaltering man can do was at the Battle of Cedar Creek. In the year 1864, General Sheridan, the great cavalry leader, took command of the Army of the Shenandoah. Sheridan was an ideal cavalry leader. Brave, dashing, brilliant, he had commanded more horsemen than had any general since the days of the Tartar hordes of Tamerlane and Genghis Khan. There was no watchful waiting with Sheridan. This he had shown at the great mountain battle of Chattanooga. At that battle, Missionary Ridge was the keystone of the Confederate position. It was occupied by Confederate batteries and swarming with Confederate troops. A storming party was sent from the main body of the Union forces to drive out the Confederates who held the woods on the flanks of the Ridge. The orders were to attack the Confederates and hold the captured positions until the main body could come up. Grant was watching the battle through his field-glasses and saw the attacking party gain possession of the slopes of the Ridge. Suddenly, to his surprise and horror, the whole regiment charged directly up the Ridge. It was a mad thing to do for the top was held by a tremendous force of Confederates and guarded by massed batteries. General Grant called General Granger up to him and said angrily:

"Did you order those men up, Granger?"

"No," said the general, "they started up without orders. When those fellows get started, all hell can't stop 'em."

General Grant then sent word to General Sheridan to either stop the men or take the Ridge.

"I guess it will be easier to take the Ridge than it will be to stop them," said Sheridan.

Before starting, he borrowed a flask and waved it toward the group of Confederate officers who were standing on top of the Ridge in front of the headquarters of Bragg, the Confederate general.

"Here's at you," he shouted, drinking to them. They could plainly see his action through their field-glasses and immediately two field-guns, which were known as Lady Breckenridge and Lady Buckner, were trained at Sheridan and his group of officers and fired. One shell struck so near Sheridan as to splash dirt all over him.

"I'll take those guns just for that," was all he said and, followed by his officers, he dashed up the Ridge after the climbing, attacking-party. The way was so steep that the men had to climb up on their hands and knees while the solid shot and shell tore great furrows in their ranks. Sheridan was off his horse as soon as the slope became steep, and, although he had started after the charge, was soon at the front of the men. They recognized him with a tremendous cheer.

"I'm not much used to this charging on foot, boys," he said, "but I'll do the best I can," and he set a pace which soon brought his men so far up that the guns above could not be depressed enough to hit them. Behind him came the whole storming party clambering up on their hands and knees with their regimental flags flying everywhere, sometimes dropping as the bearers were shot, but never reaching the ground because they would be caught up again and again by others. At last they were so near that the Confederate artillerymen, in order to save time, lighted the fuses of their shells and bowled them down by hand against the storming party. Just before they reached the summit, Sheridan formed them into a battle-line and then with a tremendous cheer, they dashed forward and attacked the Ridge at six different points. The Confederates had watched their approach with amazement and amusement. When they found, however, that nothing seemed to stop them, they were seized with a panic and as the six desperate storming parties dashed upon them from different angles, after a few minutes' fast fighting, they broke and retreated in a hopeless rout down the other side of the Ridge. Sheridan stopped long enough to claim Lady Breckenridge and Lady Buckner as his personal spoils of war and forming his men again, led them on to a splendid victory.

As soon as he took command of the Army of the Shenandoah, aggressive fighting at once began. Twice he defeated Jubal Early, once at Winchester and again at Fisher's Hill, while one of his generals routed the Rebels so completely in a brilliant engagement at Woodstock that the battle was always known as the Woodstock Races, the Confederate soldiers being well in front in this competition. Finally, General Sheridan had massed his whole army at Cedar Creek. From there he rode back to Washington to have a conference with General Halleck and the Secretary of War. When that was finished with his escort he rode back to Winchester, some twelve miles from Cedar Creek, two days later. There he received word that all was well at his headquarters and he turned in and went to bed intending to join the army the next day. Six o'clock the next morning an aide aroused him with the news that artillery firing could be heard in the direction of Cedar Creek. Sheridan was out of bed in a moment and though it was reported that it sounded more like a skirmish than a battle, he at once ordered breakfast and started for Cedar Creek. As he came to the edge of Winchester he could hear the unceasing roar of the artillery and was convinced at once that a battle was in progress and from the increase of the sound judged that the Union Army must be falling back. The delighted faces of the Confederate citizens of Winchester, who showed themselves at the windows, also convinced him that they had secret information from the battlefield and were in raptures over some good news. With twenty men he started to cover the twelve miles to Cedar Creek as fast as their horses could gallop. Sheridan was riding that day a magnificent black, thoroughbred horse, Rienzi, which had been presented to him by some of his admirers. Like Lee's gray horse "Traveler" and the horse Wellington rode at Waterloo, "Copenhagen," Rienzi was to become famous. Before Sheridan had gone far and just after crossing Mill Creek outside of Winchester, he commenced to meet hundreds of men, some wounded, all demoralized, who with their baggage were all rushing to the rear in hopeless confusion. Just north of Newtown he met an army chaplain digging his heels into the sides of his jaded horse and making for the rear with all possible speed. Sheridan stopped him and inquired how things were going at the front.

"Everything is lost," replied the chaplain, "but it will be all right when you get there."

The parson, however, in spite of this expression of confidence, kept on going. Sheridan sent back word to Colonel Edwards, who commanded a brigade at Winchester, to stretch his troops across the valley and stop all fugitives. To most men this would have been the only plan of action possible, to stop the fugitives and rally at Winchester. Sheridan, however, was not accustomed to defensive fighting and instantly made up his mind that he would rally his men at the front and if possible, turn this defeat into a victory. The roads were too crowded to be used and so he jumped the fence into the fields and rode straight across country toward the drumming guns at Cedar Creek, which showed where the main battle was raging. From the fugitives, as he rode, Sheridan obtained a clear idea of what had happened. His great rival, Early, had taken advantage of his absence to obtain revenge for his previous defeats. Just after dawn he had made an attack in two different directions on the Union forces and had started a panic which had seized all the soldiers except one division under Getty and the cavalry under Lowell. The army which Sheridan met was a defeated army in full rout. As he dashed along, the men everywhere recognized him, stopped running, threw up their hats with a cheer and shouldering their muskets, turned around and followed him as fast as they could. He directed his escort to ride in all directions and announce that General Sheridan was coming. From all through the fields and roads could be heard the sound of faint cheering and everywhere men were seen turning, rallying and marching forward instead of back. Even the wounded who had fallen by the roadside waved their hands and hats to him as he passed. As he rode, Sheridan took off his hat so as to be more easily recognized and thundered along sometimes in the road and sometimes across country. As he met the retreating troops, he said:

"Boys, if I had been with you this morning this wouldn't have happened. The thing to do now is to face about and win this battle after all. Come on after me as fast as you can."

Sheridan Hurrying to Rally His Men

So he galloped the whole twelve miles with the men everywhere rallying behind him and following him at full speed. At last he came to the forefront of the battle where Getty's division and the cavalry were holding their own and resisting the rapid approach of the whole Confederate Army. Sheridan called upon his horse for a last effort and jumped the rail fence at the crest of the hill. By this time the black horse was white with foam, but he carried his master bravely up and down in front of the line and the whole brigade of men rose to their feet with a tremendous cheer and poured in a fierce fire upon the approaching Confederate troops. Sheridan rode along the whole front of the line and aroused a wild enthusiasm which showed itself in the way that the first Rebel charge was driven back. Telling Getty's and Lowell's men to hold on, he rode back to meet the approaching troops. By half-past three in the afternoon, Sheridan had brought back all the routed troops, reformed his whole battle line and waving his hat, led a charge riding his same gallant black horse. As they attacked the Confederate front, Generals Merritt and Custer made a fresh attack and the whole Confederate Army fell back routed and broken and was driven up the valley in the same way that earlier in the day they had driven the Union soldiers. Once again the presence of one brave man had turned a defeat into a victory.

Sheridan took no credit to himself in his report to Lincoln, simply telegraphing, "By the gallantry of our brave officers and men, disaster has been converted into a splendid victory."

"My personal admiration and gratitude for your splendid work of October 19th," Lincoln telegraphed back and the whole country rang with praises of Phil Sheridan and his wonderful ride. The day after the news of the battle reached the North, Thomas Buchanan Read wrote a poem entitled "Sheridan's Ride," with a stirring chorus.

The last verse sang the praise both of the rider and the horse:

"What was done? what to do? A glance told him both,

Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath,

He dashed down the line, mid a storm of huzzas,

And the wave of retreat checked its course there because,

The sight of the master compelled it to pause.

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray;

By the flash of his eye, and the red nostrils' play,

He seemed to the whole great army to say,

'I have brought you Sheridan all the way

From Winchester, down to save the day.'"

CHAPTER VIII

THE BLOODY ANGLE

It takes courage to charge, to rush over a space swept by shot and shell and attack a body of men grimly waiting to beat back the onset with murderous volleys and cold steel. Sometimes, though, it takes more courage to stand than to charge, to endure than to attack. The six hundred gallant horsemen of that Light Brigade who charged an army at Balaclava were brave men. The six hundred Knights of St. John who at the siege of Malta by Solyman the Magnificent defended the tiny fortress of St. Elmo against thirty thousand Turks until every man lay dead back of the broken ramparts and the power and might of the Turkish Empire had been wasted and shattered against their indomitable defense were braver. The burghers of Leyden who lived through the siege of their city on shoe-leather, rats and bark, who baked their last loaves and threw them down to the besiegers in magnificent defiance, who shouted down to the Spaniards that they would eat their left arms and fight with their right, and who slept on the ramparts night and day until they drove back the greatest army in all Europe were braver.

"It's dogged that does it," said the grim Duke of Wellington when his thin red line of English fighters endured through that long summer day against attack after attack until at twilight the Old Guard were repulsed for the last time and the great battle of Waterloo won.

Many men are brave in flashes. They are good for a dash. Few are those who can go the distance.

This is the story of a Union general who could endure and whose courage flared highest when defeat and death seemed certain. It is the story of a little band of men who were brave enough to stand against an army and whose endurance won a seven-day battle and opened the way for the capture of the Confederate capital.

It was the fourth year of the War of the Rebellion, and the end was not yet in sight. The Confederate cause had fewer men, but better officers. Robert E. Lee was undoubtedly the most able general in the world at that time. Stonewall Jackson had been his right arm, while Longstreet, Johnston, Early and a host of other fighting leaders helped him to defeat one Union army after another. The trouble with the Union leaders was that they didn't know how to attack. There had been McClellan, a wonderful organizer, but who preferred to dig entrenchments rather than fight and who never believed that he had enough men to risk a battle.

Then came Meade who won the great battle of Gettysburg and beat back the only invasion of the North, but who failed to follow up his advantage and had settled down to the old policy that the North knew so well of watchful waiting. At last came the Man. He had been fighting in the West and he had won,—not important battles, but more important, the confidence of the people and of Abraham Lincoln, the people's president. For this new man had a new system of generalship. His tactics were simple enough. He believed that armies were made to use, not to save. He believed in finding the enemy and hammering and hammering and hammering away until something broke—and that something was usually the enemy. His name was Ulysses S. Grant.

"He fights," was all that President Lincoln said about him when a party of politicians came to ask that he be removed. That was enough. What the North wanted was a fighter. Other generals would fight when they had to and were satisfied to stop if they defeated the enemy or broke even, but Grant was like old Charles Martel, Charles the Hammerer, who won his name when he saved all Europe from the Saracens on the plains of Tours by a seven-day battle. The great host of horsemen which had swept victorious through Asia, Africa and half the circle of the Mediterranean whirled down on the solid mass of grim Northmen. For six long days Charles Martel hammered away at that flashing horde of wild warriors. On the seventh his hammer strokes shattered the might of the Moslems and they broke and fled, never to cross the Pyrenees again. Now like Charles, the Hammerer of the Union Army was facing his great test, the terrible Seven Days in the Wilderness. Between him and the Confederate capital lay Lee's veteran army entrenched in that wild stretch of Virginia territory which was well named the Wilderness. Every foot of the puzzling woods, ravines, thickets and trails were known to the Confederates and well they ought to know it since they had already won a great battle on nearly the same field. In this tangled waste an army that knew the ground had a tremendous advantage. Lee chose his battle-field, but did not believe that Grant would join battle. He was to learn to know his great opponent better. Grant would always fight.

On May 4, 1864, the head of Grant's army met Lee's forces on one of the few roads of the Wilderness, known as the Orange Plank Road. The battle was joined. At first the Union forces drove the Confederates back into the thick woods. There they were reinforced and the knowledge of the field began to tell. Everywhere Confederate soldiers were sent by short cuts to attack the entangled Union forces and before long the Union line was shattered and driven back only to form again and fight once more for six long days. And what a battle that was! As in the fierce forest-fight between David and Absalom the wood devoured more people that day than the sword devoured. The men fought at close quarters and in the tangled thickets of stunted Virginia pine and scrub-oak they could scarcely see ten yards ahead. Every thicket was alive with men and flashed with musketry while the roar and rattle of guns on all sides frightened the deer and rabbits and wildcats that before that day had been the only dwellers in those masses of underbrush. The men fought blindly and desperately in both armies. Artillery could not be used to much advantage in the brush. It was largely a battle of musket and bayonet and wild hand-to-hand fights in the tangle of trees. The second day the Confederate lines were rolled back to the spot where Lee himself stood. Just as they were breaking, down the plank road at a steady trot came a double column of splendid troops paying no attention to the rabble and rout around them. Straight to the front they moved. It was the brigade of Longstreet, Lee's great "left hand." At once the Union advance was stopped and the Confederates began to reform their lines. At this moment from the pines streamed another Federal brigade with apparently resistless force down upon the still confused line. Then it was that a little force of Texans did a brave deed. They saw that if the Union advance was not checked, their men would not have time to form. Although only eight hundred strong, they never hesitated, but with a wild Rebel yell and without any supports or reinforcements, charged directly into the flank of the marching Union column of many times their number. There was a crash, and a tumult of shouts and yells which settled down into a steady roar of musketry. In less than ten minutes half of the devoted band lay dead or wounded. But they had broken the force of the Federal advance and had given the Confederate line time to rally.

Back and forth, day after day the human tide ebbed and flowed until the lonely Wilderness was crowded with men, echoing with the roar and rattle of guns and stained red with brave blood. At times in the confusion scattered troops fired upon their own men, and Longstreet was wounded by such an accident.

At one place the Federal forces had erected log breastworks. These caught fire during the battle and both forces fought each other over a line of fire through which neither could pass. From every thicket different flags waved. The forces were so mixed that men going back for water would find themselves in the hands of the enemy. In places the woods caught fire and men fought through the rolling smoke until driven back by the flames that spared neither the Blue nor the Gray. Both sides would then crawl out to rescue the wounded lying in the path of the fire. In some places where the men had fought through the brush, bushes, saplings and even large trees were cut off by bullets four or five feet from the ground as clean and regularly as if by machinery. For the first few days the Confederates had the advantage. They knew the paths and the Union men were driven back and forth among the woods in a way that would have made any ordinary general retreat. But Grant was not an ordinary general. The more he was beaten the harder he fought. The more men he lost the more he called into action from the reserves.

"It's no use fighting that fellow," said one old Confederate veteran; "the fool never knows when he's beaten. And it's no use shooting at those Yanks," he went on; "half-a-dozen more come to take the place of every one we hit."

At last the Union soldiers got the lay of the land. They couldn't be surprised or ambushed any more. Then they began to throw up breastworks and to cut down trees to hold every foot that they had taken. The Confederates did the same and the two long, irregular lines of earthworks and log fortifications faced each other all the way through the Wilderness. Yet still the lines of gray lay between Richmond and the men in blue. For six days the men had fought locked together in hand-to-hand fights over miles and miles of wilderness, marsh and thicket. The Union losses had been terrific. All along the line the Confederates had won and again and again had dashed back the attempts of the Union forces to pass through or around their lines. The Union Army had lost eleven officers and twenty thousand men and had fought for six days without accomplishing anything. Yet on that day Grant sent to Washington a dispatch in which he wrote: "I propose to fight it out on this line if it takes all summer."

Through all this tumult of defeats and losses he sat under a tree whittling and directing every movement as coolly as if safe at home. Finally the great Hammerer chose a spot at which to batter and smash with those tremendous strokes of his. The Confederates had built a long irregular line of earthworks and timber breastworks running for miles through the tangled woods. At one point near the center of the lines a half-moon of defenses jutted out high above the rest of the works. At the chord of this half-circle was an angle of breastworks back of which the Confederates could retreat if driven out of the semicircle. Grant saw that this half-moon was the key of the Confederate position. If it could be captured and held, their whole battle line could be broken and crumpled back and the Union Army pass on to Richmond. If taken at all, it must be by some sudden irresistible attack. He chose General Hancock, a daring, dashing fighter, to make the attempt for the morning of May 12th. It rained hard on the night of May 11th and came off bitter cold. The men gathered for the attack about ten o'clock and huddled together in little groups wet and half-frozen. All that long night they waited. Just at dawn the word was passed around. Crouching in the darkness, a division pressed forward and rushed like tigers at the half-circle and began to climb the breastworks from two sides. The sleepy sentries saw the rush too late. The first man over was a young sergeant named Brown. With a tremendous jump he caught a projecting bough, swung himself over like a cat and landed right in the midst of a crowd of startled soldiers. Finding himself entirely alone with a score of guns pointed at him, he lost his nerve for a minute.

"I surrender, don't shoot," he bellowed like a bull. At that moment from all sides other soldiers dropped over the rampart.

"I take it all back," shouted Brown, now brave again, and to make up for the break in his courage he rushed into the very midst of the defenders and, single-handed, captured the colors. The Confederates were taken entirely by surprise. In the dim light they fought desperately, but they were attacked from two sides with bullets, bayonets and smashing blows from the butt-ends of muskets used like clubs. Almost in a moment the entrenchments were in the hands of the Union soldiers and over three thousand prisoners, two generals and twenty cannon were captured. Those who were left took refuge back of the angle-breastworks which guarded the approach to the half-moon. There they fought back the charging troops until Lee, who had heard of the disaster, could pour in reinforcements. He knew full well that this center must be retaken at any cost. Every man and gun that could be spared was hurried to the spot. Lee started then to take command in person. Only when the soldiers refused to fight unless he took a safe place did he consent to stay back.

With all his available forces Grant lapped the half-circle on every side and began to hammer away at this break in the Confederate line. The Confederate reinforcements came up first and Hancock's men were driven back from the angle until they met the reinforcements pouring in from the troops outside. For a moment they could not face the concentrated fire that came from the rear breastworks. Flat on their faces officers and men lay in a little marsh while the canister swished against the tall marsh-grass and the minie balls moaned horribly as they picked out exposed men here and there. Soon another regiment came up and with a yell the men sprang to their feet and dashed at the breastworks which loomed up through the little patch of woods through which they had retreated. In a minute they had rushed through the trees with men dropping on every side under the murderous fire. Before them was the grim angle of works to be known forever as the Bloody Angle.

As they came nearer they found themselves in front of a deep ditch. Scrambling through this they became entangled in an abattis, a kind of latticework of limbs and branches. As they plunged into this many a man was caught in the footlocks formed by the interwoven branches and held until he was shot down by the fire back of the breastworks. These were made of heavy timber banked with earth to a height of about four feet. Above this was what was called a "head-log" raised just high enough to allow a musket to be inserted between it and the lower work. Inside were shelves covered with piles of buck and ball and minie cartridges. Through the ditch and the snares, up and over the breastworks charged a Pennsylvania regiment, losing nearly one hundred men as they went.

Once again there was the same confused hand-to-hand fighting as had taken place at the outer fortifications. This time the result was different. The crafty Lee had hurried a dense mass of troops through the mist. These men crawled forward in the smoke, reserving their fire until they got to the very inside edge of the Angle. Then with the terrible long-drawn Rebel yell, they sprang to their feet and dashed into the breastworks with a volley that killed every Union soldier who had crossed over. Down too went the men in front, still tangled in the abattis. Every artillery horse was shot and Colonel Upton of the 95th Pennsylvania Volunteers was the only mounted officer in sight.

"Stick to it, boys," he shouted, riding back and forth and waving his hat. "We've got to hold this point!"

In a dense mass the Confederates poured into the breastworks and for a moment it seemed as if they would sweep the Union forces back and retake the half-moon salient. At this moment the Pennsylvanians were reinforced by the 5th Maine and the 121st New York, but the Confederates had the advantage of the breastworks and the Union men began to waver. Then a little two-gun battery of the Second Corps did a very brave thing. They were located at the foot of a hill back of a pine-grove. As the news came that the Union men were giving way, they limbered the guns, the drivers and cannoneers mounted the horses and up the hill at full gallop they charged through the Union infantry and right up to the breastworks, the only case of a charge by a battery in history. Then in a second they unlimbered their guns and poured in a fire of the tin cans filled with bullets called canister which was deadly on the close-packed ranks of the Confederates hurrying up to the Angle. The Union gunners were exposed to the full fire of the men back of the breastworks, but they never flinched. The left gun fired nine rounds and the right fourteen double charges. These cannonades simply mowed the men down in groups. Captain Fish of General Upton's staff left his men and rushed to help this little battery. Back and forth he rode before the guns and the caissons carrying stands of canister under his rubber coat.

"Give it to 'em, boys," he shouted. "I'll bring you canister if you'll only use it."

Again and again he rode until, just as he turned to cheer the gunners once more, he fell mortally wounded. The guns were fired until all of the horses were killed, the guns, carriages and buckets cut to pieces by the bullets and only two of the twenty-three men of the battery were left on their feet. Leaving their two brass pieces which had done such terrible execution still on the breastworks cut and hacked by the bullets from both sides, the lone two marched back through the cheering infantry.

"That's the way to do it," shouted Colonel Upton. "Hold 'em, men! Hold 'em!" And his men held.

The soft mud came up half-way to their knees. Under the continued tramping back and forth, the dead and wounded were almost buried at their feet. The shattered ranks backed off a few yards, then closed up and started to hold their place out in the open against the constantly increasing masses of the enemy back of the breastworks of the Angle. The space was so narrow that only a certain number of men on each side could get into action at once. A New Jersey and Vermont brigade hurried in to help while on the other side General Lee sent all the men that could find a place to fight back of the breastworks. Into the mêlée came an orderly who shouted in Colonel Upton's ear so as to be heard over the rattle of musketry and the roar of yells and cheers:

"General Grant says, 'Hold on!'"

"Tell General Grant we are holding on," shouted back Colonel Upton.

The men in the mud now directed all their fire at the top of the breastworks and picked off every head and hand that showed above. The Confederates then fired through the loopholes, or placed their rifles on the top log and holding by the trigger and the small of the stock lifted the breach high enough to fire at the attacking forces. The losses on both sides were frightful. A gun and a mortar battery took position half a mile back of the Union forces and began to gracefully curve shells and bombs just over the heads of their comrades so as to drop within the ramparts. Sometimes the enemy's fire would slacken. Then some reckless Union soldier would seize a fence-rail or a piece of the abattis and creep close to the breastworks and thrust it over as if he was stirring up a hornet's nest, dropping on the ground to avoid the volley that was sure to follow. One daring lieutenant leaped upon the breastworks and took a rifle that was handed up to him and fired it into the masses of the Confederate soldiers behind. Another one was handed up and he fired that and was about aiming with a third when he was riddled with a volley and pitched headlong among the enemy.

A little later a party of discouraged Confederates raised a piece of a white shelter tent above the works as a flag of truce and offered to surrender. The Union soldiers called on them to jump over. They sprang on the breastworks and hesitated a moment at the sight of so many leveled guns. That moment was fatal to them for their comrades in the rear poured a volley into them, killing nearly every one.

All day long the battle raged. Different breastworks in the same fortifications flaunted different flags. Gradually, however, all along the line the firing and the fighting concentrated at the Angle. The head logs there were so cut and torn that they looked like brooms. So heavy was the fire that several large oak trees twenty-two inches in diameter back of the works were gnawed down by the bullets and fell, injuring some of the South Carolina troops. Toward dusk the Union troops were nearly exhausted. Each man had fired between three and four hundred rounds. Their lips were black and bleeding from biting cartridge. Their shoulders and hands were coated and black with grime and powder-dust. As soon as it became dark they dropped in the knee-deep mud from utter exhaustion. But they held. Grimly, sternly they held. All the long night through they fired away at the breastworks. The trenches on the right of the Angle ran red with Union blood and had to be cleared many a time of the piles of dead bodies which choked them. At last, a little after midnight, sullenly and slowly the Confederate forces drew back and the half-moon and the Bloody Angle were left in possession of the Union forces. The seven days' hammering and the twenty hours of holding had won the fierce and bloody Battle of the Wilderness.

CHAPTER IX

HEROES OF GETTYSBURG

Heroes are not made of different stuff from ordinary men. God made us all heroes at heart. Satan lied when he said "all that a man hath will he give for his life." The call comes and commonplace men and workaday women give their lives as a very little thing for a cause, for an ideal, or for others. When the great moment comes, the love and courage and unselfishness that lie deep in the souls of all of us can flash forth into beacon-lights of brave deeds which will stand throughout the years pointing the path of high endeavor for those who come after.

Women the world over will never forget how Mrs. Strauss came back from the life-boat and went down on the Titanic with her husband rather than have him die alone.

Boys have been braver and tenderer their lives long because of the unknown hero at Niagara. With his mother he was trapped on a floe when the ice-jam broke. Slowly and sternly it moved toward the roaring edge of the cataract. From the Suspension Bridge a rope was let down to them. Twice he tried to fix it around his mother, but she was too old and weak to hold on. The floe was passing beyond the bridge and there was just time for him to knot the rope around himself. Young, active and strong, he would be safe in a moment, but his mother would go to death deserted and alone. He tossed the rope away, put his arm around his old mother and they went over the Falls together.

Every American sailor has been braver and gentler from the memory of Captain Craven who commanded the monitor Tecumseh when Fighting Farragut destroyed the forts and captured the Rebel fleet at Mobile Bay. The Tecumseh was about to grapple with the Tennessee, the great Rebel ram, when she struck a torpedo, turned over and went down bow foremost. Captain Craven was in the pilot-house with the pilot. As the vessel sank they both rushed for the narrow door. Craven reached it first, but stood aside saying, "After you, pilot." The latter leaped through as the water rushed in and was saved. Craven went down with his ship.

The great moments which are given to men in which to decide whether they are to be heroes or cowards may come at any time, but they always flash through every battle. Danger, suffering and death are the stern tests by which men's real selves are discovered. A man can't do much pretending when he is under fire, and he can't make believe he is brave or unselfish, or chivalric when he is sick, or wounded, or dying. We can be proud that the man who went before us made good and that we can remember all the great battles of the greatest of our wars by the brave deeds of brave men.

The battle of Gettysburg was the most important of the Civil War. Lee with seventy thousand men was pouring into the North. If he defeated Meade and the Union Army, Washington, the capital, would fall. Even Philadelphia and New York would be threatened. In three days of terrible fighting, thirty thousand men were killed. In one of the charges one regiment, the 1st Minnesota, lost eighty-two per cent. of its men—more than twice as many as the famous Light Brigade lost at Balaclava. Pickett's charge of fifteen thousand men over nearly a mile and a half against the hill which marked the center of the Union lines was one of the greatest charges in history. When the Confederates were driven back, two-thirds of the charging party had been killed or wounded. It was the crisis of the war. If that charge went home Gettysburg was lost, the Union Army would become a rabble and the whole strength of the Confederate forces would pass on into the North. On the Union batteries depended the whole fate of the army. If they could keep up a fire to the last moment, the charge must fail. Otherwise the picked thousands of the Confederate Army would break the center of the Union forces and the battle would be lost. Lee gathered together one hundred and fifteen guns and directed a storm of shot and shell against the Union batteries as his regiments charged up the hill. On the very crest was a battery commanded by young Cushing, a brother of Lieutenant W. B. Cushing, who drove a tiny torpedo launch over a boom of logs under the fire of forts, troops and iron-clads and destroyed the great Confederate iron-clad Albemarle. This Cushing was of the same fighting breed. During the battle he was shot through both thighs but would not leave his post though suffering agonies from the wounds. When the charge began he fought his battery as fast as the guns could be loaded and fired and his grape-shot and canister mowed down the charging Confederates by the hundred. In spite of tremendous losses the Rebels rushed up the hill firing as they came and so fierce was their fire and that of the Confederate batteries that of the Union officers in command of the batteries just in front of the charge, all but two were struck. But the men kept up the fire to the very last. As what was left of the Confederates topped the hill, a shell struck the wounded Cushing tearing him almost in two. He held together his mangled body with one hand and with the other fired his last gun and fell dead just as the Confederates reached the stone wall on the crest. They were so shattered by his fire that they were unable to hold the hill and were driven back and the battle won for the Union.

Old John Burns was another one of the many heroes of Gettysburg. John was over seventy years old when the battle was fought and lived in a little house in the town of Gettysburg with his wife who was nearly as old as he. Burns had fought in the war of 1812 and began to get more and more uneasy every day as the battle was joined at different points near where he was living. The night before the last day of the battle the old man went out to get his cow and found that a foraging band of Confederates had driven her off. This was the last straw. The next day regiment after regiment of the Confederate forces marched past his house and the old man took down his flintlock musket which had done good service against the British in 1812 and began to melt lead and run bullets through his little old bullet mould. Mrs. Burns had been watching him uneasily for some time.

"John, what in the world are you doing there?" she finally asked.

"Oh," he said, "I thought I would fix up the old gun and get some bullets ready in case any of the boys might want to use it. There's goin' to be some fightin' and it's just as well to get ready. There ain't a piece in the army that will shoot straighter than Betsy here," and the old man patted the long stock of the musket affectionately.

"Well," said his wife, "you see that you keep out of it. You know if the Rebs catch you fightin' in citizens' clothes, they'll hang you sure."

"Don't you worry about me," said John. "I helped to lick the British and I ain't afraid of a lot of Rebels."

Finally the long procession of Confederate forces passed and for an hour or so the road was empty and silent. At last in the distance sounded the roll and rattle of drums and through a great cloud of dust flamed the stars and stripes and in a moment the road was filled with solid masses of blue-clad troops hurrying to their positions on what was to be one of the great battle-fields of the world. As regiment after regiment filed past, old John could stand it no longer. He grabbed his musket and started out the door.

"John! John! Where are you going?" screamed his wife, running after him. "Ain't you old enough to know better?"

"I'm just goin' out to get a little fresh air," said John, pulling away from her and hurrying down the street. "I'll be back before night sure."

It was the afternoon of the last day when the men of a Wisconsin regiment near the front saw a little old man approaching, dressed in a blue swallow-tail coat with brass buttons and carrying a long flintlock rifle with a big powder-horn strapped about him.

"Hi, there!" he piped, when he saw the men. "I want to jine in. Where'll I go?"

The men laughed at the sight.

"Anywhere," shouted back one of them; "there's good fightin' all along the line."

"Well," said John, "I guess I'll stop here," and in spite of their attempts to keep him back, he crept up until he was at the very front of the skirmish line. There was a lull in the fighting just then and there was a good deal of joking up and down the line between the men and John.

"Say, grandpa," called out one, "did you fight in the Revolution?"

"Have you ever hit anything with that old gun of yours?" said another.

But John was able to hold his own.

"Sure I fought in the Revolution," he piped loudly, "and as for hittin' anything, say, boys, do you know that at the Battle of Bunker Hill I had sixty-two bullets in my pocket. I had been loadin' and firin' fifty times and I had shot forty-nine British officers when suddenly I heard some one yellin' to me from behind our lines and he says to me, 'Hi, there, old dead-shot, don't you know that this is a battle and not a massacre?' I turns around and right behind me was General George Washington, so I saluted and I says, 'What is it, General?' and he says, 'You stop firin' right away.' 'Well,' I said, 'General, I have only got twelve more bullets; can't I shoot those?' 'No,' he says to me, 'you go home. You've done enough,' and he says, 'don't call me General, call me George.'"

This truthful anecdote was repeated along the whole line and instantly made John's reputation as a raconteur. He was allowed to establish himself at the front of the line and in a minute, as the firing commenced, he was fighting with the best of them. They tried to persuade him to take a musket from one of the many dead men who were lying around, but like David, John would not use any weapon which he had not proved. He stuck to old Betsy and although he did not make quite so good a record as at the Battle of Bunker Hill, according to his comrades he accounted for no less than three Confederates, one of whom was an officer. Before the day was over he received three wounds. Toward evening there was an overwhelming rush of the Confederates which drove back the Union soldiers and the Wisconsin regiment fell back leaving poor old John lying there among the other wounded. He was in a dilemma. Although his cuts were only flesh-wounds, yet he would bleed to death unless they were properly dressed. On the other hand if he was found by the Rebels in civilian clothes with his rifle, he would undoubtedly be shot according to military law. The old man could not, however, bear the thought of parting with old Betsy, so he crawled groaningly toward a hollow tree where he managed to hide the old flint-lock and the powder-horn and soon afterward attracted the attention of the Confederate patrol which was going about the field attending to the wounded. At first they were suspicious of him.

"What are you doing, old man, wounded on a battle-field in citizens' clothes?" one of the officers asked.