Kitabı oku: «General Nelson's Scout», sayfa 13

An officer wild with excitement came spurring his foaming horse up to General Wallace.

"General McClernand wants help," he gasped. "The whole Rebel army has attacked his division."

"I have orders from General Grant to hold this position at all hazards," replied Wallace. "I must have orders from him."

To Grant's headquarters the officer rides in frantic haste. The general was away; he had started at five o'clock to see Commodore Foote, who had been wounded in the battle of the night before, and was on board of one of his gunboats, and the boats lay some five or six miles below.

Would not some one of his staff give orders to send reinforcements to McClernand. No; none would take the responsibility. The officer groaned, and rode back to McClernand with the heavy tidings.

Minutes go by, the thunder of battle is terrific. The Federals are being driven. The exultant cheering of the advancing foe is heard above the roar of conflict.

Another officer, with his horse bleeding from wounds, his hat gone, and tears streaming down his face, rides to General Wallace. "For God's sake, help!" he gasps, "or everything is lost; we are flanked, we cannot hold out longer."

Then General Wallace said: "I will take the responsibility; help you shall have." And with his face lighted up with joy the officer dashed back to tell McClernand that help was coming.

An order comes to General Cruft to at once march his brigade to the scene of action. No sooner is the command given than the brigade is on the way. Soon shot and shell are crashing overhead, and singing bullets begin to cut the twigs of the bushes around. Now and then a soldier falters and goes down. A smooth-faced, florid man rides up to General Cruft. "I am Colonel Oglesby," he says; "my brigade is being flanked on the right. Let me lead you in position; my men are nearly out of ammunition." And then as calmly as if on parade Colonel Dick Oglesby leads Cruft's brigade to the relief of his men. Soon the brigade is in the midst of the conflict. Here and there Fred rides carrying orders. The excitement of battle is on him, and he feels no fear.

Oglesby's brigade is out of ammunition. Sullenly his men fall back, leaving over 800 of their number dead and wounded on the field, but his left regiment refuses to go. The colonel, a large, dark man, with hair as black as midnight, eyes like flaming stars, rages up and down the line like a lion. Fred gazes on him in admiration. He is typical of war incarnate.

"Who is he?" Fred asks of a wounded soldier hobbling back.

"Colonel John A. Logan," is the answer.

At last his men are out of ammunition, and Logan, bleeding from two wounds, is obliged to lead his regiment back. Another regiment takes its place, and after a dreadful conflict, is compelled to fall back, leaving over 300 of their number dead and wounded.

Cruft's brigade was now on the extreme right, cut off from the rest of the army. The enemy pressed upon them; a withering volley sent them reeling back. "Charge!" was the order. Fred spurred forward, and seizing the colors of a Kentucky regiment, shouted: "Now, boys, for the honor of old Kentucky."

The enemy flew before them like frightened sheep. But on either flank the enemy pressed, and the brigade, combating every foot, was forced back.

The enemy had gained the desired end; McClernand's division was out of the way, the road to retreat was open. Why was it not taken advantage of? Because of the imbecility of Generals Floyd and Pillow.

Broken, and with a third of its number dead and wounded, McClernand's division is driven back on Lew Wallace. Officers, stunned with the disaster, come wildly galloping through Wallace's lines, shouting, "All is lost! all is lost!"

Wallace changes front to meet the exultant, advancing foe. Firm as adamant his lines stand. In the faces of the charging Confederates his men pour their crushing volleys. The enemy waver, reel, then go staggering, bleeding back.

Where is Grant all of this time? In conference with Commodore Foote on board of a gunboat six miles down the river. He is too far away to hear the roll of musketry, and the thunder of artillery he thinks but cannonading between the two lines. It is past noon when the conference is ended and he is rowed ashore. There stands a staff officer with bloodless face and shaking limbs. In a few words the story of the disaster is told. Without a word Grant listens, and then mounts his horse. The iron shoes of his steed strike fire on the frozen ground as he gallops back. He arrives just as the foe is repulsed by Wallace's division. His eye sweeps the field.

"Why, boys," he cries, "they are trying to get away; we mustn't let them."

The words act like magic as they are borne along the lines. Cartridge boxes are replenished, and the soldiers, who a few moments before were in retreat, are now eager to advance. The lines are re-formed and the army sweeps forward. This time it is the Confederates who are pressed back, and soon the open road is closed. The chance to escape is forever gone; Fort Donelson is doomed.

Darkness once more came, and with it another night of cold and suffering. The early morning light showed a white flag floating from the ramparts of the fort. Donelson had surrendered. Cold and hunger were forgotten, as the soldiers in their joy embraced each other, and their shouts of victory rose and fell like the swells of the ocean. The first great victory of the war had been won.

Fifteen thousand Confederates were prisoners.

CHAPTER XVII.
AFTER THE BATTLE

The sun arose once more on Donelson. The storm of the elements, as well as of battle, had passed away. But the horrors of war remained. On the frozen ground lay the dead with white, pinched faces. Scores of the wounded had perished from cold and exposure. Some who still breathed were frozen to the ground in their own blood. The cold had been more cruel than the bullets.

Fred rode over the battlefield seeking the body of an officer in one of the Kentucky regiments whom he had seen fall. The officer was a friend of his father's. Where the last fierce struggle took place before the brigade fell back, Fred found him. He was half-reclining against a tree, and from its branches the snow had sifted down, as though trying to blot out the crimson with a mantle of white. The officer had not died at once, for the frozen hand held a photograph in its iron grasp – that of a happy, sweet-faced mother holding a cooing babe. It was the photograph of his wife and child.

With a sob Fred turned away, sick – sick at heart. He was choking with the horror that he saw.

Fred's gallant act in leading the charge had been noticed by General Cruft, and at the first opportunity he highly complimented his youthful aid. But to Fred it now all seemed like a dream – something not real. Could it be that only yesterday he was in that hell of fire, eager only to kill and maim! He sickened at the thought.

In the afternoon he went to see the prisoners mustered. As they marched along with downcast eyes, Fred saw a well-known form among the officers which sent every particle of blood from his face. Quickly recovering himself, he sprang forward, exclaiming, "Uncle Charles!"

Major Shackelford looked up in surprise, a frown came over his face, but he held out his hand, and said, "Fred, you here?"

"Is – is father – a – prisoner – or – killed?" Fred's voice trembled, then broke; he could not articulate another word.

"Your father is not here, thank God!" replied his uncle. "He is with Johnston at Bowling Green."

"Thank God!" echoed Fred.

He now noticed for the first time a young lieutenant, his neat uniform soiled and torn, and his eyes red with watching.

"Why, Cousin George, you here, too?" exclaimed Fred, holding out his hand.

The young lieutenant drew back haughtily.

"I refuse," said he, "to take the hand of a traitor to his State and kindred."

The hot blood flew to Fred's face, and he was on the point of making an angry retort, but controlling himself, he replied, "As you please," and turned away.

"Uncle Charles," he said, "I know you will not be so foolish. I am sorry – so sorry – to see you here. Can I do anything for you?"

The major groaned. "No, Fred, no. I am heartbroken. Oh! the disgrace of it! the disgrace of it!"

"Of what, uncle?"

"Of the surrender."

"You surely fought like heroes," gently replied Fred. "There is no disgrace in brave men bowing to the inevitable."

"And that fight was the worst of it," bitterly replied the major. "Every noble life lost was a useless sacrifice, sacrificed to the imbecility of our generals. But, Fred, this surrender means more; it means the giving up of Nashville. Oh, my family! my family! What will become of them? They will be wild with fear; they will flee penniless – flee I know not where."

Fred remained in deep thought for a moment, then looking up, said: "Uncle, do you really fear for Aunt Jennie and the children?"

"I do. Nashville will be wild – terror-stricken; there is no knowing what will happen."

"Uncle, if you wish, I will go to Nashville. Even if the city is taken, there will be no danger. Your property will be safe if not deserted. As you say, the greatest danger is in flight."

"Can you reach Nashville, Fred?"

"I think I can."

"Then go, and God bless you. I will write a letter to Jennie."

"Also write a statement for me," said Fred, "saying I am your nephew, and that I am trying to reach your family in Nashville. It may be useful to me."

A little later the letters were placed in Fred's hands, and bidding his uncle a most affectionate farewell, he went to make preparations for his journey. The next morning, provided with an order from General Grant giving him permission to pass outside of the lines, he started. When he was well beyond the pickets, he tore up his pass, thus destroying any evidence that he was ever connected with the Federal army.

He had not ridden many miles before he began to overtake straggling Confederate soldiers who had escaped from Donelson. Along in the afternoon he suddenly came upon three cavalrymen. The horse of one had given out, and the three were debating what was best to do. Seeing Fred, and noticing that he was well mounted, one of them said: "There comes a boy, a civilian, on a fine hoss. Why not confiscate him for the good of the cause?"

"Just the thing!" exclaimed the other two. Without warning, Fred found himself covered by three revolvers.

"Come, young man," said one of the soldiers, threateningly, "off of that hoss, and be quick about it, too."

"What does this mean?" said Fred, trying to keep cool.

"It means the Confederate States of America have use for that hoss; so climb down quick, and none of your lip."

"But, gentlemen – "

"No buts about it," broke in the soldier fiercely. "Do you mean to say you refuse to contribute a hoss to the cause? You ought to be in the ranks yourself instead of whining about a hoss. You must be a Lincolnite or a coward. Get off, or I will let daylight through your carcass."

There was no use parleying; so without saying a word Fred dismounted. The soldier in great glee, congratulating himself on his good fortune, mounted. Prince laid back his ears, and a wicked gleam came into his eyes, but as Fred said nothing, the horse made no objection.

"Say, boy," exclaimed the soldier, "you can have my hoss there; it's a fair trade, you see," and with a laugh and a jeer they rode away.

Fred let them go a short distance, when he suddenly gave a peculiar short whistle. Prince gave a great bound, then wheeled as quick as lightning. His rider was thrown with prodigious force, and lay senseless in the road. At full speed the horse ran back and stopped by the side of his owner, quivering with excitement. Fred vaulted into the saddle, and with a yell of defiance dashed back in the direction he had come. Coming to a cross road, he followed it until he came to a road leading in the direction he wished to go.

"Hi! Prince, old fellow, that was a trick those fellows weren't on to," said Fred, patting the glossy neck of his horse. "You did it capitally, my boy, capitally."

Prince turned his head and whinnied as if he knew all about it.

Towards evening Fred fell in with some of Forest's troopers who had escaped from Donelson and were making their way to Nashville.

The officer in command asked Fred who he was and where he was going, and was frankly told.

"I know Major Shackelford well," replied the officer, "an honorable man and a gallant soldier. I shall be happy to have you accompany us to Nashville."

Fred preferred to make more haste, but remembering his adventure, resolved to run no more risk, and so gladly accepted the invitation.

The news of the surrender of Fort Donelson had become known, and the whole country was wild with terror. Consternation was depicted in every countenance. For the first time the people of the South began to realize that after all they might be defeated.

When Fred entered Nashville the scene was indescribable. The whole city was terror-stricken. Women walked the streets wringing their hands in the agony of despair. Every avenue was blocked with vehicles of all kinds, loaded with valuables and household goods. The inhabitants were fleeing from what they considered destruction. Sobs and groans and piteous wails were heard on every side. Could this be the same people he had seen a few months before? Through the wild confusion, Fred rode until he reached the door of his uncle's house. He found the family preparing for hasty flight.

"Aunt Jennie, how are you?" exclaimed he, holding out his hand.

Mrs. Shackelford gave a shriek, and then exclaimed: "Fred Shackelford! where did you come from?"

"From Donelson and Uncle Charles," replied Fred.

Mrs. Shackelford turned as white as death, tottered, and would have fallen if Fred had not caught her.

"Is – is – Charles killed?" she gasped.

"Calm yourself, Aunt Jennie; both Uncle Charles and George are well."

"Why – why did you come then? What has happened?"

"They are prisoners."

"Prisoners!" wailed Mrs. Shackelford, and tears came to the relief of her pent-up feelings. "Oh! they will die in some Northern prison, and I shall never see them again."

"Cheer up, Aunt Jennie. In all probability they will be exchanged in a few weeks or released on parole. Here is a letter from Uncle Charles. It will do you good to read it," and he handed her the letter her husband had written.

When she had read it, she became calmer, and said, "He wishes me to stay here."

"By all means, Aunt Jennie," replied Fred. "Stop these preparations for flight; be discreet, and you will be as safe in Nashville with the Northern soldiers here as if they were a thousand miles away."

Just then Kate came in, her vivacity all gone, and her eyes red with weeping.

"Why Fred, you here?" she asked in surprise and with some hauteur. "I thought you had turned Yankee. When I heard of it I vowed I would never speak to you again."

"But you see you have," replied Fred, smiling.

"Are you sure the Yankees are coming?" she asked, ignoring Fred's remark.

"Perfectly sure."

"Oh! oh! oh! what will we do?"

"Drive them back with broomsticks," replied Fred, mischievously.

"What!" asked Kate, opening her eyes in astonishment.

"My pretty cousin, didn't you tell me when I was here that if the Yankees ever dare come near Nashville the women would turn out and beat them back with broomsticks?"

"You horrid thing!" exclaimed Kate. "I will never speak to you again; so there!" and she turned her back on him.

But when Kate learned that Fred had just come from her father and brother she was eager enough to talk, and Fred had to tell the story of Donelson over and over again. As they were talking, the clatter of horse's hoofs attracted the attention of the family, and Fred, glancing out of the window, saw his father dismounting before the door. The sight completely unnerved him. He arose trembling in every limb, and gasped:

"Aunt Jennie, my father! I cannot meet him; he has forbidden it," and he passed into another room.

Colonel Shackelford entered, and was warmly greeted by his sister-in-law. He had but a moment to stay, as his regiment was on the retreat, and the Federals were reported in close pursuit.

"I see," said he, "you have prepared for flight. I trust that you will accompany my command until you reach a place of safety."

"We were going," replied Mrs. Shackelford, "but have changed our minds. I have just received a letter from Charles, who is a prisoner, and he has advised me to stay."

"Charles a prisoner, and a letter from him! How did you receive it?" Colonel Shackelford asked in surprise.

Mrs. Shackelford hesitated a moment, and then answered, "Fred brought it."

The colonel started violently, and then asked in a broken voice, "Fred here?"

"Yes."

"How did he come? Tell me all about it."

So Mrs. Shackelford had to tell all she knew.

"I will see him," said the colonel.

Fred was told his father wished to see him; his heart gave a great bound, as he rushed into the room with the cry of "Father!" on his lips, and was about to spring into his arms when the stern command of "Stop!" rooted him, as it were, to the floor.

"Before you call me father," said the colonel, sternly, "I want to know whether you have repented of your folly, or whether you are here as a spy. If I thought the latter, as sure as there is a God in heaven I would be tempted to give you up to the authorities to be hanged."

If a dagger had pierced Fred's heart it would not have caused him keener pain than the words of his father. He stood for a moment as if deprived of the power of speech. Then the angry surges of an outraged nature came to his relief, and his whole soul arose in protest to the indignity put upon him.

"I have neither repented of my folly, as you call it," he replied fiercely, "nor am I here as a spy. I came here on an errand of mercy at the earnest request of Uncle Charles. Denounce me as a spy if you choose; the act can be no more cruel than your words," and Fred turned and left the room.

"Richard," sobbed Mrs. Shackelford, "are you not too severe with the boy? At extreme peril to himself he brought a letter from Charles, and his coming has been a great comfort to me."

Colonel Shackelford passed his hands before his eyes, and then groped for a chair as if he had been smitten with blindness.

"Jennie," he replied in a low voice, trembling with emotion, "you do not know the agony the course of that boy has caused me. Perhaps I was too severe just now. Tell him I did not mean it. But I am half-crazed over the terrible disaster at Donelson. In a few days, at the most, the Northern horde will be here in Nashville. But," and his face lighted up with enthusiasm, "all is not lost, Jennie; we will soon be back. I know something of the plans of General Johnston. The army will concentrate somewhere along the line of the Memphis and Charleston railroad, probably at Corinth, and then before Grant and Buell can combine we will crush them in detail. They think Donelson has broken our spirit; they will find out differently."

Fred being only in the next room, heard these words, and they made a deep impression on his mind.

Colonel Shackelford soon took his leave, bidding his sister-in-law keep up courage, as the Northern army would soon be hurled back.

The panic in Nashville kept up until February 25th, when, to Fred's joy, General Nelson's division came steaming up the river, and the city was occupied by the Federal army. The stars and stripes once more floated over the State capitol, and never again were they hauled down.

The alarm in Nashville in a great measure subsided, and business once more resumed its way.

As for Fred, his delight at meeting General Nelson so soon was unbounded. He had come to look upon him almost as a father, and the fiery old fellow returned his affection.

Fred told the general of his aunt, and received the promise that he would see that she was not molested or annoyed in any manner, and this promise was religiously kept.

As long as he remained in Nashville Fred made his home at the house of his aunt, and, notwithstanding his Yankee proclivities, became as great a favorite with his cousin Kate as ever. When the time came for Buell to advance, the family parted with Fred almost as affectionately as though he had been one of them; and their sincere prayers followed him that he might be preserved from the dangers of war.