The Sword of Antietam: A Story of the Nation's Crisis by Joseph A. Altsheler (little bear else holmelund minarik txt) 📗

in and save our army at Antietam, and then it was but a little time before we fought at Perryville. That wasn't as big a battle as some of the others, but Dick, for those mad three hours it seemed that all the demons of death were turned loose.”

“It certainly looked like it, George, you stiff old Vermonter, and I don't forget that you came to save me.”

“Shut up about that, or I'll hit you over the head with the butt of my pistol. I merely paid back, though I only paid about half of what I was owing to you. The chance luckily came sooner than I had hoped. But, Dick, what a morning to follow Christmas.”

A chilly rain was pouring down. A cold fog was rising from the Cumberland, wrapping the town in mists. It was certainly a dreary time in which to march to battle, and the young soldiers rising in the gloom of the dawn and starting amid such weather were depressed.

“Pennington,” said Warner, “will you help me in a request to our Kentucky friend to join us in three cheers for the Sunny South, the edge of which he has the good fortune to inhabit? I haven't seen the real sun for about a month, and I suppose that's why they call it sunny, and I'm informed that this big river, the Cumberland, often freezes over, which I suppose is the reason why they call it Southern. I hear, too, that people often freeze to death in North Georgia, which is further south than this. After this bit of business is over I'm going to forbid winter campaigns in the south.”

“It does get mighty cold,” said Dick. “You see we're not really a southern people. We just lie south of the northern states and in Kentucky, at least, we have a lot of cold weather. Why, I've seen it twenty-three degrees below zero in the southern part of the state, and it certainly can get cold in Tennessee, too.”

“I believe I'd rather have it than this awful rain,” said Pennington. “I don't seem to get used to these cold soakings.”

“Good-bye, Nashville,” said Dick, turning about. “I don't know when we will have to come back, and if we do I don't know what will have happened before then. Good-bye, Nashville. I regret your roofs and your solid walls, and your dry tents and floors.”

“But we're going forth to fight. Don't forget that, Dick. Remember how in Virginia we pined for battle, and the use of our superior numbers. Anyhow Rosecrans is going out to look for the enemy, but all the same, and between you and me, Dick, I wish it was Grant who was leading us. I saw a copy of the New York Times a while back, and some lines in it are haunting me. Here they are:

“Back from the trebly crimsoned field Terrible woods are thunder-tost: Full of the wrath that will not yield, Full of revenge for battles lost: Hark to their echo as it crost The capital making faces wan: End this murderous holocaust; Abraham Lincoln give us a man.”

“Sounds good,” said Dick, “and, George, you and Frank and I know that what we want is a man. We've lost big battles, because we didn't have a big man, who could see at once and think like lightning, to lead us. But we'll get him sooner or later! We'll get him. Did any other troops ever bear up like ours under defeats and drawn battles? Listen to 'em now!”

Slow and deep and sung by many thousand men rose the rolling chorus:

“The army is gathering from near and from far; The trumpet is sounding the call for the war; Old Rosey's our leader, he's gallant and strong; We'll gird on our armor and be marching along.”

“Now,” cried Warner, “all together.” And the thundering chorus rose:

“Marching, we are marching along, Gird on the armor and be marching along; Old Rosey's our leader, he's gallant and strong; For God and our country we are marching along.”

As the mighty chorus, sung by fifty thousand men, rose and throbbed through the cold and rain, Dick felt his own heart throbbing in unison. Rosecrans might or might not be a great general, but he certainly was not permitting the enemy to rest easy in winter quarters at Murfreesborough. Dick had no doubt that they were about to meet the foe of Perryville face to face again.

The enemies were largely the same as those of other battles in the west. The Northern army advanced in three divisions toward Murfreesborough. McCook, whose division contained the Winchester regiment, was in the center, General Thomas led the right wing on the Franklin road, and General Crittenden led the left wing. Bragg who was before them had nearly the same generals as at Shiloh, Hardee, Breckinridge, and the others.

Dick knew that the advance of the Northern army would be seen at once. This was the country of the enemy. The forces of the Union held only the ground on which they were camped. Thousands of hostile eyes were watching Rosecrans, and, even if Bragg himself were lax, any movement by the army from Nashville would be reported at once to the army in Murfreesborough. But they had a vigilant foe, they knew, and they expected to encounter his pickets soon.

“They're probably watching us now through the fog and rain,” said Colonel Winchester to Dick as they left the last house of Nashville behind. “They know every inch of these hills and valleys.”

It was not a great distance to Murfreesborough, but they found the marching slow. The feet of the horses sank deep in the mud and the cannon and wagons were almost mired. But despite mud and rain and cold, the army pressed bravely on. They were the same lads and their like who had marched forward so hopefully to Donelson and Shiloh. Through the rain and the soughing of wheels in the mud rolled their battle songs, sung with all the spirit and fire of youth.

Colonel Winchester and all the officers helped with the cannon and wagons and soon they were covered with mud. The Winchester regiment was in the lead, and Sergeant Whitley suddenly pointing with a thick forefinger, said:

“There are the Johnnies! Their pickets are waiting for us!”

Dick saw through the mist and rain a considerable body of men down the road, most of them on horseback. He knew at once that they were Southern pickets, and the eager lads around him, seeing them, knew it, too. Not waiting for command they set up a shout and charged down the road. Rifles instantly flashed through the rain and a sharp fire met them. Men fell, but others pressed on with all the more zeal, seeing just beyond the Southern pickets the roofs of a little town. Cannon shot also whizzed among them, indicating that the Southern pickets were in strong force.

But the Northern troops, full of vigor and zeal, swept back the pickets and charged directly upon a larger force in the town beyond. A short and fierce battle for the possession of the village ensued, but this was only a Southern outpost, and it was not strong enough to withstand the rush of the Ohio men and Winchester's regiment. Fighting at every step they retreated through the village and into the forest beyond, leaving one of their cannon in the hands of the Union troops.

“An omen of victory,” exclaimed Dick, when he saw the captured cannon.