The Soldier Boy; or, Tom Somers in the Army: A Story of the Great Rebellion, - [story reading .TXT] 📗

scene forsook him. He no longer saw the dead and the dying; he no longer heard the appalling roar of battle. He had become a part of the scene, instead of an idle spectator. He was sending the bolt of death into the midst of the enemies of his country.

“Bravo! Good boy, Tom,” said old Hapgood, who seemed to be as much at ease as when he had counselled patience and resignation in the quiet of the tent. “Don’t fire too high, Tom.”

“I’ve got the idea,” replied the soldier boy. “I begin to feel quite at home.”

“O, you’ll do; and I knew you would from the first.”

The shouts of victory which had sounded over the field were full of inspiration to the men; but at the moment when the laurels seemed to be resting securely upon our banners, the rebel line moved forward with irresistible fury. Tom, at one instant, as he cast his eye along the line, found himself flanked on either side by his comrades; at the next there was a wild, indescribable tramp and roar, and he found himself alone. The regiment was scattered in every direction, and he did not see a single man whom he knew. There was a moving mass of Federal soldiers all around him. The Zouaves had been forced back, and the cry of victory had given place to the ominous sounds which betokened a defeat, if not a rout.

The rebels had been reënforced, and had hurled their fresh legions upon our exhausted troops, who could no longer roll back the masses that crowded upon them. The day was lost.

Tom, bewildered by this sudden and disastrous result, moved back with the crowds around him. Men had ceased to be brave and firm; they were fleeing in mortal terror before the victorious battalions that surged against them.

“It’s all up with us, my lad,” said a panting Zouave. “Run for your life. Come along with me.”

Tom followed the Zouave towards the woods, the storm of bullets still raining destruction around them.

Chapter XIV. After the Battle.

Return to Table of Contents

Tom Somers floated with the tide of humanity that was setting away from the scene of disaster and defeat. The panic that prevailed was even more fearful than the battle, for wounded and dying men were mercilessly trodden down by the feet of the horses, and run over by the wheels of the cannon and the baggage wagons. Though the battle was ended, the rebels still poured storms of shot and shell into the retreating, panic-stricken host.

Tom did not know where to go, for there were panic and death on all sides of him. The soldiers were flying in every direction, some of them into the very arms of their remorseless enemies. But the woods seemed to promise the most secure retreat from the fury of the Black Horse Cavalry, which was now sweeping over the battle-field. The Zouave ran in this direction, and our soldier boy followed him. Now that the excitement of the conflict was over, the enthusiasm which had buoyed him up began to subside. The day was lost; all hopes of glory had fled; and a total defeat and rout were not calculated to add much strength to his over-tasked limbs.

He was nearly used up, and it was hard work to run—very hard work; and nothing but the instinct of self-preservation enabled him to keep the tall and wiry form of the Zouave in sight. They reached the ravine, where the water was about three feet deep. The shot, and shell, and bullets still fell in showers around them, and occasionally one of the luckless fugitives was struck down. They crossed the stream, and continued on their flight. An officer on horseback dashed by them, and bade them run with all their might, or they would be taken.

“For Heaven’s sake, get me some water!” said a rebel, who was wounded in the leg, to a Zouave, who passed near him.

“You are a rebel, but I will do that for you,” replied the Zouave; and he gave him a canteen filled with water.

The rebel drank a long, deep draught, and then levelled his musket at the head of his Samaritan enemy and fired. This transaction had occupied but a moment, and Tom saw the whole. His blood froze with horror at the unparalleled atrocity of the act. The Zouave, whom Tom had followed, uttered a terrible oath, and snatching the musket from the hands of the soldier boy, he rushed upon the soulless miscreant, and transfixed him upon the bayonet. Uttering fierce curses all the time, he plunged the bayonet again and again into the vitals of the rebel, till life was extinct.

“Boy, I used to be human once,” said the Zouave, when he had executed this summary justice upon the rebel; “but I’m not human now. I’m all devil.”

“What a wretch that rebel was!” exclaimed Tom, who seemed to breathe freer now that retribution had overtaken the viper.

“A wretch! Haven’t you got any bigger word than that, boy? He was a fiend! But we mustn’t stop here.”

“I thought the rebels were human.”

“Human? That isn’t the first time to-day I’ve seen such a thing as that done. Come along, my boy; come along.”

Tom followed the Zouave again; but he was too much exhausted to run any farther. Even the terrors of the Black Horse Cavalry could not inspire him with strength and courage to continue his flight at any swifter pace than a walk.

“I can go no farther,” said he, at last.

“Yes, you can; pull up! pull up! You will be taken if you stop here.”

“I can’t help it. I can go no farther. I am used up.”

“Pull up, pull up, my boy!”

“I can’t.”

“But I don’t want to leave you here. They’ll murder you—cut your throat, like a dog.”

“I will hide myself in the bushes till I get a little more strength.”

“Try it a little longer. You are too good a fellow to be butchered like a calf,” added the generous Zouave.

But it was no use to plead with him, for exhausted nature refused to support him, and he dropped upon the ground like a log.

“Poor fellow! I would carry you in my arms if I could.”

“Save yourself if you can,” replied Tom, faintly.

The kind-hearted fireman was sorry to leave him, but he knew that one who wore his uniform could expect no mercy from the rebels. They had been too terrible upon the battle-field to receive any consideration from those whom they had so severely punished. He was, therefore, unwilling to trust himself to the tender mercies of the cavalry, who were sweeping the fields to pick up prisoners; and after asking Tom’s name and regiment, he reluctantly left him.

Tom had eaten nothing since daylight in the morning, which, added to the long march, and the intense excitement of his first battle-field, had apparently reduced him to the last extremity. Then, for the first time, he realized what it was to be a soldier. Then he thought of his happy home—of his devoted mother. What must she not suffer when the telegraph should flash over the wires the intelligence of the terrible disaster which had overtaken the Union army! It would be many days, if not weeks or months, before she could know whether he was dead or alive. What anguish must she not endure!

He had but a moment for thoughts like these before he heard the sweep of the rebel cavalry, as they dashed down the road through the woods. He must not remain where he was, or the record of his earthly career would soon be closed. On his hands and knees he crawled away from the road, and rolled himself up behind a rotten log, just in season to escape the observation of the cavalrymen as they rode by the spot.

Here and there in the woods were the extended forms of Federals and rebels, who had dragged their wounded bodies away from the scene of mortal strife to breathe their last in this holy sanctuary of nature, or to escape from the death-dealing shot, and the mangling wheels that rumbled over the dead and the dying. Close by the soldier boy’s retreat lay one who was moaning piteously for water. Tom had filled his canteen at a brook on the way, and he crawled up to the sufferer to lave his dying thirst. On reaching the wounded man, he found that he was a rebel, and the fate of the Zouave who had done a similar kindness only a short time before presented itself to his mind.

“Water! Water! For the love of God, give me a drop of water,” moaned the dying soldier.

Tom thought of the Zouave again, and had almost steeled his heart against the piteous cry. He turned away.

“Water! Water! If you are a Christian give me some water,” groaned the sufferer.

Our soldier boy could no longer resist the appeal. He felt that he could not be loved on earth or forgiven in heaven if he denied the petition of the dying rebel; but before he granted it, he assured himself that the sufferer had no dangerous weapon in his possession. The man was deadly pale; one of his arms hung useless by his side; and he was covered with blood. He was a terrible-looking object, and Tom felt sick and faint as he gazed upon him.

Placing his canteen at the lips of the poor wretch, he bade him drink. His frame quivered as he clutched the canteen with his remaining hand. The death damp was on his forehead; but his eye lighted up with new lustre as he drank the grateful beverage.

“God bless you! God bless you!” exclaimed he as he removed the canteen from his lips. “You are a Yankee,” he added, as he fixed his glazing eyes upon Tom’s uniform. “Are you wounded?”

“No; I am worn out. I have eaten nothing since daylight, and not much then. I am used up.”

“Put your hand in my haversack. There is something there,” gasped the dying man.

Tom bent over him to comply with the invitation; but, with a thrill of horror, he started back, as he listened to the death-rattle in the throat of the rebel, and saw his eyes fixed and lustreless in death. It was an awful scene to the inexperienced youth. Though he had seen hundreds fall in the battle of that day, death had not seemed so ghastly and horrible to him as now, when he stood face to face with the grim monster. For a few moments he forgot his own toil-worn limbs, his craving hunger, and his aching head.

He gazed upon the silent form before him, which had ceased to suffer, and he felt thankful that he had been able to mitigate even a single pang of the dying rebel. But not long could he gaze, awe-struck, at the ghastly spectacle before him, for he had a life to save. The words of the sufferer—his last words—offering him the contents of his haversack recurred to him; but Tom’s sensibilities recoiled at the thought of eating bread taken from the body of a dead man, and he turned away.

“Why shouldn’t I take it?” said he to himself. “It may save my life. With rest and food, I may escape. Pooh! I’ll not be a fool!”

Bending over the dead man, he resolutely cut the haversack from his body, and then returned to the log whose friendly shelter had screened him from the eyes of the rebel horsemen. Seating himself upon the ground, he commenced exploring the haversack. It contained two “ash-cakes,” a slice of bacon, and a small bottle. Tom’s eyes glowed with delight as he gazed upon this rich feast, and, without waiting to say grace or consider the circumstances under which he obtained the materials for his feast, he began to eat. Ash-cake was a new institution to him. It was an Indian cake baked in the ashes, probably at the camp-fires of the rebels at Manassas. It tasted very much like his mother’s johnny-cake, only he missed the fresh butter with which he had been wont to cover the article at home.

The soldier boy ate the bacon, and ate both of the cakes, though each of the latter was about the size of a saucer. It was a large meal, even for a growing boy; but every mouthful seemed to put a new sinew into his frame. While he was eating, he drew the cork from the bottle. It contained whiskey. Tom had heard that there was virtue in whiskey; that it was invigorating to a tired man, and he was tempted, under these extremely trying circumstances, to experiment upon the beverage. He would certainly have been excusable if he had done so; but our hero had a kind of horror of the article, which would not let him even taste it. He was afraid that he should acquire a habit which would go with him through life, and make him what Hapgood and others whom he knew were—a torment to