CHAPTER XVII. RALPH RE-ENLISTS.

NCE again our hero was in Chicago. The city had put on its spring dress, and well was it named the Garden City, for the streets at that time were nearly all bordered with trees, and their green foliage gave it, at a little distance, the appearance a wooded plain, for the city is built on level ground—indeed, it was once a swamp, and it has cost the labor of years and an outlay of millions of dollars to reclaim it from its original state, and fill in and grade and elevate its highways.

The terrible battle of Chancellorsville had been fought, under General Hooker (“Fighting Joe,” as the soldiers loved to call him), and a victory had resulted for the Union army. The news electrified the North, and great results were predicted. General Hooker had been given the command after the utter failure of General Burnside at Fredericksburg, and his soldiers were ready to follow him to the death, for he was intrepid and fearless. This memorable engagement had been fought with Hooker on the Federal forces, and Stonewall Jackson, the brave Confederate leader on the Confederate side. He was General Lee's right hand man, the ablest and best Lieutenant he ever had. Close upon this victory came the news that General Jackson had been shot by his own men. When the shades of evening began to fall, he rode to the front to see what could be learned of the movements of the Federals, and as he rode back to his own lines, surrounded by his staff, some of his own followers, watchful and faithful to their duty, not recognizing him in the dim twilight, but mistaking the mounted men for cavalry belonging to the Union side, fired a volley at them, killing several of the horsemen, and wounding others. This was, of course, supposed to be an attack from some of the Union soldiers, and to them was imputed the firing. The Confederate loss in the day's encounter had been severe, and they smarted at their defeat, They had been met by such a storm of grape and canister as no mortal power could withstand. The charge of Major Peter Keenan, which had been ordered by General Pleasanton, had been so brilliant that it had surprised the Confederates, who could not believe that Keenan, with four hundred men, would dare oppose ten thousand of their infantry, and they concluded that tremendous numbers must be behind them. The Major, with his little band, was slain, but his charge stopped the onset of the Confederates.

The stories of individual bravery which are furnished by the annals of the conflict, are alone enough to fill a volume, but will probably never be written. The heroic Major knew that he was inviting death, but he never faltered. Indeed, his own words were to that effect, for he said to his officers, “It is the same as saying we must be killed, but we'll do it.” And his words proved prophetic, for he fell, and but few came out of that engagement alive.

The twilight was falling, veiling every object in its uncertain light, the trees cast their dark shadows over the path which General Jackson had chosen. As his men, ever watchful, saw the result of their first volley, they became exultant at their success, and again they loaded their guns, discharging them at the form of the leader of the approaching party, who had thus singularly fallen into their hands. They knew that they had wounded an officer, and as he fell from his seat, they rushed forward to learn his rank and name, if possible. Alas, to their consternation, they discovered that their beloved commander, General Jackson, had received three wounds. His steed, mad with fright, plunged wildly forward, and dashed into the depths of the thicket, tossing him against the limbs of the trees in his path, and bruising him most severely.

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While his men were sorrowfully conveying him to the rear, a Union battery belched forth its fire down the road after them, one man was wounded, and the General fell to the ground. He was borne to an hospital but lived only one week, after having endured amputation of his arm.

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Bounties had been offered in all the Northern States. New York was offering liberal sums to recruits. The new levy for 300,000 men ordered in April had not been filled, and trouble was anticipated, as a draft had been threatened. But in Chicago no such fears disturbed her people.

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Ralph found that city full of activity. Groups were gathered on every street corner discussing the war and their hopes of its probable early ending. The South had suffered severely in loss of men and means, and so had the North. Many a family could point to the “vacant chair” and lament the dear one who had gone, never to return. Death had been busy at every fireside and the cruel war had wrought the havoc.

But the spirit of patriotism was not dead, but burned more brightly than ever, and those who had lain down their lives were embalmed in the hearts of a grateful people. They fell in a sacred cause, and their memories will live forever.

Ralph walked through the streets with a hopeful step. He had won his mother's free consent to go to the front, but little did he dream how far from willing the consent she had spoken was. He knew, too, that her blessing accompanied him everywhere, and he wished he could see her now, and tell her how happy he was. Turning down a street near the river, he saw a crowd standing round an office, on whose front was a big poster, with the words—“Recruits wanted—Enlist here!” Stepping in at the door, he saw a motley crowd of men pushing and jostling each other in their desire to be among the earliest to be enrolled. A military man sat at a desk, with a huge book open before him, and two officers sat near at desks, writing busily.

Ralph made known his business as soon as he could engage the officer's attention. He was questioned as to his age, occupation, and many other particulars.

“You say you've been in the army already?” the officer queried, while he looked earnestly into the boy's face. “How is it that you are here now, trying to re-enlist? Why did you not serve your time?”

“I got sick, really sick, sir,” as he saw a smile flit over the other's face. “I did not want to come home, but the doctor said I would surely die if I remained. I received a discharge and went home to mother, and she cured me all up, and I am well—well, and stronger than ever. And now I want to go back to the boys in the army, and help them finish this contract they have taken, to bring the South back into the Union. Yes, I want to enlist 'for the war.'”

As the boy concluded, his eye grew bright, his cheeks were flushed, and his form seemed to expand with the strength of his emotions.

The officer seemed to enjoy his earnestness, and writing down his name, age, and place of birth, passed him over to the doctor for examination. He passed satisfactorily, and thankfully he heard the verdict of the doctor. He was sent to military headquarters, and then he was assigned to the Seventy-second Illinois Infantry. That regiment was the first one organized by the Board of Trade of Chicago. It was then at Milliken's Bend, after having tried in vain to make the Yazoo Pass. A canal had been ordered dug by General Sherman in a bend opposite Vicksburg, into which he was confident he could divert the river, but this plan was checked by the sudden rising of the river, and it was only by a miracle that entire regiments escaped drowning.

The attempt afterward made by General Grant to enter this Pass had proved equally disappointing, even though an embankment which the Confederates had thrown up had been as promptly blown up by him. His boats entered the streams, whose banks had heavy growths of timber, only to find that the Confederates had cut down trees of immense bulk, and thrown them across the channel. But General Grant kept on, removing the fallen, trees that blocked the way, but he at once discovered that he was placing himself in a trap, for the rebels were felling trees and throwing them across the channel behind him, so that he could not get out again. They had also raised earthworks at a point where two rivers met, and they were well guarded.

There was one forlorn chance left, yet untried, and that was to go up the Yazoo a short distance, in boats, and pass into Big Sunflower River, and then descend that stream into the Yazoo again. This hazardous expedition was intrusted to Generals Sherman and Porter, to carry forward.

The situation was desperate. The channels were narrow, there was no solid ground on which to plant troops, the cane-brake was dense and nearly impassable, and they actually had to pick their way through the dark and uncanny swamp by the aid of candles. It was inviting death too openly to proceed, for, added to natures horrors, the whole region swarmed with sharpshooters to whom every step of the way was familiar, and whose unerring aim told heavily all along the lines of the Federals, who were glad to escape from the narrow pass.

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Commodore Farragut, with one gunboat and his flagship, had shot by the batteries at Port Hudson, and several boats had passed Vicksburg. On the night of April 16 Commodore Porter ran by the batteries, but the watchful enemy had provided for this move, and suddenly setting fire to huge heaps of wood on the bank, a brilliant flame darted up to the heavens, and by its light for an hour and a half they sent a heavy fire into the fleet, which as industriously returned the courtesy as it steamed past its adversary. But the Federal fleet met with no loss save the sinking of one transport.

This was some of the history of the campaign which the regiment to which Ralph was sent had taken part in, and the thought of joining it gave him unbounded delight.

“I was not contented, dear mother,” he wrote to her a few days later, “until I was back with the boys in blue. This is a lovely country. When this war is over, I'll bring you down here, and we'll spend our days where nature has done so much for her creatures.”

Down the river they steamed. When they reached Milliken's Bend, Louisiana, their corps united with Grant's army in its memorable march on Vicksburg. Ralph was on the alert to see all that he could of the country. But there were no signs of aught but desolation. Fences had been torn down, and consumed to cook the camp fare on marches; here a pile of charred timber told where a house had once reared its stately head; a few half-starved animals roamed round an old, deserted place, in search of the food they needed. Poverty, devastation and ruin were evident everywhere, and spoke plainly of the blight that followed in the wake of the armies that had tramped over and destroyed the beautiful homes of former days.

The morning of May 16, they reached Champion's Hill, where they found severe work. General Sherman had been left at Jackson to destroy the railroad, and the factories which were making goods for the Confederate soldiers. He performed this task with thoroughness. He now received orders from General Grant to send forward an ammunition train, so as to be ready for the battle that must take place soon. He was not disappointed. At Champion's Hill, on rising ground, he found General Pemberton waiting to receive him, with 23,000 men drawn up in line. His force held the vantage, as they were stationed on high ground, commanding three roads, and thus it was admirably calculated for a defensive point.

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For hours the fighting went on. The Union force's made a overwhelming charge, and the rebel lines wavered, but speedily regained their position. It was a desperate duel, and fought to the death.

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General Pemberton had a splendid army of well-disciplined men, and when the two lines met with impetuosity, the day seemed lost to the Federals. General Logan saw the danger threatening them, and pushing forward on the right with his magnificent division, he passed the rebel General's left flank, and secured the only road by which the latter could make his retreat.

The enemy were dismayed. Cut off from escape, they knew defeat was inevitable. The movement of Logan had been so sudden and brilliant that there was not a moment of grace given them. But that General was not conscious that he held the road in his grasp, and when General Hovey, who was besieged vigorously by the Confederates, a few moments later, shouted for aid, Logan fell back to his assistance.

[Original]

Now was their chance, for the road was left unguarded, and a dash was made by General Pemberton, whose flying columns were in full retreat, without giving a thought to his dead and wounded, left uncared for on the field. He also abandoned thirty guns, and crossed the Big Black River.

The battle was over, and to the opportune move of the brave Logan was due the hard-won success of the day. Four hours of hard fighting had been followed by the usual harvest of dead and maimed. Nurses and hospital stewards succored all whom they could find, but wounded men were lying between the lines and in every corner, groaning with the anguish of uncared for injuries. Among those lost on the Confederate side was General Tilghman, who fell early in the day.

The soldiers found a brief rest in sleep. Ralph had thrown himself on the ground in a state of perfect exhaustion. He would not confess, even to himself, that he had overrated his strength. But when the stars came out, and the silence of night succeeded, nature asserted her rights, and he slept undisturbed by dreams of carnage and bloodshed, but his visions were of home and its charms.

“Wake up, young fellow!”

He sprang to his feet, while a man of about forty, who had been shaking him violently, said, with a hearty laugh:

“You're something of a sleeper. Rip Van Winkle is nowhere. Reveille has sounded, the regiments are ready to move as soon as we get a cup of coffee, and you've been sleeping through it all, as sweetly as if you were in your little bed at home. It's a mighty fine thing to have a clear conscience.”

And the pleasant-faced soldier gave Ralph a gentle push as he gathered himself up, and made a jump for one of the fires that were burning in different spots, kindled by the hungry men to boil their coffee, or cook a bit, before they took up the march again. The other followed closely at his heels, and sitting on a fallen log they were soon busy “fortifying their inner man,” amid much laughing and chaffing going on around them.

That is a marked trait of the American soldier, be he from North or South. No amount of hardship, no deprivations, can destroy that love of fun which is inborn. He is always ready to see the comic side of all situations, as he merrily laughs at danger, and jokes almost in the very presence of death.

That day General Pemberton was overtaken at the Big Black. Here he had stationed his main body on high land, but on the east of the stream the ground was low and wet, and on this spot the remainder of his command was held.

“We have got to dislodge Pemberton from his position,” Ralph heard a comrade say. “He has a splendid view of all we are doing, and can make a stanch resistance. But we'll soon set him running again, and he'll have to find a better lookout than the one he now occupies.”

“See!” shouted Ralph. “General Lawler is leading the attack on their right flank. They give way—they fall back! The General is in his shirt sleeves, and looks as if he were in earnest!”

“Shouldn't wonder if he was. He's a hard one to tackle, and won't stand on ceremony. He don't go into battle in a full dress suit. Just look over there. Pemberton is retreating, skedaddling. His men have set fire to that bridge, and how is he going to cover the retreat of his rear guard down there in the bayou?”

“He's not trying to save them at all, but is looking after No. One. By George, he's off, and has left those poor fellows to be captured, or shot down, he don't care which.”

It was true. He ran away in mad haste, making no effort to cover their retreat, but abandoned the panic-stricken men in the lowland to their fate. Wild with terror, with no leader to direct, many of them flung themselves into the river, only to sink beneath the waters, and those who were left were taken prisoners by the Federals.