For a moment I was senseless from a blow received either from the hoof of the sergeant’s horse, or by falling against one of the timbers of the causeway. When I came to myself I was clinging to the tail of the sergeant’s horse, while the sergeant, as I presently discovered, was holding by one of the stirrups.
How long we remained in the water, I do not know, but it must have been nearly an hour. The poor horse swam around in a purposeless way, not knowing where to go, until finally he sank exhausted beneath the tide. Cool as the night was the salt water was tepid as it always is on that coast. Otherwise I should not now be alive to tell of that Christmas Eve.
We got out at last and found ourselves on the island again. Despairing now—for without horses it was simply impossible to get to Bluffton until long after the time when our coming would be of any use—we trudged doggedly across the island, that we might wait and listen at the water’s edge for the booming of the cannon.
Two more utterly wretched young men no Christmas morning ever dawned upon.
“See there,” said the sergeant, halting suddenly. “There’s the fleet, and bless my soul it’s putting to sea.”
It was true enough. No attack was to be made after all. We had spent the night drowning horses, and nearly drowning ourselves for nothing.
Why the fleet had steamed several miles up the creek before putting to sea, I have never been able to guess. But I vividly remember that its prank subjected me to a twelve miles’ walk that morning, and compelled me to substitute quinine and dogwood-root-bark bitters that day for the Christmas dinner I had planned.
THE WOMEN OF PETERSBURG
WE went into Petersburg in June, 1864, with the horses at a brisk trot, and the men on foot at a double quick.
The enemy’s battalions were already at the other end of Sycamore Street, and it was our task to drive them back before they should be reinforced.