CHAPTER XIX.
John Crawford the Zouave, and Bob Webster, ditto—Bush-fighting, With Various Results—The Burning House and a strange Death-Scene—John Crawford becomes a Man of Family.
It has not yet been our fortune to happen upon John Crawford the Zouave, in the search for whom we have stumbled upon Malvern Hill and its fearful panorama of bloodshed. As a member of the Advance Guard, he, was not likely to be absent from the fierce charge made by his corps at the close of that day; and he was not. It is at the very moment of the conclusion of that charge, that the quest becomes successful.
John Crawford participated in that general advance, in the front rank of the Zouaves, in high health and spirits, and yelling quite as loudly and discordantly as any of his companions. This was not his first adventure with the bayonet, for he had gone unwounded through the determined charges of his corps, with the same deadly weapon, at Williamsburgh and Fair Oaks; and he had grown to have confidence in himself and in any body of men that used the modern footman's lance with the due ferocity. Though five years younger than his brother Richard, John Crawford looked older than he did even in his sickness; for the exposures of a year had browned his round and ruddy face, if it had not dimmed the brightness of his blue eye; and the heavy waved brown hair and moustache in which he retained so prominent a characteristic of his Gaelic ancestry of a hundred years before, added materially to the appearance of manly maturity. Were it a preux chevalier sitting under this verbal lens for his photograph, there might be difficulty in proceeding farther in this description; for though your knight of old seems to have been splendidly oblivious as to the needs of clean linen, and able to wear one surcoat and one suit of armor for any length of time without becoming repugnant to the nose of his lady when brought-into the opportunity for an embrace,—yet the heroes of this day have sore need of occasional aid from the washerwoman, and even the tailor becomes necessary for the replenishing of worn-out and faded garments. John Crawford the Zouave—the truth must be told—though he showed very little shirt, showed that little in an unclean condition; and the baggy red of his trousers and the hanging blue of his jacket, both looked shabby and discolored. Not much more could be said in favor of the white and yellow turban with the dirty white tassel hanging behind, ostensibly worn on his head but really drooping on the back part of it, quite as much as were the ladies' bonnets two or three years ago when the suggestion was made that they "should be carried behind them in a spoon." And yet this soiled and uncombed man was a soldier—every inch a soldier—and had in him all the materials for the making of a hero.
We have said that John Crawford was in good health and spirits, after sharing with the army in all its battles, fatigues and privations. He was so, not alone because the corps was somewhat better managed and cared for than many of the others, but because he was a sober man and one physically well-educated. He did not heat his blood for fever, and debilitate his system for exposure, by the use of liquor whenever he could reach it; and having been a member of the Seventh before he joined the Zouaves, and a habitue of the Gymnasium so much affected by the members of that regiment, he had acquired some capacity of bearing fatigue before entering upon that soldier-life which of all demands the most unrelaxing endurance.
A picture very little different from that just presented, though taller and lanker in figure, was to be found in Bob Webster, John Crawford's comrade and file-closer, who went into the charge that evening at his side. A little less hardy, more of a giant in strength, and with a ruddy tinge on the end of his long nose, that had been acquired by more years and more whiskey than confessed to by Crawford—such was the only difference observable in the two men of the dirty white turbans and the discolored uniforms, who went into battle together.
The point of the enemy's front at which the Zouaves struck in the charge, was considerably to the right of the Union centre (the enemy's left) and very near to the edge of the wood bounding Carter's Field on the North. The company to which the two comrades belonged had the extreme right, (the post of honor), and they were consequently, when the charge had penetrated so far that the rebels began to give way, almost in the edge of the woods. Some of the men in a South Carolina regiment, the enemy's extreme left, seemed to fight like fiends, supported by a battery of the same State that it became necessary to capture. This was finally swept, and the South Carolinians at last gave way, falling back into the woods, now beginning to grow dark, but firing from behind trees as they retired. Too much excited to heed the recall just then sounded, a dozen or two of the Zouaves, remembering their unexpended ammunition, tried their hand for the time at bush-fighting, with more or less success. Some of them were shot down, but others succeeded in killing or capturing the peculiar fugitives of whom they started in chase. Crawford and Webster had so far succeeded in keeping together, and neither had received even a scratch.
One of the rebels, conspicuous by the fact that he had lost or thrown off his coat and was consequently in "Irish uniform," had been especially followed by half a dozen of the Zouaves, as he fell back farther and farther into the woods, dodging and firing from behind trees, and proving that he must have come from one of the hill regions of the Palmetto State, where the hunting of wild beasts yet keeps the woodman in train for a soldier. Not less than three of the Zouaves had paid for their tenacity with their lives, by shots sent from that single long-rifle. Crawford and Webster, fancying that they bore charmed lives, still kept on the chase, catching glimpses through the dusk, of the rebel's shirt, as it dodged in and out behind the trees. In this manner they had penetrated perhaps a quarter of a mile into the woods, the sounds of the battle growing more and more indistinct behind them, when a broad light burst up through the trees to the North, shining redly through boles and branches and indicating a fire in the immediate neighborhood.
"What is that?" said Webster, his attention momentarily distracted from the rebel whom he had seen dodging behind a tree but a moment before.
"A fire of some kind," said Crawford, looking in the same direction. "From its size, it may be a burning house."