Onward, onward they pressed, Isaac wondering sometimes how Tom Carleton fared, and looking again in quest of their young Lieutenant Graham, still towering above them all, in spite of Rose’s prediction. The ball for which he was the mark had not been fired yet, but it was coming. An Alabamian volunteer had singled out that form, yelling exultingly as he saw it reel and totter like a broken reed. They were well matched in size, the two combatants, both splendid marks, as Rose had said, and Bill Baker’s sure aim froze the laugh upon the Alabamian’s lips and sent him staggering to the ground, just as Isaac received his captain’s orders to lead the fainting, wounded George to a place of comparative safety.
“It’s only my arm they’ve shattered,” George whispered, glancing sadly at the disabled limb over which Isaac’s tears were falling. “Will it kill me, think?” was the next remark, prompted by a thought of Annie.
Isaac did not believe it would, and with all a woman’s tenderness he bound it up and held his canteen to the lips of the fainting, weary man, whispering,
“Water, boy, water.”
Isaac had not, like many others, thrown his canteen away, and he gave freely to the thirsty George, who, with each draught, felt his pulse grow stronger, while his eyes kindled with fresh zeal as the noise of the battle grew louder, and seemed to be coming nearer. The onslaught was terrible now. Cannon after cannon belched forth its terrific thunder, ball after ball sped on its deadly track, battery after battery opened its blazing fire, shell after shell cut the summer air, and burst with murderous hiss; shout after shout rent the smoky sky, shriek after shriek went down with the rushing wind, officer after officer bit the dust, rank after rank was broken up, soul after soul went to the bar of God, and then there came a pause. The firing ceased, the stifling smoke rolled gradually away, and showed a dreadful sight,—men mutilated and torn, till not a vestige of their former looks was left to tell who they had been. Mingled together, in one frightful mass, the dead and dying lay, smiles wreathing the livid lips of some, and frowns disfiguring others. Arms, hands, and feet, heads, fingers, toes, and clots of human hair, dripping red with blood, were scattered over the field,—parts of the living mass we saw but a few hours agone moving on so hopefully beneath the morning moonlight, “Like leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,” they lay there now, their mangled remains crying loudly to Heaven for vengeance on the heads of those who brought this curse upon us.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE RETREAT.
The day was ours, nobly won with sweat and toil and blood, and the brave men who won it were thinking of the laurels so laboriously earned, when suddenly the entire scale was turned, and ere they knew what they were doing, the tired, jaded troops found themselves rushing headlong from the battle-field, never so much as casting a backward glance, but each striving to out-run the other, and so escape from they knew not what! How that panic happened no one can tell. Some charged it to the reckless conduct of a band of Regulars sent back for ammunition, and others upon the idle lookers on, the curious ones, who had come “to see the Rebels whipped,” and who at the first intimation of defeat joined in the general stampede, making the confusion worse, and adding greatly to the fright of the flying multitude.
It was a strange retreat our soldiers made. All law and order were at an end, company mixed with company, regiment with regiment, and together they rushed headlong down the hill, many in their dismay fording the creek regardless of the shot and shell sent after them by the astonished foe, now really in pursuit.
Some there were, however, who made the retreat more leisurely, and among these, Bill Baker. Remembering the mark he had fixed in his own mind, he sought among the slain for Harry, finding him at last, trampled and crushed by the flying troops, and wholly unrecognizable by any save a brother’s eye. Bill knew him, however, in a moment, but there was no time now to “do the tender,” as he had purposed doing. There was danger in tarrying long, and with a shudder Bill bent over the mangled form, and with his jack-knife severed a lock of matted, bloodwet hair, taking also from the pockets whatever of value they contained, not from any avaricious motive, but rather from a feeling that the rebels should get nothing save the body.