Brave Deeds of Union Soldiers

by Samuel Scoville

It only took an instant to cover the distance from the column to the wounded man. Kenyon reached him just in time to catch the riderless horse which had at last freed his bridle from the weak grip of his wounded master. Kenyon swung himself to the ground and holding the two plunging horses with his right hand, pulled his friend to his feet and with a tremendous effort finally hoisted him into his saddle again. By this time the pursuing cavalry was within pistol-shot and the revolver bullets began to sing around the heads of the two men.

"You hang on to your saddle, Jim," said Kenyon, "and I'll take care of your horse."

Bending low in his saddle, he dug his spurs deep into his horse's sides, at the same time keeping his grip on the reins of the other horse and in a few minutes the two were back again in the rear of the retreating column. All through the retreat Kenyon stuck to his comrade and finally landed him safely in the field-hospital in front of which the Union Army had thrown up entrenchments which stopped all further pursuit.

War, like everything else, is always a one-man job. It was the one man Hannibal that took a tropical army of sunburned Arabs, Carthaginians, Abyssinians, Berbers and soldiers from half a score of other southern nations and cut and built and tunneled his way through the ice and snow and cold of the Alps. Not only did his indomitable will carry his men through an impossible and unknown region, but it was this one man who for the first time in the history of the world marched elephants up over the Alps. Over two thousand years later it was one man again who took a ragged, battered, beaten army and marched over the same route and through the avalanches and snow-covered peaks and blinding snow-storms of the Great Bernard Pass. When the men turned trembling back from the brink of immeasurable precipices and before cliffs which seemed as if they could be climbed only by the chamois, Napoleon would order the drums and bugles to strike up the signal for a charge and up and over his soldiers went. It was this one short, frail, little man that fused this army into a great fighting machine, marched it over impossible mountains and swept down into Italy to win as great victories as did his fierce predecessor twenty centuries before.

The records of the War Department are full of instances where men singly did seemingly impossible things. There was Patrick Ginley, a private in a New York regiment. At Reams Station, Virginia, the command in which he fought deserted important works which they occupied and retreated under the tremendous fire of the advancing enemy. Patrick remained. It seemed impossible that only one man could do anything except throw away his life, but Patrick made up his mind that he would accomplish everything that one man could. Accordingly as the enemy surged up to occupy the works with cheers and laughter at the sight of the retreating bluecoats, they were suddenly staggered by receiving a tremendous cannonade of grape-shot which cut down the entire first two ranks of the approaching company. It was Private Ginley who, single-handed, had loaded and sighted the gun and coolly waited until the enemy were within pointblank range. The Confederates were thrown into confusion. They suspected a Yankee trick and thought that the retreat had been made simply to lure them into close range. In the confusion they fell back, although they could have marched in without any further opposition, for as soon as Ginley had fired the gun, he escaped out of the rear of the earthworks and hastened to another Union regiment which was holding its ground near by. Waving his arms over his head and shouting like a mad-man, he rushed up to the astonished men and grabbed the colors out of the hands of the bewildered color-sergeant.

"Come on, boys!" he shouted. "I've got some good guns and a nice bit of fortification just waitin' for you. Look at the way I drove them back all by myself."

And he waved the colors toward the shattered Confederates who were slowly forming into line again preparatory to an assault, and started back for the works as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Come on, you fellows," he yelled over his shoulder; "do you want me to drive them back twice?"

His example was all that was needed. There was a cheer from officers and men alike and close behind him thundered the charge of the regiment. With a rush they swept up over the earthworks, drove the Confederates, who had just entered from the other side, out headlong, manned the whole works and in a minute were pouring charges of grape and canister from the retaken guns which completed their victory. A defeat had been changed into a victory, eleven guns and important works had been retaken from the enemy and a regiment of Confederates disorganized and driven from the field. One man did it.

The deeds that most appeal to our imagination are single combats—one man against a multitude when daring and dash and coolness and skill take the place of numbers. History is full of such stories. We love to read of that great death-fight of Hereward the Wake, the Last of the English, when with sturdy little Winter at his back, he fought his last fight ringed around with hateful, treacherous foes. At his feet the pile of dead and wounded men grew high and higher until no one dared step within the sweep of that fatal sword. At last when Winter had fallen, some treacherous coward thrust a spear into Hereward's defenseless back. As he lay fallen on his face, apparently dead, one of his foemen stepped over to rob him of his sword when Hereward struggled to his knees and struck forward with his shield so fiercely, the last blow of the last Englishman, that he laid his man dead on the field.