CHAPTER XXI. THE BATTLE OF FREDERICKSBURG
About the middle of December came the sad tragedy of Fredericksburg,in which thousands of our gallant soldiers yielded up their lives in ahard, unequal struggle, which brought forth nothing but mortificationand disaster.
The first telegrams which appeared in the daily papers brought anxietyand bodings of ill to many households. The dwellers at the farm werenot exempt. They had been apprised by a recent letter that Mr. Frost'sregiment now formed a part of the grand army which lay encamped onthe eastern side of the Rappahannock. The probability was that he wasengaged in the battle. Frank realized for the first time to what perilhis father was exposed, and mingled with the natural feeling which sucha thought was likely to produce was the reflection that, but for him,his father would have been in safety at home.
"Did I do right?" Frank asked himself anxiously, the old doubt recurringonce more.
Then, above the selfish thought of peril to him and his, rose theconsideration of the country's need, and Frank said to himself, "I havedone right--whatever happens. I feel sure of that."
Yet his anxiety was by no means diminished, especially when, a day ortwo afterward, tidings of the disaster came to hand, only redeemed bythe masterly retreat across the river, in which a great army, withoutthe loss of a single gun, ambulance, or wagon, withdrew from the sceneof a hopeless struggle, under the very eyes of the enemy, yet escapingdiscovery.
One afternoon Frank went to the post-office a little after the usualtime. As he made his way through a group at the door, he noticecompassionate glances directed toward him.
His heart gave a sudden bound.
"Has anything happened to my father?" he inquired, with pale face. "Haveany of you heard anything?"
"He is wounded, Frank," said the nearest bystander.
"Show it to me," said Frank.
In the evening paper, which was placed in his hands, he read a singleline, but of fearful import: "Henry Frost, wounded." Whether the woundwas slight or serious, no intimation was given.
Frank heaved a sigh of comparative relief. His father was not dead, ashe at first feared. Yet he felt that the suspense would be a serioustrial. He did not know how to tell his mother. She met him at the gate.His serious face and lagging steps revealed the truth, exciting at firstapprehensions of something even more serious.
For two days they remained without news. Then came a letter from theabsent father, which wonderfully lightened all their hearts. The factthat he was able to write a long letter with his own hand showed plainlythat his wound must be a trifling one. The letter ran thus:
"DEAR MARY: I fear that the report of my wound will reach you beforethis letter comes to assure you that it is a mere scratch, and scarcelyworth a thought. I cannot for an instant think of it, when I considerhow many of our poor fellows have been mown down by instant death, orare now lying with ghastly wounds on pallets in the hospital. We havebeen through a fearful trial, and the worst thought is that our lossesare not compensated by a single advantage.
"Before giving you an account of it from the point of view of a privatesoldier, let me set your mind at rest by saying that my injury is only aslight flesh-wound in the arm, which will necessitate my carrying it ina sling for a few days; that is all.
"Early on the morning of Thursday, the 10th inst., the first act in thegreat drama commenced with laying the pontoon bridges over which our menwere to make their way into the rebel city. My own division was to crossdirectly opposite the city. All honor to the brave men who volunteeredto lay the bridges. It was a trying and perilous duty. On the otherside, in rifle-pits and houses at the brink of the river, were postedthe enemy's sharpshooters, and these at a given signal opened fire uponour poor fellows who were necessarily unprotected. The firing was sosevere and deadly, and impossible to escape from, that for the timewe were obliged to desist. Before anything could be effected it becameclear that the sharpshooters must be dislodged.
"Then opened the second scene.
"A deluge of shot and shell from our side of the river rained upon thecity, setting some buildings on fire, and severely damaging others. Itwas a most exciting spectacle to us who watched from the bluffs, knowingthat ere long we must make the perilous passage and confront the foe,the mysterious silence of whose batteries inspired alarm, as indicatinga consciousness of power.
"The time of our trial came at length.
"Toward the close of the afternoon General Howard's division, to which Ibelong, crossed the pontoon bridge whose building had cost us more thanone gallant soldier. The distance was short, for the Rappahannock atthis point is not more than a quarter of a mile wide. In a few minuteswe were marching through the streets of Fredericksburg. We gainedpossession of the lower streets, but not without some street fighting,in which our brigade lost about one hundred in killed and wounded.
"For the first time I witnessed violent death. The man marching bymy side suddenly reeled, and, pressing his hand to his breast, fellforward. Only a moment before he had spoken to me, saying, 'I think weare going to have hot work.' Now he was dead, shot through the heart. Iturned sick with horror, but there was no time to pause. We must marchon, not knowing that our turn might not come next. Each of us felt thathe bore his life in his hand.
"But this was soon over, and orders came that we should bivouac for thenight. You will not wonder that I lay awake nearly the whole night. Anight attack was possible, and the confusion and darkness would havemade it fearful. As I lay awake I could not help thinking how anxiousyou would feel if you had known where I was.
"So closed the first day.
"The next dawned warm and pleasant. In the quiet of the morning itseemed hard to believe that we were on the eve of a bloody struggle.Discipline was not very strictly maintained. Some of our number left theranks and ransacked the houses, more from curiosity than the desire topillage.
"I went down to the bank of the river, and took a look at the bridgewhich it had cost us so much trouble to throw across. It bore frequentmarks of the firing of the day previous.
"At one place I came across an old negro, whose white head and wrinkledface indicated an advanced age. Clinging to him were two children, ofperhaps four and six years of age, who had been crying.
"'Don't cry, honey,' I heard him say soothingly, wiping the tears fromthe cheeks of the youngest with a coarse cotton handkerchief.
"'I want mama,' said the child piteously.
"A sad expression came over the old black's face.
"'What is the matter?' I asked, advancing toward him.
"'She is crying for her mother,' he said.
"'Is she dead?'
"'Yes, sir; she'd been ailing for a long time, and the guns ofyesterday hastened her death.'
"'Where did you live?'
"'In that house yonder, sir.'
"'Didn't you feel afraid when we fired on the town?'
"'We were all in the cellar, sir. One shot struck the house, but didnot injure it much.'
"'You use very good language,' I could not help saying.
"'Yes, sir; I have had more advantages than most of--of my class.'These last words he spoke rather bitterly. 'When I was a young man mymaster amused himself with teaching me; but he found I learned so fastthat he stopped short. But I carried it on by myself.'
"'Didn't you find that difficult?'
"'Yes, sir; but my will was strong. I managed to get books, now oneway, now another. I have read considerable, sir.'
"This he said with some pride.
"'Have you ever read Shakespeare?'
"'In part, sir; but I never could get hold of "Hamlet." I have alwayswanted to read that play.'
"I drew him out, and was astonished at the extent of his information,and the intelligent judgment which he expressed.
"'I wonder that, with your acquirements, you should have been contentto remain in a state of slavery.'
"'Content!' he repeated bitterly. 'Do you think I have been content?No, sir. Twice I attempted to escape. Each ti
me I was caught, draggedback, and cruelly whipped. Then I was sold to the father of these littleones. He treated me so well, and I was getting so old, that I gave upthe idea of running away.'
"'And where is he now?'
"'He became a colonel in the Confederate service, and was killed atAntietam. Yesterday my mistress died, as I have told you.'
"'And are you left in sole charge of these little children?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'Have they no relatives living?'
"'Their uncle lives in Kentucky. I shall try to carry them there.'
"'But you will find it hard work. You have only to cross the river, andin our lines you will be no longer a slave.'
"'I know it, sir. Three of my children have got their freedom, thankGod, in that way. But I can't leave these children.'
"I looked down at them. They were beautiful children. The youngest wasa girl, with small features, dark hair, and black eyes. The boy, of six,was pale and composed, and uttered no murmur. Both clung confidently tothe old negro.
"I could not help admiring the old man, who could resist the prospect offreedom, though he had coveted it all his life, in order to remain loyalto his trust. I felt desirous of drawing him out on the subject of thewar.
"'What do you think of this war?' I asked.
"He lifted up his hand, and in a tone of solemnity, said, 'I think it isthe cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night, that's going to drawus out of our bondage into the Promised Land.'
"I was struck by his answer.
"'Do many of you--I mean of those who have not enjoyed your advantagesof education--think so?'
"'Yes, sir; we think it is the Lord's doings, and it is marvelous inour eyes. It's a time of trial and of tribulation; but it isn't a-goingto last. The children of Israel were forty years in the wilderness, andso it may be with us. The day of deliverance will come.'
"At this moment the little girl began again to cry, and he addressedhimself to soothe her.
"This was not the only group I encountered. Some women had come, downto the river with children half-bereft of their senses--some apparentlysupposing that we should rob or murder them. The rebel leaders andnewspapers have so persistently reiterated these assertions, that theyhave come to believe them.
"The third day was unusually lovely, but our hearts were too anxious toadmit of our enjoying it. The rebels were entrenched on heights behindthe town. It was necessary that these should be taken, and aboutnoon the movement commenced. Our forces marched steadily across theintervening plain. The rebels reserved their fire till we were half-wayacross, and then from all sides burst forth the deadly fire. We werecompletely at their mercy. Twenty men in my own company fell dead orwounded, among them the captain and first lieutenant. Of what followed Ican give you little idea. I gave myself up for lost. A desperate impulseenabled me to march on to what seemed certain destruction. All at onceI felt a sensation of numbness in my left arm, and looking down, I sawthat the blood was trickling from it.
"But I had little time to think of myself. Hearing a smothered groan, Ilooked round, and saw Frank Grover, pale and reeling.
"'I'm shot in the leg,' he said. 'Don't leave me here. Help me along,and I will try to keep up with you.'
"The poor lad leaned upon me, and we staggered forward. But not forlong. A stone wall stared us in the face. Here rebel sharpshooters hadbeen stationed, and they opened a galling fire upon us. We returned it,but what could we do? We were compelled to retire, and did so in goodorder, but unfortunately not until the sharpshooters had picked off someof our best men.
"Among the victims was the poor lad whom I assisted. A second bulletstruck him in the heart. He uttered just one word, 'mother,' and fell.Poor boy, and poor mother! He seemed to have a premonition of hisapproaching death, and requested me the day previous to take charge ofhis effects, and send them with his love and a lock of his hair tohis mother if anything should befall him. This request I shall at oncecomply with. I have succeeded in getting the poor fellow's body broughtto camp, where it will be decently buried, and have cut from his headtwo brown locks, one for his mother, and one for myself.
"At last we got back with ranks fearfully diminished. Many old familiarfaces were gone--the faces of those now lying stiff and stark in death.More were groaning with anguish in the crowded hospital. My own woundwas too trifling to require much attention. I shall have to wear a slingfor a few days perhaps.
"There is little more to tell. Until Tuesday evening we maintained ourposition in daily expectation of an attack. But none was made. This wasmore fortunate for us. I cannot understand what withheld the enemy froman assault.
"On Tuesday suddenly came the order to re-cross the river. It was astormy and dreary night, and so, of course, favorable to our purpose.The maneuver was executed in silence, and with commendable expedition.The rebels appeared to have no suspicion of General Burnside'sintentions. The measured beat of our double quick was drowned by thefury of the storm, and with minds relieved, though bodies drenched,we once more found ourselves with the river between us and our foes.Nothing was left behind.
"Here we are again, but not all of us. Many a brave soldier has breathedhis last, and lies under the sod. 'God's ways are dark, but soon or latethey touch the shining hills of day.' So sings our own Whittier, and soI believe, in spite of the sorrowful disaster which we have met with. Itis all for the best if we could but see it.
"Our heavy losses of officers have rendered some new appointmentsnecessary. Our second lieutenant has been made captain. The orderlysergeant and second sergeant are now our lieutenants, and the line ofpromotion has even reached me. I am a corporal.
"I have been drawn into writing a very long letter, and I must nowclose, with the promise of writing again very soon. After I haveconcluded, I must write to poor Frank Grover's mother. May God comforther, for she has lost a boy of whom any mother might feel proud.
"With love to the children, I remain, as ever, your affectionatehusband. HENRY FROST."
"How terrible it must have been," said Mrs. Frost, with a shudder, asshe folded up the letter and laid it down. "We ought indeed to feelthankful that your father's life was spared."
"If I were three years older, I might have been in the battle," thoughtFrank.