The Rock of Chickamauga: A Story of the Western Crisis by Joseph A. Altsheler (best ebook reader for surface pro .txt) 📕

beating hard and fast. Now and then when the smoke eddied or the banks of it broke apart he raised his glasses and with their powerful vision saw the long and deep Southern columns advancing, the field batteries in the intervals pouring a storm of death.

It was a sinister and terrible sight. The South presented here an army outnumbering its force at Shiloh two to one, and they were veterans now, led by veteran commanders. Moreover, they had Longstreet and his matchless fighters from Lee's army to bear them up.

“What do you see, Dick?” asked Pennington, his voice distinctly audible through the steady roar.

“Johnnies! Johnnies! Johnnies! Thousands and thousands of them and then many thousands more. They're going to strike full upon us here!”

“Let 'em come. We're taking root, growing deep into the ground and old 'Pap' Thomas has grown deepest of us all! It'll be impossible to move us!”

“I hope so. There go our own cannon, too, and it's a welcome sound! I can see the gaps smashed in their ranks by our fire, and ah, I see, too—”

He stopped short in amazed surprise, and Pennington in wonder asked:

“What is it you see, Dick?”

“There's a heavy cavalry force on their flank, and I caught a glimpse of a man on a great horse leading it. I know him. He's Colonel George Kenton, father of Harry Kenton, that cousin of mine, of whom I've spoken to you so often.”

“And here he comes charging you! But it's happened hundreds and hundreds of times in this war that relatives have come face to face in battle, and it'll happen hundreds of times more. Are they within rifle shot, Dick?”

“Not yet, but they soon will be.”

He slung the glasses back over his shoulder. The eye alone was sufficient now to watch the charging columns. All the artillery on both sides was coming into action, and the ripping crash of so many cannon became so great that the officers could no longer hear one another unless they shouted. The gorges and hills caught up the sound and gave it back in increased volume.

Dick heard a new note in the thunder. It was made by the swift beat of hoofs, thousands of them, and the hair on his neck prickled at the roots. Forrest and the wild cavalry of the South were charging on their flanks. He felt a sudden horror lest he be trampled under the hoofs of horses. By some curious twist of the mind his dread of such a fate was far more acute at that moment than his fear of shells and bullets.

Colonel Winchester, shouting imperiously, ordered him and all the other young officers to step back now and lie down. Dick obeyed, and he crouched by the side of Warner and Pennington. The great bank of fire and smoke was rolling nearer and yet nearer, and the cannon were fighting one another with all the speed and power of the gunners. Off on the flank the ominous tread of Southern horsemen was coming fast.

Bullets began now to rain among them. The regiment would have been swept away bodily had the men not been lying down. But their time to wait and hold their fire was at an end. The colonel gave the word, and a sheet of light leaped from the mouths of their rifles. A vast gap appeared in the Southern line before them, but in a minute or two it closed up, and the Southern masses came on again, as menacing as ever. Again Dick's regiment poured its shattering fire upon the Southern columns and their front lines were blown away. Colonel Winchester at once wheeled his men into a new position to meet the mass of Forrest's cavalry rushing down upon their flank. He was just in time to help other troops, not in numbers enough to withstand the shock.

There were few moments in the lives of these lads as terrifying as those when they turned to face the fierce Forrest, the uneducated mountaineer who had intuitively mastered Napoleon's chief maxim of war, to pour the greatest force upon the enemy's weakest point.

The hurricane sweeping down upon them sent a chill to their hearts. Dick saw a long line of foaming mouths, the lips drawn back from the cruel white teeth, and manes flying wildly. Above them rose the faces of the riders, their own eyes bloodshot, their sabers held aloft for the deadly sweep. And the thunder of galloping hoofs was more menacing than that of the cannon.

Dick looked around him and saw faces turning pale. His own might be whiter than any of theirs for all he knew, but he shouted with the other officers:

“Steady! Steady! Now pour it into 'em!”

It was well that most of the men in the regiment had become sharpshooters, and that despite the thumping of their hearts, they were able to stand firm. Their sleet of bullets emptied a hundred saddles, and slipping in the cartridges they fired again at close range. The cavalry charge seemed to stop dead in its tracks, and in an instant a scene of terrible confusion occurred. Wounded horses screaming in pain rushed wildly back upon their own comrades or through the ranks of the foe. Injured men, shot from their saddles, were seeking to crawl out of the way. Whirling eddies of smoke alternately hid and disclosed enemies, and from both left and right came the continuous and deafening crash of infantry in battle.

But Forrest's men paused only a moment or two. A great mass of them galloped out of the smoke, over the bodies of their dead comrades and directly into the Winchester regiment, shouting and slashing with their great sabers. It was well for the men that their leader had so wisely chosen ground rough and covered with bushes. Using every inch of protection, they fired at horses and riders and thrust at them with their bayonets.

The battle became wild and confused, a turmoil of mingled horse and foot, of firing and shouting and of glittering swords and bayonets. A man on a huge horse made a great sweep at Dick's head with a red saber. The boy dropped to his knees, and felt the broad blade whistle where his head had been.

The swordsman was borne on by the impetus of his horse, and Dick caught one horrified glimpse of his face. It was Colonel Kenton, but Dick knew that he did not know, nor did he ever know. It was never in the lad's heart to tell his uncle how near he had come unwittingly to shearing off the head of his own nephew.

The charge of the cavalrymen carried them clear through the Winchester regiment, but a regiment coming up to the relief drove them back, and the great mass turning aside a little attacked anew and elsewhere. A few moments of rest were permitted Dick and his comrades, although the mighty battle wheeled and thundered all about them.

But their regiment was a melancholy sight. A third of its numbers were killed or wounded. The ground was torn and trampled, as if it had been swept by a hurricane of wind and red rain. Dick had one slight wound on his shoulder and another on his arm, but he did not feel them. Pennington and Warner both had scratches, but the colonel was unharmed.

“My God,” exclaimed Warner, “how did we happen to survive it!”