Chapter XXI: At the Battle of Williamsburg

All of the Confederates, upon withdrawing from Yorktown, did not go up the peninsula towards Richmond. Many of them took to the York River, and following this and the Pamunkey River, landed at White House, already a place of considerable importance to them, and fortified it for an attack.

Nor did all of the Union troops under General McClellan engage in the battle at Williamsburg. Many of the soldiers remained on the river, in transports, and these, afterwards sailing up the York, fought the battle of West Point, Virginia, and assisted in rendering White House the Union base of supplies.

Taken as a whole, the battle of Williamsburg was rather a mixed-up although stubbornly fought contest. Through a confusion of orders, nearly every general fought as he thought best. At the main road, Hooker’s division, aided by a few other troops, soon silenced the Confederate guns of Fort Magruder, and the impetuous General Kearney, coming to his aid when he was almost exhausted, made a glorious dash and secured the rifle pits, thus causing a retreat.

While this was going on, it was reported that another spot along the line of Confederate defenses seemed to be weak. The place was one called Cub Dam Creek, and General Hancock, with his own and additional troops, was sent forward to cross the stream and secure the strongholds on the other side. With Hancock was a Lieutenant Custer, the same who in later years became General Custer, the great Indian fighter of the West. There was nothing but a narrow bridge over the mill stream, but Custer led his band of soldiers over this, a foothold was secured under a most galling fire, and at last Hancock was able to report the stronghold taken. Soon after this he advanced again and was warmly received by the Confederate Generals Hill and Early. A hard fight followed, and Early and many other officers were wounded, and many soldiers were killed upon both sides. At first it looked as if the Southerners would be victorious, but at last they were forced to withdraw to a distance. Here they rested on their arms all night, during a cold, pitiless rain, which gave many a Union and Confederate soldier his death of sickness--a rain that increased the sufferings of the wounded tenfold.

But of all this Louis knew nothing. As he rushed away from the scene of carnage his mind was a total blank. He could not get his breath, everything was black before his eyes, and he felt as though the end of the world had come, so far as he was concerned. He felt himself go down in the wet, and there he lay, not unconscious, but unable to move, unable to think, with a roaring in his ears, a flash of lights before his eyes, and a pain in his lungs which no pen could describe. What had happened to him?

The answer is very simple. A cannon ball had rushed close past his mouth just at the second of time when his lungs were heaving out air. The vacuum thus caused had drawn forth more air than was healthful--in other words, had collapsed his breathing apparatus and left him almost powerless. If my young reader wants something of the sensation experienced by Louis let him blow out all the breath he can from his lungs and then stand without air for half a minute, or more--if he can.

Slowly and painfully he came to a realization of his condition. His head now ached as it had never ached before, and there was a pain like that of a cutting knife in his chest every time he drew his breath. With a groan he could not suppress he sat up and tried to look about him.

The effort was a failure. On all sides was darkness, while the rain, splashing down upon his bared head, formed a good-sized pool at his feet. He scooped up some of the water in the hollow of his hand and drank it.

“I don’t seem to be shot,” he thought, as he felt himself all over, “and yet what a queer sensation that was when the cannon went off! I believe it took away my wind, and that’s all.”

It was some time before he felt strong enough to stand up, and even then he was decidedly shaky. Slowly and painfully he limped to the shelter of a clump of trees.

A groan startled him. It was followed by another, and then another. He walked to the other side of the tree and saw three soldiers lying there, two Confederates and one Union man. All were badly wounded, and were huddling together in their misery.

The sight made Louis more downhearted than ever, especially as he could do but little for any of the trio. One of the Confederates asked to be propped up against a tree and Louis made him as comfortable as possible. The other simply glared wildly at the youth.

“Don’t yer tech me,” he growled, with a strong mountainous accent. “You-uns is responsible fer this--may the Old Nick himself burn yer all!” and he turned his begrimed and muddy face away, that his enemy might not see all he was suffering.

“If you’ll please bind up my head,” sighed the Union victim, a New Jersey boy who had been fighting under Kearney for hours. “A fellow clubbed me badly with his musket stock.” The head was bound up with two handkerchiefs tied together, and the New Jersey soldier said it was a great relief.

“If I can find any help I’ll try to get you to the hospital,” said Louis, as he moved away. “I’m suffering myself, but I’m not half as badly off as you three are.”

He had scarcely spoken when there came a flare of torches, and six rough-looking men burst into view from the brush back of the trees. At first Louis wondered who they were, but was not kept long in doubt as to the identity of two of the number.

“Ha! so we meet again!” came a hoarse chuckle, and in another moment Caleb Fox was beside the Union lad. “I was jess wishin’ I could run across yer, hang me ef I wasn’t!” And rushing up he caught Louis strongly by the collar.

“Who is he?” asked a stranger in the crowd.

“Ef it ain’t thet Rockford fellow,” came from another, and Louis now recognized Sam Jacks. “Don’t let him git away, Caleb. We have too many scores ter settle.”

“He ain’t gitting away, don’t ye fear,” growled Caleb Fox. “Fer two pins I’d run him through with my bayonet!”

“Let me alone!” cried Louis, and endeavored to break away, but he was no match for the crowd, that speedily pounced upon him and beat him mercilessly until he was glad enough to remain quiet.

From the start Louis had suspected what the mission of the men was. The whole crowd were battlefield thieves, and now without ceremony they proceeded to rob the Union and the two Confederate soldiers, who were helpless, of all they possessed that was in the least valuable. Two watches, some silver, and twenty-four dollars in United States and Confederate scrip rewarded their heinous work, and then they were ready to withdraw, threatening to come back and kill the victims if they made any outcry over what had been accomplished.

“An’ now you march along, an’ be quick!” growled Caleb Fox to Louis, and Sam Jacks caught the lad by the opposite arm and gave him a violent shove. The men were heavily armed and in an ugly temper, and not daring to oppose them just then, Louis did as directed.

The sextet of rascals had evidently been out on their marauding expedition for some time, for their pockets were overflowing with booty--watches, rings, pocket-knives, money, and a miscellaneous collection of other articles.

“Old Hooked-nose ought to pony up handsomely fer this lot,” remarked one of the men, as they pushed ahead, towards the Confederate lines. He referred to a certain unscrupulous Jew in Richmond who was not above buying stolen goods, whether taken from Union or Confederate soldiers.

“Wot’s the boy got with him?” asked another of the crowd, and all halted, while Louis’s pockets were searched and emptied. As a protest would have been followed only by abuse, Louis said nothing to this, although, as he afterwards remarked, “he did a powerful lot of thinking.”

A quarter of an hour’s walking brought all to a hollow beside a small stream. Here, close to a shelving bank, was situated a narrow dugout, sheltered in front by an overshot of rough boards. Before the dugout a bright fire was burning, and two elderly men were cooking coffee and a pot of beans and bacon.

“Wot in thunder did yer want ter bring thet kid here for?” demanded one of the campers. “We don’t want no outsiders here, yer know thet well enough, don’t ye?”

“He’s a special,” grinned Caleb Fox. “Me an’ Sam Jacks is got an account ter settle with him. Ain’t no use fer to alarm yerself--he’ll never squeal on nobody.” By which he probably meant that Louis should never leave that camp alive.

The young Union soldier could not help but shudder at the words. He was not among the regular enemy, he was among a band of thieves, and worse. He made up his mind to break for liberty at the first opportunity which presented itself, even if he had to run the risk of being shot in so doing.

It is likely Sam Jacks guessed what was passing in his mind, for he called to Caleb Fox to get a rope and bind the “mud-sill” securely. The rope was soon forthcoming and Louis was made a close prisoner, being tied up in a manner similar to that he had experienced at the deserted mill near Deems.

“I’ll settle with you jess as soon as we’ve had a mouthful ter eat,” remarked Fox, and Sam Jacks nodded approvingly. Both walked towards the fire, leaving the young soldier alone inside of the dugout.

From the position he occupied Louis could see but little of what was going on around the camp fire. The most frequent words which reached his ears were ones requesting that the flask be passed this way or that, indicating that the party was doing more drinking than eating, and that the liquid refreshments did not come entirely from the coffee pot.

As his captors ate and drank, the young soldier worked bravely at his bonds, but as when similarly situated, he was unable to release himself. At last he gave himself up to whatever might come, silently praying to God that he might be delivered in safety from his enemies. A quarter of an hour had passed, and the eight men still hung under the overshot roofing of the dugout when several rifle shots rang out a short distance up the ravine. A small detachment of the Union troops had come forward to ascertain if the Confederates were retreating. Soon half a dozen men in gray came running along close to the water’s edge.

“The Yankees are coming!” two of them shouted. “Better make tracks if you want to save your hides!”

Instantly there was a commotion, as the eight men leaped up and reached for their guns. They had no relish for a skirmish, only fighting when there was no help for it.

“Wot will we do with the prisoner?” asked Sam Jacks.

“Kill him,” was Caleb Fox’s cold reply. “Come on.”

Both started to enter the dugout. As they did so, half a score of Union men appeared on the opposite side of the stream. The Confederates were plainly visible by the glare of the camp fire, and a volley rang out. Two of the strangers to Louis were hit, one fatally, and Caleb Fox received an ugly wound in the left arm.

“I’m shot!” he groaned, as the arm dropped limply by his side.

“We can’t wait for the boy!” answered Sam Jacks. “If we do we’ll be either killed or captured. Come on!” And away he darted, after those who had gone before. Caleb Fox hesitated for an instant. Then with a savage kick of his boot he sent the firebrands flying into the dugout.

“Burn, you Yank you, burn!” he yelled, and bounded after Sam Jacks, just as a second volley rang out.

The fiendish act of Fox nearly took away Louis’s breath. The burning brands flew in all directions around him, one large bit of brush landing directly at his feet. He watched this anxiously and saw it blaze with renewed vigor, throwing up a cloud of smoke and flame almost into his face. At the same time another volley of musketry sounded out and he heard the ping of two bullets as they landed on the woodwork of the dugout. Certainly he was in a most perilous situation.