Chapter XXI. The Battle of Fredericksburg

by Horatio Alger

　　About the middle of December came the sad tragedy ofFredericksburg, in which thousands of our gallant soldiersyielded up their lives in a hard, unequal struggle, which broughtforth nothing but mortification and disaster.The first telegrams which appeared in the daily papers broughtanxiety and bodings of ill to many households. The dwellers atthe farm were not exempt. They had been apprised by a recentletter that Mr. Frost's regiment now formed a part of the grandarmy which lay encamped on the eastern side of the Rappahannock.The probability was that he was engaged in the battle. Frankrealized for the first time to what peril his father was exposed,and mingled with the natural feeling which such a thought waslikely to produce was the reflection that, but for him, hisfather would have been in safety at home."Did I do right?" Frank asked himself anxiously, the old doubtrecurring once 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 have done right--whatever happens. I feel sure of that."Yet his anxiety was by no means diminished, especially when, aday or two afterward, tidings of the disaster came to hand, onlyredeemed by the masterly retreat across the river, in which agreat army, without the loss of a single gun, ambulance, orwagon, withdrew from the scene of a hopeless struggle, under thevery eyes of the enemy, yet escaping discovery.One afternoon Frank went to the post-office a little after theusual time. As he made his way through a group at the door, henotice compassionate glances directed toward him.His heart gave a sudden bound."Has anything happened to my father?" he inquired, with paleface. "Have any 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 asingle line, but of fearful import: "Henry Frost, wounded."Whether the wound was slight or serious, no intimation was given.Frank heaved a sigh of comparative relief. His father was notdead, as he at first feared. Yet he felt that the suspense wouldbe a serious trial. He did not know how to tell his mother. Shemet him at the gate. His serious face and lagging steps revealedthe truth, exciting at first apprehensions of something even moreserious.For two days they remained without news. Then came a letter fromthe absent father, which wonderfully lightened all their hearts.The fact that he was able to write a long letter with his ownhand showed plainly that his wound must be a trifling one. Theletter ran thus:"DEAR MARY: I fear that the report of my wound will reach youbefore this letter comes to assure you that it is a mere scratch,and scarcely worth a thought. I cannot for an instant think ofit, when I consider how many of our poor fellows have been mowndown by instant death, or are now lying with ghastly wounds onpallets in the hospital. We have been through a fearful trial,and the worst thought is that our losses are not compensated by asingle advantage."Before giving you an account of it from the point of view of aprivate soldier, let me set your mind at rest by saying that myinjury is only a slight flesh-wound in the arm, which willnecessitate my carrying it in a sling for a few days; that isall."Early on the morning of Thursday, the 10th inst., the first actin the great drama commenced with laying the pontoon bridges overwhich our men were to make their way into the rebel city. My owndivision was to cross directly opposite the city. All honor tothe brave men who volunteered to lay the bridges. It was a tryingand perilous duty. On the other side, in rifle-pits and houses atthe brink of the river, were posted the enemy's sharpshooters,and these at a given signal opened fire upon our poor fellows whowere necessarily unprotected. The firing was so severe anddeadly, and impossible to escape from, that for the time we wereobliged 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 rainedupon the city, setting some buildings on fire, and severelydamaging others. It was a most exciting spectacle to us whowatched from the bluffs, knowing that ere long we must make theperilous passage and confront the foe, the mysterious silence ofwhose batteries inspired alarm, as indicating a consciousness ofpower."The time of our trial came at length."Toward the close of the afternoon General Howard's division, towhich I belong, crossed the pontoon bridge whose building hadcost us more than one gallant soldier. The distance was short,for the Rappahannock at this point is not more than a quarter ofa mile wide. In a few minutes we were marching through thestreets of Fredericksburg. We gained possession of the lowerstreets, but not without some street fighting, in which ourbrigade lost about one hundred in killed and wounded."For the first time I witnessed violent death. The man marchingby my side suddenly reeled, and, pressing his hand to his breast,fell forward. Only a moment before he had spoken to me, saying,'I think we are going to have hot work.' Now he was dead, shotthrough the heart. I turned sick with horror, but there was notime to pause. We must march on, not knowing that our turn mightnot come next. Each of us felt that he bore his life in his hand."But this was soon over, and orders came that we should bivouacfor the night. You will not wonder that I lay awake nearly thewhole night. A night attack was possible, and the confusion anddarkness would have made it fearful. As I lay awake I could nothelp thinking how anxious you would feel if you had known where Iwas."So closed the first day."The next dawned warm and pleasant. In the quiet of the morningit seemed hard to believe that we were on the eve of a bloodystruggle. Discipline was not very strictly maintained. Some ofour number left the ranks and ransacked the houses, more fromcuriosity than the desire to pillage."I went down to the bank of the river, and took a look at thebridge which it had cost us so much trouble to throw across. Itbore frequent marks of the firing of the day previous."At one place I came across an old negro, whose white head andwrinkled face indicated an advanced age. Clinging to him were twochildren, of perhaps four and six years of age, who had beencrying." 'Don't cry, honey,' I heard him say soothingly, wiping thetears from the cheeks of the youngest with a coarse cottonhandkerchief." '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, butdid not injure it much.'" 'You use very good language,' I could not help saying." 'Yes, sir; I have had more advantages than most of--of myclass.' These last words he spoke rather bitterly. 'When I was ayoung man my master amused himself with teaching me; but he foundI learned so fast that he stopped short. But I carried it on bymyself.'" 'Didn't you find that difficult?'" 'Yes, sir; but my will was strong. I managed to get books, nowone way, 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 havealways wanted to read that play.'"I drew him out, and was astonished at the extent of hisinformation, and the intelligent judgment which he expressed." 'I wonder that, with your acquirements, you should have beencontent to remain in a state of slavery.'" 'Content!' he repeated bitterly. 'Do you think I have beencontent? No, sir. Twice I attempted to escape. Each time I wascaught, dragged back, and cruelly whipped. Then I was sold to thefather of these little ones. He treated me so well, and I wasgetting so old, that I gave up the idea of running away.'" 'And where is he now?'" 'He became a colonel in the Confederate service, and was killedat Antietam. 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 themthere.'" 'But you will find it hard work. You have only to cross theriver, and in our lines you will be no longer a slave.'" 'I know it, sir. Three of my children have got their freedom,thank God, in that way. But I can't leave these children.'"I looked down at them. They were beautiful children. Theyoungest was a girl, with small features, dark hair, and blackeyes. The boy, of six, was pale and composed, and uttered nomurmur. Both clung confidently to the old negro."I could not help admiring the old man, who could resist theprospect of freedom, though he had coveted it all his life, inorder to remain loyal to his trust. I felt desirous of drawinghim out on the subject of the war." 'What do you think of this war?' I asked."He lifted up his hand, and in a tone of solemnity, said, 'Ithink it is the cloud by day, and the pillar of fire by night,that's going to draw us out of our bondage into the PromisedLand.'"I was struck by his answer." 'Do many of you--I mean of those who have not enjoyed youradvantages of education--think so?'" 'Yes, sir; we think it is the Lord's doings, and it ismarvelous in our eyes. It's a time of trial and of tribulation;but it isn't a-going to last. The children of Israel were fortyyears in the wilderness, and so it may be with us. The day ofdeliverance will come.'"At this moment the little girl began again to cry, and headdressed himself to soothe her."This was not the only group I encountered. Some women had come,down to the river with children half-bereft of their senses--someapparently supposing that we should rob or murder them. The rebelleaders and newspapers have so persistently reiterated theseassertions, that they have come to believe them."The third day was unusually lovely, but our hearts were tooanxious to admit of our enjoying it. The rebels were entrenchedon heights behind the town. It was necessary that these should betaken, and about noon the movement commenced. Our forces marchedsteadily across the intervening plain. The rebels reserved theirfire till we were half-way across, and then from all sides burstforth the deadly fire. We were completely at their mercy. Twentymen in my own company fell dead or wounded, among them thecaptain and first lieutenant. Of what followed I can give youlittle idea. I gave myself up for lost. A desperate impulseenabled me to march on to what seemed certain destruction. All atonce I felt a sensation of numbness in my left arm, and lookingdown, I saw that the blood was trickling from it."But I had little time to think of myself. Hearing a smotheredgroan, I looked round, and saw Frank Grover, pale and reeling." 'I'm shot in the leg,' he said. 'Don't leave me here. Help mealong, and I will try to keep up with you.'"The poor lad leaned upon me, and we staggered forward. But notfor long. A stone wall stared us in the face. Here rebelsharpshooters had been stationed, and they opened a galling fireupon us. We returned it, but what could we do? We were compelledto retire, and did so in good order, but unfortunately not untilthe sharpshooters had picked off some of our best men."Among the victims was the poor lad whom I assisted. A secondbullet struck him in the heart. He uttered just one word,'mother,' and fell. Poor boy, and poor mother! He seemed to havea premonition of his approaching death, and requested me the dayprevious to take charge of his effects, and send them with hislove and a lock of his hair to his mother if anything shouldbefall him. This request I shall at once comply with. I havesucceeded in getting the poor fellow's body brought to camp,where it will be decently buried, and have cut from his head twobrown locks, one for his mother, and one for myself."At last we got back with ranks fearfully diminished. Many oldfamiliar faces were gone--the faces of those now lying stiff andstark in death. More were groaning with anguish in the crowdedhospital. My own wound was too trifling to require muchattention. I shall have to wear a sling for a few days perhaps."There is little more to tell. Until Tuesday evening wemaintained our position in daily expectation of an attack. Butnone was made. This was more fortunate for us. I cannotunderstand what withheld the enemy from an assault."On Tuesday suddenly came the order to re-cross the river. It wasa stormy and dreary night, and so, of course, favorable to ourpurpose. The maneuver was executed in silence, and withcommendable expedition. The rebels appeared to have no suspicionof General Burnside's intentions. The measured beat of our doublequick was drowned by the fury of the storm, and with mindsrelieved, though bodies drenched, we once more found ourselveswith the river between us and our foes. Nothing was left behind."Here we are again, but not all of us. Many a brave soldier hasbreathed his last, and lies under the sod. 'God's ways are dark,but soon or late they touch the shining hills of day.' So singsour own Whittier, and so I believe, in spite of the sorrowfuldisaster which we have met with. It is all for the best if wecould but see it."Our heavy losses of officers have rendered some new appointmentsnecessary. Our second lieutenant has been made captain. Theorderly sergeant and second sergeant are now our lieutenants, andthe line of promotion has even reached me. I am a corporal."I have been drawn into writing a very long letter, and I mustnow close, with the promise of writing again very soon. After Ihave concluded, I must write to poor Frank Grover's mother. MayGod comfort her, for she has lost a boy of whom any mother mightfeel proud."With love to the children, I remain, as ever, your affectionatehusband.HENRY FROST.""How terrible it must have been," said Mrs. Frost, with ashudder, as she folded up the letter and laid it down. "We oughtindeed to feel thankful that your father's life was spared.""If I were three years older, I might have been in the battle,"thought Frank.