CHAPTER XVII.
CHICKAMAUGA.
Quick the changes. Paul was once more with the army, amid the mountainsof Tennessee, marching upon Chattanooga with General Rosecrans, trampingover Lookout Mountain, and along the Chickamauga.
Then came a day of disaster in September. A great battle began onSaturday morning, lasted through Sunday, and closed on Monday. Paul rodecourageously where duty called him, through the dark woods, along thewinding river, where the bullets sang, where the shells burst, wherehundreds of brave men fell. Terrible the contest. It was like athunder-storm among the mountains,--like the growling of the angry surfupon the shore of the ocean. How trying, after hours of hard fighting,to see the lines waver and behold the Rebels move victoriously over thefield! with disaster setting in, and to know that all that is worthliving for is trembling in the scale!
There are such moments in battle. General Rosecrans's army wasoutnumbered. Paul saw the Rebels driving in the centre and turning theleft flank to cut off all retreat to Chattanooga. The moment for great,heroic action had come. He felt the blood leap through his veins as itnever had leaped before. The Rebel line was advancing up the hill. TheUnion batteries were making ready to leave.
"Stay where you are!" he shouted. "Give them canister! Double shot theguns! Quick! One minute now is worth a thousand hours."
"Rally! rally! Don't let them have the guns!" he shouted to the flyingtroops. They were magic words. Men who had started to run came back.Those who were about to leave stood in their places, ready to die wherethey were. Five minutes passed; they seemed ages. On--nearer--up to themuzzles of the guns came the Rebels; then, losing heart, fled down thehill, where hundreds of their comrades lay dying and dead. Their effortsto break the line had failed. But once more they advanced in strongerforce, rushing up the hill. Fearful the din and strife, the shouts andyells, the clashing of sabres and bayonets, the roar of the cannon, theexplosion of shells. Paul found himself suddenly falling, then all wasdark.
When he came to himself the scene had changed. He was lying upon theground. A soldier, wearing a dirty gray jacket, and with long hair, waspulling off his boots, saying, "This Yankee has got a pair of bootsworth having."
"Hold on! what are you up to?" said Paul.
"Hullo! blue bellie, ye are alive, are ye? Tho't yer was dead. ReckonI'll take yer boots, and yer coat tew."
Paul saw how it was: he was wounded, and left on the field. He was inthe hands of the Rebels; but hardest to bear was the thought that thearmy had been defeated. He was stiff and sore. The blood was oozing froma wound in his side. He was burning up with fever. He asked the Rebelswho were around him for a drink of water; but, instead of moistening hisparched lips, one pointed his gun at him and threatened to blow out hisbrains. They stripped off his coat and picked his pockets. Around himwere hundreds of dead men. The day wore away and the night came on. Heopened his lips to drink the falling dew, and lay with his face towardsthe stars. He thought of his mother, of home, of Azalia, of the angelsand God. Many times he had thought how sad it must be to die alone uponthe battle-field, far from friends; but now he remembered the words ofJesus Christ: "I will not leave you comfortless. My peace I give untoyou." Heaven seemed near, and he felt that the angels were not far away.He had tried to do his duty. He believed that, whether living or dying,God would take care of him, and of his mother. In his soul there wassweet peace and composure; but what was the meaning of the strangefeeling creeping over him, the numbness of his hands, the fluttering ofhis heart? Was it not the coming on of death? He remembered the prayerof his childhood, lisped many a time while kneeling by his mother'sside, and repeated it once more.
"Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take."
The stars were fading. His senses reeled. His eyelids closed, and he laypale, cold, and motionless, among the dead.
Winning His Way Page 17