CHAPTER XXIV. KILLED, WOUNDED, OR MISSING?

Previous

Andy was nowhere to be found.

All along the line of battle-worn men, now gathered in irregular groups behind the breastworks, and safe from the enemy, I searched for him—and searched in vain. Not a soul had tidings of him. At last, however, a soldier with his blouse-sleeve ripped up and a red-stained bandage around his arm, told me that, about daylight, when the enemy came sweeping down on us, he and Andy were behind neighboring trees. He himself received a ball through the arm, and was busy trying to stop the flow of blood, when, looking up, he saw Andy reel, and, he thought, fall. He was not quite sure it was Andy, but he thought so.

Andy killed! What should I do without Andy?—the best and truest friend, the most companionable messmate, that a soldier ever could hope to have! It could not be! I would look farther for him.

Out, therefore, I went, over the breastworks to the picket-line, where the rifles were popping away at intervals. I searched among trees and behind bushes, and called and called, but all in vain. Then the retreat was sounded, and we were drawn off the field, and marched back to the fortifications which we had left the day before.

Toward evening, as we reached camp, I obtained permission to examine the ambulance-trains, in search of my chum. As one train after another came in, I climbed up and looked into each ambulance; but the night had long set in before I found him—or thought I had found him. Raising my lantern high, so as to throw the light full on the face of the wounded man lying in a stupor on the floor of the wagon, I was at first confident it was Andy; for the figure was short, well-built, and had raven black hair.

"Andy! Andy! Where are you hurt?" I cried.

But no answer came. Rolling him on his back and looking full into his face, I found, alas! a stranger—a manly, noble face, too, but no life, no signs of life, in it. There were indeed a very low, almost imperceptible breathing and a faint pulse—but the man was evidently dying.

About a week afterward, having secured a pass from corps headquarters, I started for City Point to search the hospitals there for my chum. The pass allowed me not only to go through all the guards I might meet on my way, but also to ride free to City Point over the railroad—"General Grant's Railroad," we called it.

Properly speaking, this was a branch of the road from City Point to Petersburg, tapping it about midway between the two places, and from that point following our lines closely to the extreme left of our position. Never was road more hastily built. So rapidly did the work advance, that scarcely had we learned such a road was planned, before one evening the whistle of a locomotive was heard down the line only a short distance to our right. No grading was done. The ties were simply laid on the top of the ground, the rails were nailed fast, and the rolling-stock was put on without waiting for ballast; and there the railroad was—up hill and down dale, and "as crooked as a dog's hind leg." At only one point had any cutting been done, and that was where the road, after climbing a hill, came within range of the enemy's batteries. The first trains which passed up and down afforded a fine mark and were shelled vigorously, the enemy's aim becoming with daily practice so exact that nearly every train was hit somewhere. The hill was then cut through, and the fire avoided. It was a rough road, and the riding was full of fearful jolts; but it saved thousands of mules, and enabled General Grant to hold his position during the winter of the Petersburg siege.

I was obliged to make an early start, for the train left General Warren's headquarters about four o'clock in the morning. When I reached the station, I found on the platform a huge pile of boxes and barrels, nearly as high as a house, which I was informed was the Fifth Corps' share of a grand dinner which the people of New York had just sent down to the Army of the Potomac. Before the train arrived I had seen enough to cause me to fear that a very small portion of the contents of those boxes and barrels would ever find its way into the haversack of a drummer-boy. For I had not been contemplating the pile with a wistful eye very long, before a certain sergeant came out of a neighboring tent with a lantern in his hand, followed by two darkies, one of whom carried an axe.

"Knock open that bar'l, Bill," said the sergeant.

Bill did so. The sergeant, thrusting in his hand, pulled out a fat turkey and a roll of butter.

"Good!" said he. "Now let's see what's in that box."

Smash went Bill's axe into the side of the box.

"Good again!" said the sergeant, taking out a chicken, several tumblers of jelly, and a great pound-cake, which latter made me feel quite homesick. "Now, Bill," continued the sergeant, "let's have breakfast."

City Point was a stirring place at that time. It was General Grant's headquarters, and the depot of all supplies for the army; and here I found the large hospitals which I meant to search for Andy, although I scarcely hoped to find him.

Into hospital-tents at one end and out at the other, looking from side to side at the long white rows of cots, and inquiring as I went, I searched long and almost despairingly, until at last—there he was, sitting on his cot, his head neatly bandaged, writing a letter!

Coming up quietly behind him, I laid my hand on his shoulder with: "Andy, old boy, have I found you at last? I thought you were killed!"

"Why, Harry!—God bless you!"

The story was soon told. "A clip in the head, you see, Harry, out there among the trees when the Johnnies came down on us, yelling like demons,—all got black before me as I reeled and fell. By and by, coming to myself a little, I begged a man of a strange regiment to help me off, and so I got down here. It's nothing much, Harry, and I'll soon be with you again,—not nearly so bad as that poor fellow over there, the man with the black hair. His is a wonderful case. He was brought in the same day I was, with a wound in the head which the doctors said was fatal. Every day we expected him to die; but there he lies yet, breathing very low, conscious, but unable to speak or to move hand or foot. Some of his company came yesterday to see him. They had been with him when he fell, had supposed him mortally wounded, and had taken all his valuables out of his pockets to send home—among them was an ambrotype of his wife and child. Well, you just should have seen that poor fellow's face when they opened that ambrotype and held it before his eyes! He couldn't speak or reach out his hand to take the picture; and there he lay, convulsed with feeling, while tears rolled down his cheeks."

On looking at him, I found it was the very man I had seen in the ambulance and mistaken for Andy.

Before returning to camp on the evening train, I strolled along the wharf and watched the boats coming and going, lading and unlading their cargoes of army supplies. A company of colored soldiers was doing guard duty at one point along the wharf. They were evidently proud of their uniforms, and big with importance generally. By and by two officers came leisurely walking toward the wharf, one of whom I at once recognized as General Grant. He was smoking a cigar. As the two stood on the edge of the wharf, looking up the river and conversing in low tones, one of the colored guards came up behind them and tapped the general on the shoulder.

"Beg pardon, Gen'l," said the guard, giving the military salute, "but dere ain't no smokin' allowed on dis yere warf."

"Are those your orders?" asked the general, with a quiet smile.

"Yes, sah; dem's de orders."

Promptly taking his cigar from his lips, the general threw it into the water.

On my return to camp late in the evening, I found that the comrade with whom I was messing during Andy's absence had already "turned in" for the night. Leaning upon his elbow on his bunk, as I was stirring up the fire, in order to make a cup of coffee, he said,— "There is your share of the dinner the New York people sent down to the Army of the Potomac."

"Where?" inquired I, looking around everywhere in all the corners of the tent. "I don't see it."

"Why, there on your knapsack in the corner."

On looking toward the spot indicated, I found one potato, half an onion, and the gristly end of a chicken-wing!

"You see," continued my messmate, "the New York people meant well, but they have no idea how big a thing this Army of the Potomac is, and they did not stop to consider how many toll-gates their dinner would have to pass in order to reach us. By the time corps, division, brigade, regimental, and company headquarters had successively inspected and taken toll out of the boxes and barrels, there was precious little left for the high private in the rear rank."

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Clyx.com


Top of Page
Top of Page