Part 9 (1/2)

The regiments followed. They were half-way up the hill, when a line of fire began to run round the crest.

”Down! down!” shouted Colonel Smith. The regiments fell flat, and the storm swept harmlessly over their heads. The Rebels cheered. They thought they had annihilated Colonel Smith's command. Up they rose, and rushed upon the enemy, pouring in their volleys, falling when the fight was hottest, rising as soon as the Rebels had fired. Thus they closed upon the enemy, and pushed him back over all the ground he had won in the morning, driving him into his works.

General Wallace was preparing to a.s.sault the works, when an officer dashed down the line with cheering news of success upon the left.

Returning now to General Smith's division, we see him preparing to storm the works near the northwest angle of the fort. Colonel Cook's brigade is directed to make a feint of attacking the fort. Major Cavender brings his heavy guns into position, and opens a furious cannonade, under cover of which Colonel Lauman is to advance upon the rifle-pits on the outer ridge. If he can get possession of those, Cavender can plant his guns there and rake the inner trenches.

Colonel Hanson's brigade,--the Second Kentucky, Twentieth Mississippi, and Thirtieth Tennessee, are in the rifle-pits. There are six pieces of artillery and another brigade behind the inner intrenchments, all ready to pour their fire upon the advancing columns. Colonel Hanson's men lie secure behind the trunks of the great forest oaks, their rifles thrust through between the logs. It is fifteen or twenty rods to the bottom of the slope, and there you find the fallen trees, with their branches interlocked, and sharp stakes driven into the ground. Beyond is the meadow where Lauman forms his brigade. The Rebels have a clear sweep of all the ground.

General Smith leads Lauman's men to the meadow, while Colonel Cook moves up on the left and commences the attack. The soldiers hear, far down on the right, Wallace's brigades driving the enemy from the hill.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE CHARGE OF LAUMAN'S BRIGADE.

1 Lauman's brigade.

2 Cook's brigade.

3 Cavender's batteries, with infantry.

4 Rebel rifle-pits.

5 Rebel inner works.]

It is almost sunset. The rays of light fall aslant the meadow, upon the backs of Lauman's men, and into the faces of the Rebels. The advancing brigade is in solid column of regiments, the Second Iowa in front, then the Twenty-fifth Indiana, the Seventh and Fourteenth Iowa,--four firm, unwavering lines, which throw their shadows forward as they advance.

Birges's sharpshooters, with their unerring rifles, are flung out on each flank.

The brigade halts upon the meadow. General Smith rides along the line, and informs them that they are to take the rifle-pits with the bayonet alone. He sits firmly on his horse, and his long gray hair, falling almost to his shoulders, waves in the evening breeze. He is an iron man, and he leads iron men. The Rebel cannon cut them through with solid shot, sh.e.l.ls burst above and around them, with loud explosions and terrifying shrieks from the flying fragments, men drop from the ranks, or are whirled into the air torn and mangled. There are sudden gaps, but not a man flinches. They look not towards the rear, but towards the front. There are the fallen trees, the hill, the line of two thousand muskets poised between the logs, the cannon thundering from the height beyond. There is no whispering in those solid ranks, no loud talking, nothing but the ”Steady! steady!” of the officers. Their hearts beat great throbs. Their nerves are steel, their muscles iron. They grasp their muskets with the grip of tigers. Before them rides their General, his cap upon his sword, his long hair streaming like a banner in the wind. The color-bearer, waving the stars and stripes, marches by his side.

They move across the meadow. All around them is the deafening roar of the conflict. Cavender is behind them, Cook is upon their left, the enemy is in front, and Wallace away upon their right. They reach the fallen trees at the foot of the hill. The pile of logs above them bursts into flame. A deadly storm, more terrible than the fiercest winter blast, sweeps down the slope into their faces. There are lightning flashes and thunderbolts from the hill above. Men drop from their places, to lie forever still among the tangled branches. But their surviving comrades do not falter. On,--on,--creeping, crawling, climbing over the obstructions, unterrified, undaunted, with all the energy of life centred in one effort; like a tornado they sweep up the slope,--into the line of fire, into the hissing storm, up to the logs, into the cloud, leaping like tigers, thrusting the bayonet home upon the foe. The Rebels reel, stagger, tumble, run!

”HURRA----H!”

It is a wild, prolonged, triumphant shout, like the blast of a trumpet.

They plant their banners on the works, and fire their volleys into the retreating foe. Stone's battery gallops over the meadow, over the logs, up the hill, the horses leaping and plunging as if they, too, knew that victory was hanging in the scale. The gunners spring from their seats, wheel their pieces and throw their sh.e.l.ls, an enfilading fire, into the upper works.

”Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!” rings through the forest, down the line to Wallace's men.

”We have carried the works!” ”We are inside!” shouts an officer bearing the welcome news.

The men toss their caps in the air. They shake hands, they shout, and break into singing. They forget all their hards.h.i.+ps and sufferings, the hungry days, the horrible nights, the wounded and the dead. The success is worth all the sacrifice.

CHAPTER VI.

THE SURRENDER.

All through the night the brave men held the ground they had so n.o.bly won. They rested on snowy beds. They had no supper. They could kindle no fires to warm the wintry air. The cannon above them hurled down sh.e.l.ls, and sent volleys of grape, which screamed above and around them like the voices of demons in the darkness. The branches of the trees were torn from their trunks by the solid shot, and the trunks were splintered from top to bottom, but they did not falter or retire from that slope where the snow was crimsoned with the life-blood of hundreds of their comrades. Nearly four hundred had fallen in that attack. The hill had cost a great deal of blood, but it was worth all it cost, and they would not give it up. So they braved the leaden rain and iron hail through the weary hours of that winter night. They only waited for daybreak to storm the inner works and take the fort. Their ardor and enthusiasm was unbounded.

As the morning approached they heard a bugle-call. They looked across the narrow ravine, and saw, in the dim light of the dawn, a man waving a white flag upon the intrenchments. It was a sign for a parley. He jumped down from the embankment, and descended the hill.

”Halt! Who comes there?” shouted the picket.