Who goes there? : $b The story of a spy in the Civil WarBenson, B. K. (Blackwood Ketcham)
History
Who goes there? : $b The story of a spy in the Civil War
Benson, B. K. (Blackwood Ketcham)
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Fiction
The rebels had cut down the timber in their front; as soon as we became
visible they began throwing shells and grape-shot over the timber at our
ranks. We lay down and took the fire and the rain. We lay there for
something like two hours; then we moved to the rear,--only our regiment,
I think,--fronted again, and marched to the right for perhaps a mile
through the woods. Willis said that we were seeking any enemy that might
be in the woods; but he aroused no interest; nobody either approved or
seemed to doubt Willis's interpretation of the movement; we did not know
what the generals were doing with us, and we were tired and sleepy and
hungry and wet.
By twelve o'clock we had marched back to our former position near the
felled timber. Rain continued to fall, and the hostile batteries to fire
upon each other. Wounded men were carried to the rear. I noticed that
our company seemed small; perhaps a few had been wounded; certainly many
had fallen out of ranks, unable longer to endure.
About the middle of the afternoon we were moved again, this time through
the woods to the left. As we marched, we could hear the roar of musketry
ahead of us, and straggling men could be seen running in every direction
except one. We moved on in line, without skirmishers. The straggling men
increased in numbers, and many wounded went past us, the ambulance
corps working busily here in the dense wet forest. The yells of the
rebels were plainly heard, and all eyes were strained to catch sight of
what was already but too well known. Every moment was an hour.
Suddenly from our front came a roar and a crash, and our line staggered
to a dead halt, every man firing and loading as fast as he could--firing
at a line of smoke ahead of us. Great shouts could be heard in the
smoke; occasionally, in some momentary diminution in our own strife,
there could be faintly heard the noise of battle to our right, far and
near to our right.
Men were falling fast. All at once I heard Willis roar, "Fire to the
left, men! fire to the left!" A great turmoil ensued; officers cried,
"They are our men!" Willis again, shouted: "Fire on that line, men! They
are rebels! They are rebels!" and he succeeded in convincing most of us
that he was right. Then the cry rose: "We are flanked!" "Look out!"
"Flanked!" "Here they come!" and then the whole crowd of us were running
with all our legs. I reached a road that ran across the line of my
flight; it was full of everything: troops in good order, stragglers
breaking through them, wounded lying down, dead flat on their backs,
artillery horses in their traces, ambulances.
So far as we were concerned, the fight was over; fresh troops had
relieved us, and the rebels came no farther. It was night, and the
battle soon ended on the whole line.
With difficulty I found my regiment and company. We lay in the woods;
the rain kept on.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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