General Nelson's Scout 35

General Nelson's Scout 35

So it was settled, and before night Fred and his good horse Prince were

on their way down the Ohio. Fred not only carried dispatches to General

Crittenden, but he had personal letters both from General Buell and

General Nelson to General Cruft commending him to the latter officer.

 

Disembarking at Owensboro, Fred made a swift ride to Calhoun, the

headquarters of General Crittenden. He delivered his dispatches to the

general, and at once sought the headquarters of General Cruft. The

general read Fred's letters, and then said: "You are very welcome, Mr.

Shackelford; you may consider yourself as one of my staff until such

time as General Nelson may join us."

 

Soon orders came to General Cruft to at once prepare to join Grant.

 

It was nearly noon on February the 14th when the fleet on which General

Cruft's brigade had embarked arrived at Fort Donelson. The place had

already been invested two days, and some severe fighting had taken

place. The weather, from being warm and rainy, had suddenly turned cold

on the afternoon of the 13th, and Fred shivered as he emerged from the

comfortable cabin of the steamboat and stepped out on the cold, desolate

bank of the river. The ground was covered with ice and snow, and the

scene was dreary in the extreme.

 

Now and then the heavy reverberation of a cannon came rolling down the

river, and echoed and re-echoed among the hills. A fleet of gunboats lay

anchored in the river, the mouths of their great guns looking out over

the dark sullen water as though watching for their prey. General Cruft's

brigade was assigned to the division of General Lew Wallace, which

occupied the center of the Federal army. Back in the rear little groups

of soldiers stood shivering around small fires, trying to warm their

benumbed limbs, or to cook their scanty rations.

 

The condition of the soldiers was pitiable in the extreme. There were

no tents; but few had overcoats, and many on the hard, muddy march from

Fort Henry had even thrown away their blankets. In the front lines no

fires could be lighted, and there the soldiers stood, exposed to the

furious storm of sleet and snow, hungry, benumbed, hardly knowing

whether they were dead or alive. Such were the heroes who stood for

three days before Donelson.

 

As Fred looked on all this suffering, he wondered at the fortitude with

which it was endured. There were few complaints from the soldiers; they

were even cheerful and eager to meet the foe.

 

About three o'clock the gunboats came steaming up the river and engaged

the Confederate batteries.

 

It was a most sublime spectacle, and held Fred spellbound. The very

heavens seemed splitting, and the earth shook and trembled from the

heavy concussions. Nearer and nearer the gunboats came to the batteries

until it seemed to Fred the great guns were vomiting fire and smoke into

each other's throats.

 

During the fight Fred noticed a small, thickset man sitting on his horse

intently watching the fight. His countenance was perfectly impassive,

and one could not tell by watching him whether he sympathized with

friend or foe.

 

For two hours the conflict raged. The boilers of the Essex had been

blown up, the other boats were bruised and battered and torn by the

great shots which had struck them, and were helplessly drifting down

the stream. The gunboats had been defeated. From the Federal side there

went up a great groan of disappointment, while from the Confederate

lines there arose the wild cheers of victory.

 

The silent man on horseback turned and rode away. Not a sign, not a word

that he was disappointed.

 

"Who is that man?" asked Fred of an officer standing by him.

 

"That, young man," was the answer, "is General Grant. He must be awfully

cut up, but he does not show it."

 

Fred turned and looked after Grant as he rode slowly away. "There,"

thought Fred, "is a man who is going to make his mark in this war. In

some of his actions he reminds me of General Thomas. Nothing seems to

excite him."

 

Night and darkness came. On the frozen ground, without tents or fire,

the soldiers once more made their beds. The wind sighed and moaned

through the bare branches, as if weeping at the suffering it caused.

Many, to keep from freezing, never lay down, but kept up a weary march,

so that the blood might circulate. The long hours dragged slowly along.

 

Over in the Confederate lines all was activity. A council of war was

held, and it was resolved that in the morning they would cut their way

through the lines of steel which Grant had thrown around them. All

preparations were made, every order given, and then they waited for the

light of morning--the last morning that hundreds would ever see.

 

It was hardly light when Fred was awakened by the fitful sound of

musketry over on the right. In front of Wallace's division only the

report of a rifle of a picket was heard now and then. Hurriedly eating a

little breakfast, he mounted his horse and reported to General Cruft for

duty. The men were all standing at arms, but there was nothing for them

to do. But over on the right the rattle of musketry grew more intense,

the roll of heavy volleys began to be heard, and then the deep-voiced

cannon joined in the chorus. Louder and louder grew the din of the

conflict. The smoke of battle began to ascend above the treetops like

smoke from a burning coal-pit. The sound of battle came nearer, the roll

of musketry was incessant, the thunder of cannon never ceased.

 

An officer wild with excitement came spurring his foaming horse up to

General Wallace.

 

"General McClernand wants help," he gasped. "The whole Rebel army has

attacked his division."

 

"I have orders from General Grant to hold this position at all hazards,"

replied Wallace. "I must have orders from him."

 

To Grant's headquarters the officer rides in frantic haste. The general

was away; he had started at five o'clock to see Commodore Foote, who had

been wounded in the battle of the night before, and was on board of one

of his gunboats, and the boats lay some five or six miles below.

 

Would not some one of his staff give orders to send reinforcements to

McClernand. No; none would take the responsibility. The officer groaned,

and rode back to McClernand with the heavy tidings.

 

Minutes go by, the thunder of battle is terrific. The Federals are being

driven. The exultant cheering of the advancing foe is heard above the

roar of conflict.

 

Another officer, with his horse bleeding from wounds, his hat gone, and

tears streaming down his face, rides to General Wallace. "For God's

sake, help!" he gasps, "or everything is lost; we are flanked, we cannot

hold out longer."

 

Then General Wallace said: "I will take the responsibility; help you

shall have." And with his face lighted up with joy the officer dashed

back to tell McClernand that help was coming.

 

An order comes to General Cruft to at once march his brigade to the

scene of action. No sooner is the command given than the brigade is on

the way. Soon shot and shell are crashing overhead, and singing bullets

begin to cut the twigs of the bushes around. Now and then a soldier

falters and goes down. A smooth-faced, florid man rides up to General

Cruft. "I am Colonel Oglesby," he says; "my brigade is being flanked on

the right. Let me lead you in position; my men are nearly out of

ammunition." And then as calmly as if on parade Colonel Dick Oglesby

leads Cruft's brigade to the relief of his men. Soon the brigade is in

the midst of the conflict. Here and there Fred rides carrying orders.

The excitement of battle is on him, and he feels no fear.

 

Oglesby's brigade is out of ammunition. Sullenly his men fall back,

leaving over 800 of their number dead and wounded on the field, but his

left regiment refuses to go. The colonel, a large, dark man, with hair

as black as midnight, eyes like flaming stars, rages up and down the

line like a lion. Fred gazes on him in admiration. He is typical of war

incarnate.

 

"Who is he?" Fred asks of a wounded soldier hobbling back.

 

"Colonel John A. Logan," is the answer.

 

At last his men are out of ammunition, and Logan, bleeding from two

wounds, is obliged to lead his regiment back. Another regiment takes its

place, and after a dreadful conflict, is compelled to fall back, leaving

over 300 of their number dead and wounded.

 

Cruft's brigade was now on the extreme right, cut off from the rest of

the army. The enemy pressed upon them; a withering volley sent them

reeling back. "Charge!" was the order. Fred spurred forward, and seizing

the colors of a Kentucky regiment, shouted: "Now, boys, for the honor of

old Kentucky."

 

The enemy flew before them like frightened sheep. But on either flank

the enemy pressed, and the brigade, combating every foot, was forced

back.

 

The enemy had gained the desired end; McClernand's division was out of

the way, the road to retreat was open. Why was it not taken advantage

of? Because of the imbecility of Generals Floyd and Pillow.

 

Broken, and with a third of its number dead and wounded, McClernand's

division is driven back on Lew Wallace. Officers, stunned with the

disaster, come wildly galloping through Wallace's lines, shouting, "All

is lost! all is lost!"

 

Wallace changes front to meet the exultant, advancing foe. Firm as

adamant his lines stand. In the faces of the charging Confederates his

men pour their crushing volleys. The enemy waver, reel, then go

staggering, bleeding back.

 

Where is Grant all of this time? In conference with Commodore Foote on

board of a gunboat six miles down the river. He is too far away to hear

the roll of musketry, and the thunder of artillery he thinks but

cannonading between the two lines. It is past noon when the conference

is ended and he is rowed ashore. There stands a staff officer with

bloodless face and shaking limbs. In a few words the story of the

disaster is told. Without a word Grant listens, and then mounts his

horse. The iron shoes of his steed strike fire on the frozen ground as

he gallops back. He arrives just as the foe is repulsed by Wallace's

division. His eye sweeps the field.

 

"Why, boys," he cries, "they are trying to get away; we mustn't let

them."

 

[Illustration: "Why, boys, they are trying to get away; we mustn't let

them."]

 

The words act like magic as they are borne along the lines. Cartridge

boxes are replenished, and the soldiers, who a few moments before were

in retreat, are now eager to advance. The lines are re-formed and the

army sweeps forward. This time it is the Confederates who are pressed

back, and soon the open road is closed. The chance to escape is forever

gone; Fort Donelson is doomed.

 

Darkness once more came, and with it another night of cold and

suffering. The early morning light showed a white flag floating from the

ramparts of the fort. Donelson had surrendered. Cold and hunger were

forgotten, as the soldiers in their joy embraced each other, and their

shouts of victory rose and fell like the swells of the ocean. The first

great victory of the war had been won. Fifteen thousand Confederates were prisoners.