The end of the battle of Chickamauga.

Lieut.  Bowersox, Si, Shorty and the recruits left the woods and entered a large clearing, in the midst of which was a log cabin, with a few rude outbuildings.  Over it flew the yellow flag of the hospital service, and beyond could be seen the parked trains and other evidences of the line-of-battle.

The roar of the battle would have told them as much, for it was now deafening.  The earth seemed to throb and the trees shake with the awful shocks.  As they passed the hospital they saw a grewsome pile of amputated legs and arms, while the ground around about was filled with wounded, whose groans pierced through the roar of battle.

James Bradshaw and Simeon Wheelwright, the two tall, stalwart men who had stood on the right and who had shown great coolness during the fight, gave one look at the dismembered limbs, turned pale as death, gasped, and fell in a faint.

“Forward!  Can’t stop to pay attention to them,” commanded the Lieutenant, in whom the battle-fever was burning.

Though still more than two miles from the low crest of Snodgrass Hill, where Gen. Thomas, with the remainder of the Army of the Cumberland, was standing savagely at bay against the fierce assaults of Bragg’s and Longstreet’s overwhelming numbers, they were soon in the midst of the wild ruck and confusion of the rear of a great battle.  Miles of wagons were being urged hither and yon, some times in accordance with intelligent orders by officers, more often from the panicky fears of wagon-masters and teamsters; riderless horses with saddles under their bellies were galloping frantically around; squads of artillerymen in search of ammunition were storming about, cursing cowardly teamsters, whom they could not find; streams of wounded men were trying to make their way to the hospitals; officers were yelling and swearing in their attempts to rally shirks and cowards who had fled from the front; men from regiments which had been broken and scattered by the fierce assaults were trying to find their colors; Colonels whose regiments had been ordered up from the rear were fiercely forcing their way forward, with many dire objurgations on all who impeded their progress.

It was a scene to discourage any but the stoutest heart, yet it only wrought up the boys to greater eagerness to get through to the firing-line.

The smoke-crowned crest of Snodgrass Hill was seen but half a mile away.  They could make out the ragged, irregular line of blue constantly vailing itself in sulphurous vapor as it poured murderous volleys into the enemy.  The shrill yell of the rebels as they renewed the charge, and the deep-toned cheer of the Union soldiers as they repulsed it, reached their ears in the momentary lulls of the firing.

So far, in spite of all deterrents, they had brought every man through except the two who had fainted at the hospital.  Everyone had shown true metal.  Little Abel Waite had particularly distinguished him self by skillful dodging under wagons and past flanks, in order to keep up with the swift pace of the longer-legged men.

They had as yet found no one in all the throng to give them the least information as to their regiment, when Si spied a member of Co.  Q walking deliberately back, holding the wrist of his shattered left hand in his right, with his fingers compressing the artery to restrain the flow of blood.

“There’s Silas Peckham,” exclaimed Si, running up to him.  “Badly hurt, Sile?”

“No,” answered Silas, more coolly than if he had stubbed his toe.  “Left hand’s gone on a strike.  That’s all.  Wisht I could find a doctor to fix it up so I could git back to the boys.  They’re havin’ an awful tussle up there, an’ need me bad.  Better hurry up, Si.  Don’t waste no time on me.  I’ll find a doctor soon an’ be back with you.”

“Where’s the regiment, Sile?” asked the Lieutenant.

“Right up there to the left o’ them tall hickories,” answered Silas, pointing with his bloody hand.  “To the right o’ that battery, you see there.  That’s our bully old battery at work.  Greatest battery in the army.  I’ve kept my eye on the place, because I want to git back as soon’s I kin find the Surgeon.  Ain’t much left o’ the regiment, or battery either, for that matter; but they’re raisin’ hell with the Johnnies every time, and don’t you forgit it.  Capt.  McGillicuddy’s in command.”

“Capt.  McGillicuddy?” said the Lieutenant.  “Why, he’s the junior Captain in the regiment.”

“He was yisterday mornin’, but he’s now senior to everybody that’s alive,” answered Silas.  “The Kunnel wuz killed yisterday forenoon.  The Lootenant-Kunnell held out about three hours an’ then he got it for keeps, an’ the Major tuck command an’ stuck out till nigh evenin’, when they knocked him.

“This mornin’ the Captains ’s bin going down so fast that I couldn’t keep track of ’em, till Capt.  McGillicuddy was the only one left, an’ he’s swearin’ that the rebels never run no bullet that could hit him.  The Adjutant’s acting Lootenant-Kunnel an’ Major both to-wunst, and shootin’ a gun when he hain’t nothin’ else to do.  But the boys that’s left ’s stayers, I tell you.  They’ve jest stuck their toenails into that hilltop there, an’ every time them howlin’ rebels come yippin’ an’ ki-yi-in’ out o’ the woods they send ’em back on the dead run.  But they want you up there bad.  You’ve got more than’s left in the regiment.  Hurry up.  I’ll be back with you jest as soon’s I kin find a doctor to cooper me up a little.”

“Forward Quick time March!” shouted the Lieutenant.  “Guide on those tall hickories.”

Onward they rushed full into the smoke that drifted backward down the hill.  As they gained the crest the air became clearer, and they saw the sadly-shrunken remnant of their regiment strung in an irregular line along the forward edge.  Some were binding up wounds more or less severe, some were searching the boxes of the dead and wounded for cartridges, some were leaning on their hot guns, looking curiously into the woods at the foot of the slope into which the rebels had fled.

Every face was blackened with powder almost beyond recognition.  The artillerymen to the left were feverishly swabbing out their guns and trying to cool them off, and bringing up everything in the shape of ammunition from the limbers in the rear.

Capt.  McGillicuddy was leaning on his sword at the right of the line, intently watching everything.  He looked sharply around, when the men raised a cheer on recognizing Si and the rest, and coming back shook Lieut.  Bowersox warmly by the hand, saying: 

“Great God, Lieutenant, I’ve always been glad to see you, but I never was so glad to see a man in my life as I am you this minute.  How many men did you bring?”

“I’ve got 128 with me,” answered the Lieutenant.  “What’s the situation?”

“You have?  Well, you’ve got more than we have left.  You’ll act as Major.  Poor Wilkinson just got his dose.  You can see him lying down there in the rear of the left.  Put your men in anywhere.  Mix them up with the others..  It don’t matter much about formation.  The main thing’s to stand and shoot.  The rebels have been charging us all after noon, but we have whipped them back every time.

“You can see our work out there (pointing to the slope in front, which was literally covered with dead and wounded).  I’ve thought every time that they couldn’t stand another such a slaughter, but they’ve rallied in those woods there and come out again with their infernal yell, just as before.  The last time it seemed to me that we just swept them off the face of the earth, and I don’t see how in God’s name they can stand any more of that sort of thing.  It’s worse killing than we gave them at Stone River.  It seems to me that hell has let out for noon, and sent all its devils to reinforce them.  But it will soon be night now, when they’ll have to stop.  If they won’t we’ll have to depend on the bayonet, for we haven’t five rounds apiece left, and I can’t get more anywhere.”

Si and Shorty had been distributing the detachment along the line, and had posted the Englishman and his squad of Irishmen, with themselves, around the tattered colors, which were now in the hands of the last survivor of the color guard, who was himself wounded.

Dusk was fast coming on, when the woods beyond the foot of the slope began to darken again with masses of men arraying in column of assault.

“They’re coming again,” called out Capt.  McGillicuddy.  “Lieut.  Bowersox, look out there for the left.  Men, if we haven’t stopped them when we’ve fired out last shot, we’ll fix bayonets and charge them.  We must keep them off this hill or die right here.”

He was answered with cheers.  A demoniac yell from 10,000 fierce throats rang through the woods, and the next instant thunder and flames burst from the sweeping crescent of rebel cannon, and the ground in front of the foot of the hill was hidden from view by the tide of men rushing over it.

A fierce storm of cannon and musketry answered from the crest of the hill.  As they reloaded, Si and Shorty saw in quick glances that the rebel line to the right and left seemed beaten to a standstill by the terrific storm which fell upon them, but in their immediate front a body of men, apparently a regiment, kept stubbornly forging forward.  Upon their flag, held gallantly aloft, could be made out the let ters “Miss.”

By the time every shot in the cartridge-boxes had been fired at them they had forced their way half-up the slope.

“Attention, 200th Indiana,” shouted Capt.  McGillicuddy.  “Dress on the colors.  Fix bayonets.”

“They’uns ’s Injiannians,” shouted the rebel Color-Sergeant, waving his flag defiantly.  “Come on, you Hoosiers.  We’uns ’s Mississippians.  Remember Buny Visty.  Injiannians ’s cowards.”

“Shorty, le’s have that ’ere flag,” said Si.

“Le’s,” said Shorty, pushing around the ring that locked his bayonet on.

“Forward March Charge!” shouted Capt.  McGillicuddy.

Of the mad whirl of an eternity of events in the next few minutes neither Si nor Shorty had anything but a delirious remembrance.  They could only recollect the fierce rush of the lightning-like play of bayonet and gun-barrel in the storm-center around the rebel colors.  Each after an instant’s savage fencing had sent his bayonet home in his opponent’s body.  Si had sprung at and seized the rebel colors, only to fall, as he grasped them, from a bullet out of the revolver of a rebel Captain, whom Shorty instantly bayoneted, and fell himself from a blow across the head with a musket-barrel.

The man who struck him was bayoneted by Abel Waite, who was dancing around the edges of the melee like a malignant little fiend, prodding wherever he could get a chance at a rebel body.  The Irishmen, yelling like demons, were using their guns like shilelahs, and crushing heads in every direction, while Wat Burnham had thrown his musket aside, and was rushing at everybody with his mighty fists.

At length the rebels fled, leaving the Indianians in possession of their colors and the hillside.

“Some of you find Lieut.  Bowersox, and bring him here,” said Capt.  McGillicuddy, sitting up, and beginning to twist a handkerchief around his thigh, to form a tourniquet.  “Lieutenant, you all right?”

“Nothing more than a mere scratch on the side of my head,” said the Lieutenant, wiping away the blood.

“Well, Lieutenant, you’ll have to take command of the regiment.  I had a personal altercation with that Mississippi Colonel lying over there, and he put a bullet through my thigh.  Get the men together, pick up our wounded, and fall back to the top of the hill again.”

“I’m afraid there’s no use of picking up Corp’l Klegg and Shorty,” said the Lieutenant, with tears in his eyes.  “They got the rebel flag, but they’re lying there stiff and cold.”

“Well, bring them back, anyway, so we can lay them beside the other gallant boys who have fallen to-day.”