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BATTLE OF MURFREESBORO.
AN occasional correspondent, Mr.
Hubner, of the Third Ohio Volunteers, has sent us the picture of the
MURFREESBORO, which we reproduce on
page 108. It represents the situation of
affairs on the third day of the battle, and we give Mr. Hubner's description in
his own words:
"The accompanying sketch
represents the position of the centre of the army on the third day of the
battle. The batteries were situated on commanding ground; across the plain ran a
rifle-pit. The slightest elevation of the ground was used to protect our boys
from the heavy fire out of the woods. The rebels made several fierce attacks,
but were repulsed with heavy loss.
"Colonel Loomis's battery and
Captain Terrill's United States battery opened a cross-fire on them, and the
enemy soon retreated back into the woods, where they had strong intrenchments,
leaving behind a good number killed and wounded.
"The Nineteenth Regiment Illinois
Volunteers made a rush upon the Twenty-sixth rebel Regiment of Tennessee, drove
them back with great loss, and captured their flag, on which was the motto,
'Death before Subjugation!' The gallant Captain Taylor, a member of
Major-General Rousseau's staff, bore it away amidst the cheers of thousands and
thousands of brave men.
"The boys suffered terribly on
account of the inclemency of the weather. A cold rain fell, and when not in
action we had to lie down, often in the mud, in order to be concealed from the
rebel batteries. The boys built small fires and crowded around them, not minding
the cannon-balls or bursting shells which came in volleys from the rebel
batteries. A favorite stratagem of our gallant and beloved commander, Major-General
Rosecrans, is to make us lie down under the crest of an elevation of
the ground, and await the arrival of the enemy until they come within a short
distance, then jump up, give them a volley and charge with the bayonet; and 'tis
true enough, if carried out with precision and boldness, it leads to victory.
"Our rations run short too, and
there was no chance of a fresh supply. So many of our soldier boys attacked the
fresh-killed horses which lay around. A thin slice of horse roasted on a stick,
with pepper and salt on it, is a delicious meal when nothing else is to be had."
STORY OF ST. VALENTINE'S DAY.
A SUMMER twilight under the green
awning of low-branched linden-trees— clove-pinks blossoming in the garden
borders, like chalices of spice—and stars just trembling into the warm violet
sky —if Clinton Audley had lived to be a hundred years old, he never would have
forgotten the dim, indistinct beauty of the dusky landscape. Now all that
happened on that summer night was imbedded upon his heart in lines that Death
itself had no power to efface!
"Not yet, Clara; do not speak so
firmly! Remember that it is my life's doom you are pronouncing. Oh, Clara! think
He had led his men up to the very
cannon's mouth without a thought of fear, yet now he was a coward in the
presence of that slender blue-eyed girl!
"It is useless," said Clara
Mervyn, with cheek whose color never varied, and firm, pitying eyes; "my answer
would be the same did I take a whole year for deliberation. I am very sorry,
"Nay," interposed Audley, with a
cold, constrained voice that scarce hid the angry emotions in his heart, "do not
waste your pity on me. The matter is unfortunate as far as I am concerned; but I
can not see why you should grieve. I have been a mad fool, that is all.
He lifted his light military cap
and was gone; and Clara Mervyn sat down on the rustic garden seat and had a good
cry! Surely it was not her fault that Clinton Audley was so foolish—he might
have known she didn't care for him.
While the young officer,
restlessly pacing to and fro, thought of the dark-eyed soldier whose head he had
supported at Manassas while the life bubbled from his breast in red surging
drops—thought of his last words, "It isn't for myself; but Mary's heart will
break when she hears of it!"—oh why could he not have died in that boy's stead?
There was no heart to break for him!
"The idle dream is ended!" he
said, aloud; "and now for the realities of life. We shall never meet again."
Could he but have looked forward
to the time when they two should meet again!
"Only my hand, doctor? Pooh!
never mind; there's many a fellow worse off than I
"A very philosophical view to
take of matters," said the surgeon, half smiling, "but at the same time an
unusual one. Hold still half a minute, can't you?"
"Well, what does it matter after
all? I've neither wife nor sweet-heart to fret about my disfigurements."
"But I suppose you expect to come
into possession of one or both of those articles some day?"
"Can't say that I do. There, I'm
comfortable enough now. I say, though, doctor!"
"Could you persuade that fat old
nurse to get a pair of shoes that squeak in a minor key? Every sick man has his
trials, and mine are those calf-skin shoes. Possibly I'm nervous, but I can't
The surgeon laughed
"Don't annoy yourself on that
score; there will be a change of nurses to-night, and I do not think the
shoe-question will trouble you further. Try to sleep a while now!"
Clinton Audley closed his eyes,
and strove to
forget the sharp spasms of pain
that racked his poor wounded frame, while the fire shone ruddily on the walls,
faintly illumining the long rows of narrow white beds on either side, and the
gray dusk blackened into night, and—
"I must have been asleep!" he
thought, with a sudden start, as the little clock chimed eleven. "Yes, I must;
but who on earth is that? Oh, the new nurse, I suppose. She don't wear calf-skin
shoes, at all events—moves like a shadow!"
For like a shadow she had glided
to his bedside.
"I think your draught was to be
taken at eleven, Sir!" and she glanced at her written directions.
And as Clinton Audley silently
extended his left hand for the slender vial, he knew that the "new nurse" was
Clara Mervyn. She recognized him at the same instant—there was a slight start,
but neither spoke.
Fate had brought them together
The January snows melted away
from the purple Maryland hills, and February's blue heaven smiled overhead.
Spring was nigh at hand, yet the lost roses had not blossomed again on Clara
"Don't overwork yourself, Miss
Mervyn," said the kindly surgeon; "there's no earthly occasion for it. They are
all doing well, except that young Audley!"
The color rushed in a scarlet
torrent to Clara's cheek, then receded, leaving it cold as marble.
"Will he die, Sir?"
"Die? oh no! not the least danger
of his dying. What I meant to say was, that his recovery is slow. Never knew
such a lagging convalescence. A fine young fellow that—very. We surgeons are
commonly supposed to have no feelings, Miss Clara; but I can tell you it went to
my heart to take that boy's hand off. However—but bless me, it's nearly noon. Be
sure you take care of yourself, Miss Mervyn!" and away hurried Dr. Wilde, who
never knew what it was to have a moment's leisure!
Clara was left alone, her head
drooping on her breast. The next instant she rose up and looked at her own
slender right hand with a shuddering, sobbing sigh.
"Oh, if I could have given my
useless hand to save his!" she moaned. "If I had but the right to cheer and
comfort him! Ah me! what can a woman do but endure!"
Clara was learning a hard lesson
in life's saddest school—to suffer and be silent.
She started at the words. He had
never called her "Clara" since their parting under the linden-trees.
"Are you very busy to-night?"
"Not particularly so; why do you
"Then come and sit beside my
pillow for a little while. I feel conversational just now."
She obeyed silently.
"Are you better this evening,
"I think so. The red, glorious
sunset has done me good. Did you know that this was St. Valentine's Eve?"
"The 13th of February—so it is!"
"Do you believe in the goodly
offices of St. Valentine, Miss Mervyn? I assure you my faith is limitless in the
patron saint of lovers!"
Clara smiled as she remembered
all the time-worn "valentines" she kept under lock and key at home.
"I confess to a little
superstition on the subject," she said, coloring, for she felt that Clinton's
eyes were fixed on her downcast lashes.
"Very well, then; you won't
consider me mawkishly sentimental if I ask you to be so kind as to act as my
right hand for once."
"I should be so glad. But how—"
"Will you write a St. Valentine's
love-letter for me?"
"Stop, though! Answer me one
question first, frankly and fully. Do you think it would be a piece of
presumptuous folly in me to ask a woman's love to bless a maimed, useless wretch
like me? Nay, do not spare my feelings. I wish to hear the truth."
Clara Mervyn was silent for a
moment; and when she spoke it was in a distinct, though very low tone.
"If the woman you love be worthy
of the name, you will be far dearer to her now than ever you were in the prime
of health and strength."
"You have taken a great weight
from my heart, Miss Mervyn; and now will you assume the role of amanuensis?"
Writing a love-letter for Clinton
Audley to another woman—it was a strange duty—yet Clara Mervyn went through with
it with a sort of mechanical calmness, heedless of the sore heart that ached so
bitterly in her breast, while every word seemed the knell of a death-warrant. It
was the bitterest cup she had drunk yet—a cup that must be swallowed to the
"Thank you, Miss Mervyn. I won't
trouble you to direct it. Ah, if I were but certain that St. Valentine would
speed my suit!"
He smiled; but it would have been
difficult to tell which was paler—the cheek that lay against the pillows of the
hospital pallet, or that shadowed by Clara Mervyn's brown tresses!
She gave him the folded letter,
with its earnest words of pleading, and then went away to her own room; for,
fortunately, the "night-watch," as it was called, had been confided to another.
And only the quiet stars saw the convulsive bursts of grief that shook her frame
ere at last she sobbed herself to sleep, her flushed cheek lying on her drenched
hair, and the lips quivering even in her dreams!
How gloriously the crimson
banners of St. Valentine's dawn were draped along the sky when at length she
opened her eyes—how radiantly the morning lighted up those blue, far-off hills!
Unconsciously her lips formed themselves into a smile, and then—ah, then the old
pangs of heartache came back to her!
She was nearly dressed before her
eyes fell upon
a tiny bunch of violets,
dew-sprinkled and fragrant, that lay on her toilet-table—she caught it up with
an exclamation of delight, and a note fell from its blue heart—a note directed
in a strange, straggling hand.
"Some hospital directions," she
murmured, and, smiling at Dr. Wilde's eccentricities, she unfolded the paper.
"Great Heaven! can it be
possible?" she faltered, as she recognized her own handwriting. "Did he mean to
ask me to become his wife? Oh, it is too much, too much happiness!"
She clasped her hands over her
eyes for a moment, then sank to her knees beside the little white bed, half
uncertain whether it were not all a dream.
Five minutes later Clinton Audley
held out his left hand to the blushing little nurse who had stolen softly to his
"Well?" he asked, scanning her
"Oh, Clinton, I am so happy!"
And then she burst into tears: it
was well that there were not many patients in the convalescent ward!
"Are you really captured, my
little, shy, tremulous bird?" he whispered.
"Nay," said Clara, shaking back
her curls with a spice of the old mischief, "it is you who are recaptured, brave
soldier though you deem yourself!"
"And had you no suspicion of the
destination of that valentine?"
"If I had known it would have
spared me a great many tears. But oh, Clinton, I think I shall never shed any
but happy tears again!"
With the radiant dawn of St.
Valentine's Day had risen the morning-star of Clara Mervyn's life and love!
ONE of our special artists, Mr.
Loomis, has sent us the sketches of the
APPROACHES TO SAVANNAH, GEORGIA, which we
reproduce on page 100.
It seems that our forces in Fort Pulaski have taken pains to inform themselves
pretty thoroughly of the nature of the rebel defenses, so that when the time
comes for an assault there shall be no more
Big Bethel blunders. We hold the mouth of the
Fort Pulaski, the two channels on either side
of Elba Island, and St. Augustine Creek. The rebel advance is at the junction of
that creek with the river. There they have erected some pretty substantial
earth-works, mounted with heavy guns in barbette. And on a line with these, in
the river, is a row of obstructions consisting of piles firmly driven into the
bed of the river, and secured together with chains. Behind these floats the
iron-clad Georgia, formerly the British steamer Fingal, a vessel of no mean
power, though not very well adapted, we should judge, to cope with our Monitors.
It will be seen that the rebels have not been idle in taking measures for their
protection. There will be all the more glory for our brave soldiers and sailors
when they take the place.
BATTLE IN BAYOU TECHE.
OUR attentive New Orleans
correspondent sends us a sketch—which we reproduce on
page 101—of the BATTLE OF CORNEY'S BRIDGE, in
Bayou Teche, Louisiana, fought by General Weitzel on 14th January. He had gone
up the bayou to destroy a rebel boat called the Cotton. The Times correspondent
thus describes the affair:
Early on Wednesday morning, at 6
A.M., the Diana, Captain Goodwin, was ordered to go down the bayou to Lynch's
Point, to take the Eighth Vermont across to the left or northern bank, in order
for a flank movement on the enemy. At 7 the Calhoun, Commodore Buchanan,
Kinsman, Captain Wiggin, and Estrella, Captain Cook, commenced moving slowly up
the bayou, and at 8 o'clock reached the formidable obstruction. This was at a
place called Corney's Bridge, from a man of that name owning a plantation there.
Nothing but the piles of the old bridge remain, protruding about three or four
feet above water, and against these the rebels had sunk an old steamer, filled
with brick, and placed all manner of rubbish—making it impossible at that time
either for the Cotton to come down to us or for us to get at her.
At this time, about 8.45, an
artillery duel commenced between our gun-boats and the gun-boat Cotton and the
rebel batteries. The firing continued for some time without any manifest
difference to either party. A few desultory rifle-shots had been fired at us
from the shore.
Suddenly the Kinsman felt
something explode under her; it was a torpedo, and her stern was violently
lifted in the air, but fortunately with no damage, as was afterward found. An
aid of General Weitzel came galloping up to tell the Kinsman of another torpedo
being planted right ahead, a contraband, escaped from the Cotton, having brought
the intelligence. Owing to this, and one of her guns being disabled—so the
Kinsman's officers all assured me—she was cautiously dropping back, after
warning both the Estrella and Calhoun of what had been told her.
Commodore Buchanan, either not
hearing or not heeding the information, at once steamed up right ahead of both
the Estrella and the Kinsman, and personally seized the post of danger. It was
now about 10 o'clock, when the rebels, from behind their concealed rifle-pits,
poured forth a most murderous volley upon our men; and the Cotton coming down to
attack our batteries, the fight became severe and general.
The gallant Buchanan was one of
the first to fall. He was standing forward, spy-glass in hand, a motionless
target for the deadly missiles of the hidden enemy. W. D. Brown, Acting Chief
Engineer, who was near him at the time, having received a spent ball in the
thigh, the Commodore said: "Ah! you've got it." The very next moment a ball
struck Buchanan in the right cheek, immediately below the temple, passing
through to the opposite side. He exclaimed, "My God!" and fell back dead. Some
say this gallant officer was rash on this occasion, and threw away his loved and
valued life; perhaps so, but it was a rashness which will endear his heroic name
To show how terribly murderous
was the position in which our boats were placed, it is only necessary to state
that at this point the bayou was so narrow that the Calhoun in turning had her
bow and stern aground.
While this was going on our
land-forces were by no means idle. The Eighth Vermont, as soon as they had been
brought across from Lynch's Point in the Diana, at once attacked the rebels in
the rear of their rifle-pits; and during a brisk and sharp engagement killed
several, took forty prisoners, and put the rest to flight, their cannon leading
the way. But for this sudden and gallant assistance from the Eighth Vermont,
there can be little doubt that the Calhoun would have been lost, from the
impetuosity with which the rebels were firing upon her.
In the mean time, no less
efficient aid was being given by other portions of our troops. Three
batteries—the First Maine, Lieutenant Bradbury; one section of the Fourth
Massachusetts, under Lieutenant Briggs, and Captain W. W. Carruth's Sixth
Massachusetts—had gone round
by the woods, from PatersonvilIe
to a point above the Cotton, where they could successfully play upon her; and in
this they were assisted by some of the One Hundred and Sixtieth New York, and 60
sharp-shooters of the Seventy-fifth New York, who played havoc among the crew of
the rebel gun-boat, which was one of those enormous Mississippi steamers,
protected by cotton wherever possible, and clad in iron.
Thrice did this ungainly monster
retire up the bayou, from the effect of the deadly iron hail poured into her,
and thrice did she desperately cone up to renew the contest. She came once too
often, however; for, after having had her men nearly cleaned out of her, the
last time she made her appearance—which was at 2 o'clock next morning—she was
floating in solitary glory down the bayou, one sheet of flame.
The game being over, and the
ostensible object of the expedition accomplished, our gun-boats and land-forces
returned in perfect order and good spirits.
WE publish on
page 109 a picture
of STONEWALL JACKSON IN CAMP, from a sketch by Mr. Vizetelly, the artist of the
London Illustrated News, who has cast his lot among the rebels. This sketch was
made some weeks since, and was sent from Secessia in the vessel which was lately
captured off Charleston. All the documents found on board were transmitted to
Admiral Dupont. Some of them, such as the
correspondence between Benjamin and the rebel agents in Europe, have been
published in the papers. What became of Mr. Vizetelly's drawings we can not
tell; but the one we reproduce was kindly traced for us, by permission of the
Admiral, and thus sees the light—rather unexpectedly to its author—in our
THE ARMY OF THE POTOMAC.
WE reproduce on
104, and 105, two of Mr. Waud's sketches. One of them illustrates the fruitless
attempt of the Army of the Potomac to move toward the Rappahannock on 20th
January—or, in the coarser language of the rebels, "BURNSIDE'S ARMY STUCK IN THE
MUD;" and the other, the NIGHT-PATROL MAKING HIS ROUNDS. The latter picture
explains itself, and needs no description. By way of explanation of the former
we append the following graphic account from the correspondence of the Times:
It was a wild Walpurgus night,
such as Goethe paints in the "Faust" while the demons held revel in the forest
of the Brocken. All hopes that it would be a "mere shower" were presently
blasted. It was evident we were in for a regular northeaster, and among the
roughest of that rough type. Yet was there hard work done that fearful night.
One hundred and fifty pieces of artillery were to be planted in the position
selected for them by General Hunt, Chief of Artillery—a man of rare energy and
of a high order of professional skill. The pontoons, also, were drawn down
nearer toward the river, but it was dreadful work; the roads under the influence
of the rain were becoming shocking; and by daylight, when the boats should all
have been on the banks, ready to slide down into the water, but fifteen had been
gotten up—not enough for one bridge, and five were wanted!
The night operations had not
escaped the attention of the wary rebels. Early in the morning a signal-gun was
fired opposite the ford, reminding one of that other signal-gun fired by them on
the morning of Thursday the 11th December, when we began laying the pontoon
opposite Fredericksburg, and which was the token for the concentration of the
whole force at that point. It was indispensable that we should secure all the
advantages of a surprise; and though our intention was thus blown to their ears
early on Wednesday morning, we were, nevertheless, forty-eight hours ahead of
them, and with favorable conditions should have been able to carry our position
before they could possibly concentrate.
Accordingly a desperate effort
was made by the Commanding General to get ready the bridges. It was obvious,
however, that, even if completed, it would be impossible for us, in the then
condition of the ground, to get a single piece of artillery up the opposite
declivity. It would be necessary to rely wholly upon the infantry—indeed, wholly
on the bayonet. Happily, if the rebels should prove to be in strong force, the
country is too thickly wooded to admit of much generalship, and it was hoped
that our superior weight of metal would carry the day.
Early in the forenoon I rode up
to the head-quarters of
Generals Hooker and Franklin, about two miles
from Banks's Ford. The night's rain had made deplorable havoc with the roads.
The nature of the upper geologic deposits of this region affords unequaled
elements for bad roads. The sand makes the soil pliable, the clay makes it
sticky, and the two together form a road out of which, when it rains, the bottom
drops, but which is at the same time so tenacious that extrication from its
clutch is all but impossible.
The utmost effort was put forth
to get pontoons enough into position to construct a bridge or two. Double and
triple teams of horses and mules were harnessed to each pontoon-boat. It was in
vain. Long, powerful ropes were then attached to the teams, and a hundred and
fifty men were put to the task on each boat. The effort was but little more
successful. They would flounder through the mire for a few feet—the gang of
Liliputians with their huge-ribbed Gulliver—and then give up breathless. Night
arrived, but the pontoons could not be got up. The rebels had discovered what
was up, and the pickets on the opposite bank called over to ours that they
"would come over to-morrow and help us build the bridge."
That night the troops again
bivouacked in the same position in the woods they had held the night before. You
can imagine it must have been a desperate experience—and yet not by any means as
bad as might be supposed. The men were in the woods, which afforded them some
shelter from the wind and rain, and gave them a comparatively dry bottom to
sleep on. Many had brought their shelter-tents; and making a flooring of spruce,
hemlock, or cedar boughs, and lighting huge camp fires, they enjoyed themselves
as well as the circumstances would permit. On the following morning a whisky
ration, provided by the judicious forethought of General Burnside, was on hand
Thursday morning saw the light
struggling through an opaque envelop of mist, and dawned upon another day of
storm and rain. It was a curious sight presented by the army as we rode over the
ground; miles in extent, occupied by it. One might fancy some new geologic
cataclysm had o'ertaken the world; and that he saw around him the elemental
wrecks left by another Deluge. An indescribable chaos of pontoons, wagons, and
artillery encumbered the road down to the river—supply-wagons upset by the
road-side—artillery "stalled" in the mud—ammunition. trains mired by the way.
Horses and mules dropped down dead, exhausted with the effort to move their
loads through the hideous medium. A hundred and fifty dead animals, many of them
buried in the liquid muck, were counted in the course of a morning's ride. And
the muddle was still further increased by the bad arrangements—or rather the
failure to execute the arrangements that had been made. It was designed that
Franklin's column should advance by one road and hooker's by another. But, by
mistake, a portion of the troops of the Left, Grand Division debouched into the
road assigned to the centre, and cutting in between two divisions of one of
Hooker's corps, threw every thing into confusion. In consequence, the woods and
roads have for the past two days been filled with stragglers, though very many
of them were involuntary stragglers, and were evidently honestly seeking to
rejoin their regiments. It was now no longer a question of how to go on; it was
a question of how to get back.