Democratic Sentinel, Volume 9, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 3 July 1885 — UNDER FIRE. [ARTICLE]

UNDER FIRE.

A True Border Story of the War. Some time before the war a Presbyterian clergyman from New Hampshire Went South with his family for the benefit of his health. He purchased a little farm in Virginia, about three miles from Washington, D. C., access to which was had by the way of Georgetown and the Aqueduct Bridge. He gradually failed in health, however, and died, leaving a widow—Mrs. Gayes—and two girls and two boys. At the breaking out of the war in 1861, Mrs. Gayes and her elder daughter, who was about 15 years of age, took a decided stand in favor of the Union cause. It required not a little moral courage to do this; but there was no element of fear in the make-up of any member of the family. At first their home was within the Confederate lines, and communication with Washington was very difficult and hazardous. Mrs. Gayes was ridiculed, and sometimes threatened, but it availed nothing. After the Confederate lines were driven back a few miles, in 1861, fortifications were constructed around Washington for the protection of the national capital. They consisted of a chain of forts arranged in nearly a circle. The line crossed the, Potomac near Chain Bridge, above Georgetown, extending thence down to Arlington Heights and some distance below, recrossing the river about half-way between Long Bridge and Alexandria, and so on around until the circle was complete. Within this line, and about a mile and a half from Fort Smith, situated on a little eminence, was Mrs. Gayes’ modest home, protected now from the enemy, but suffering more, perhaps, from her friends. Many regiments were encamped near by, and little by little her timber and fences and stock and crops disappeared, until there was scarcely anything left save the house and the land. Even the cook-stove was missing one morning. Very frequently at night she was aroused by the beating of “the long roll,” the shouting of Words of command, and the tramping of regiments as they swiftly formed in line of battle to meet the expected enemy. On such occasions all the members of the family would hastily dress, secure about their persons what valuables they had, and patiently wait. During all these trying years she and her daughter were devoted friends of the Union cause, and their willing hands were untiring in doing something for the soldiers. It was a midsummer morning in 1864. Out in the fields and over in the city it was scorching hot. But in Mite. Gayes’ house, protected as it was from the rays of the sun by the abundant foliage of the great oaks which surrounded it, the heat was not oppressive. Mrs. Gayes was in the sit-ting-room reading a paper. The elder daughter was in Washington. Charley the elder son—who was then near twelve years of age, was playing with the dog on the porch. It was a peaceful, quiet picture of Virginia country life. Suddenly there came a loud, whistling, screaming sound, followed by a terrific explosion directly over the house.

“Why!” ejaculated Mrs. Gayes, as she started from her seat, “what a heavy clap of ” thunder she was about to say, but the unmistakable humming, twanging sounds which followed close upon the explosion, with the falling of leaves and broken branches from the trees, told her it was a shell from some heavy gun.

“Is it possible the rebels are making an attack?” she said. The children now came running in from their play, and one of them cried out: “Oh, mamma! the lightning has struck the trees.” Mrs. Gayes went out on the porch and looked and listened, but nothing unusual could be seen or heard. “It was a shell,” said she. “I expect a gun at one of the forts went off accidentally. ”

“Well,” said Charley, “when they load their guns I wish they’d point them toward Richmond. They ought to be ashamed of themselves.” “I don’t think we shall be troubled any more,” said the mother, as she returned to the sitting-room, followed by the children. She had but just resumed her seat when another shell buried itself in the earth a few yards from the house and burst, throwing up clouds of ’ dust and dirt. “What can it mean?” said Mrs. Gayes. “I know what it means, mamma!” cried Charley. “That New York regiment which has just been sent over to Fort Smith has put up a target in our field, and the fellows are firing at it. I wish I was a General. I’d put every one of them in the guard-house!” The boy was right in his surmise, . and in a few moments another missile

thrown from one of the huge siege guns with which the fort was armed struck a quarter of a mile away, and came bounding or ricocheting toward the house, striking the ground at short intervals in its mad course, something as a stone when thrown violently upon the water skips along the surface. W ith a shriek like a demon it plunged through the garden, destroying everything in its path, filled the air with dust, gave two or three more skips and screeches, and finally burst over near the road. Mrs. Gayes turned pale. “Come down into the cellar with me, all of you, ” she said, and they obeyed with alacrity. After she had quieted Eliza, the negro servant, who was alternately praying to “de good Lord” and to “Missus Gayes” to save her, she said: “Charley, you must run up to Mr. Pierson’s just as fast as you can, and ask him to go around to the fort and have the firing stopped. And you remain at Mr. Piersbn’s until I send for you. Don’t come back. You are not afraid to go, are you ?” “No, mamma, I’m not afraid,” answered the brave little fellow as he clasped his mother’s hand a little tighter.

“I knew you would not be; and now as soon as the next shell comes I want you to go.” When it came she kissed him and said: “Now, my brave boy, run!”

She would gladly have gone herself, but she thought it better to remain that she might be with the other two children in case the house should be struck and burned. It cost her a struggle to send her son forth on such a perilous errand, and her face was very pale as she kissed him. Away sped Charley through the garden, glancing with wonder at the great furrows the shells had plowed, climbed the fence, and started to run with all his might toward Mr. Pierson’s house, which was half a mile* distant. He had scarcely left the garden fence, however, when another shell came tearing through the shrubbery he had just passed, and burst close to the house. The mother’s heart stood still for an instant—and there was cause for it. One of the flying fragments struck poor Charley, and he fell to the ground with a cry of “Oh, mamma!” Down in the cellar the mother heard the cry of her wounded boy, and in a moment she was kneeling by his side. It was a sad sight for a mother to look upon. The cruel piece of iron, with its ragged edges, had stripped a great piece of flesh from the back of his ankle upward, completely severing the cord and laying bare the bone. Ho was lying upon his face, and the blood was already staining the green grass where he had fallen. Speaking words of encouragement, she removed his shoe and the fragment of stocking, and hastily bound up the wound with strips from her clothing. In this way she stanched the flow of blood and quieted his fears, though she could not alleviate his pain.

“Now, Charley, I must go up to Mr. Pierson’s myself, or a shell may strike the house, and then Mary and Robby will be burned. I’ll put you behind the tree, and you will not be in much danger. ” “But you’ll run, mamma, won’t you?” And the tears trickled down Charley’s cheeks, though he tried very hard to keep them back. The tree was a large chestnut, and its generous trunk afforded a pretty ample protection against the shells, two of which had struck near by while Mrs. Gayes was binding up the wound. Arriving at Mr. Pierson’s, she dispatched him in great haste to the fort, white she, with swift feet, returned to Charley. Becky and Berty Pierson, aged 17 and 18, with true girlish heroism, returned with’her, notwithstanding the bursting shells. On the way they passed several negroes sheltered behind stumps and stones; and Mrs. Gayes vainly begged them to follow her and assist in the removal of the wounded boy. They found Charley behind the tree, and he said, “O mamma! I’m so glad you’ve come back.” He could not walk at all, and he was weak from pain and loss of blood. So his mother and the two girls carried him in their arms as best they could. Down the hill, half blinded by the smoke and stunned by the awful explosions, slowly moved the strange procession. They waded the little stream in the hollow, stopping a moment to bathe Charley’s face and hands, and carried their burden up the hill to Mr. Pierson’s house.

By this time Mr. Pierson had reached the fort, and the firing ceased. The other children were sent for, and in a few moments the regimental surgeon and hospital steward came galloping down to express their sorrow at what had happened and to render assistance. The surgeon’s proffered services were most gladly accepted. When he was ready to examine the wound, the another said: “Now, Charley, it will hurt you to have the wound dressed; but it must be done, and you must try and bear it. It will soon be over.”

“I’ll try,” said Charley, “if you’ll be sure, mamma, and not let my leg be cut off.” She pressed him to her heart, and assured him with loving words that there was no occasion for so serious an operation. “Sing to me, mamma! Sing to me!” “Why, Charley—l—l—don’t believe I can sing now, ” she faltered. “You must, mamma, you must! Please sing to me just the same as youalways do, and I’ll keep awful still.” And he reached up and put his arms pleadingly around her neck. There was a silence in the room as the little ’ sufferer persisted in his strange request Then the mother closed her eyes'and tried to sing. Her voice was ts emulous

at first, but by a mighty effort she expelled from her mind every thought save the remembrance of her love for her wounded child; and she was soon able to sing to him almost as sweetly and softly as if in her own quiet home. The boy’s arms gradually relaxed, and he lay back again quietly upon the blood-stained bed, with his head resting half upon his pillow and half upon his mother’s lap. His eyes were closed, and his pallid face had lost something of the roundness and fullness which marked it in the morning. The mother was bending over him with one of his hands in hers. On the other side of the bed sat Berty Pierson fanning Charley’s face. At the foot stood the surgeon and the steward. Clustered around the room were half a dozen neighbors looking on with awe-stricken faces.

When the mother began to sing the song she knew he loved, th re was a solemn hush in the room, and every eye was filled with tears. Even the rough old surgeon, as he cut away the bloody bandages, was seen to turn away his head and hastily draw his sleeve across his eyes a number of times; and the steward was hardly able to distinguish his instruments. Under the soothing effect of his mother’s voice, the boy allowed the wounds to be dressed and the cruel stitches to be taken. Later in the day he dropped asleep and awoke considerably refreshed. He was uncomplaining through it all, and the fortitude with which he bore his sufferings excited the admiration of every one. In the cool of the evening Charley was taken home in an ambulance sent for that purpose from the fort. The officers did everything in their power to atone for the suffering they had so carelessly but unintentionally caused. The surgeon and his assistants attended him tenderly and carefully until he was well. The surgeon offered to procure his mother a pension, but Mrs. Gayes declined, saying that she was too thankful that her boy was alive to think of asking aid from the Government. Charley was soon able to walk with the aid of crutches, but could not dispense with their use for many months. Mrs. Gayes, now an aged woman, loves to tell of those perilous times. One of her daughters, a lady of rare qualities, fills one of the highest positions allowed to her sex in the Government departments in Washington. She has in her little cabinet at home the very piece of shell which did its cruel work that day. It is rusty, and, when picked up, was blood-stained. Charley is a florist, and brings his flowers regularly to one of the Washington markets. He limps a little, and will always have cause to remember the summer morning when the New York regiment at Fort Smith bombarded his mother’s house.— New York Tribune.