From Canal Boy to President; Or, the Boyhood and Manhood of James A. Garfield

Chapter XXIV—The Battle Of Middle Creek

Col. Garfield has gained a great advantage, but he knows that it must be followed up. His ambition is not satisfied. He means to force a fight with Marshall, despite the odds.

He has been reinforced, but Craven's men are completely exhausted by their long and toilsome march. They are hardly able to drag one foot after the other. Garfield knows this, but he explains to his men what he proposes to do. He orders those who have strength to come forward. Of the men under his immediate command seven hundred obey the summons. Of Craven's weary followers four hundred heroic men volunteer to accompany him.

So at noon of the 9th, with eleven hundred men, Garfield sets out for Prestonburg, sending all his available cavalry to follow the line of the enemy's retreat. At nine o'clock that night, after a march of eighteen miles, he reaches the mouth of Abbott's Creek with his eleven hundred men. He hears that his opponent is encamped three miles higher up on the same stream. He sends an order back to Lieutenant-Colonel Sheldon, who is left in command at Paintville, to bring up every available man with all possible dispatch, for he intends to force a battle in the morning.

He requires to know the disposition of Marshall's forces, and here the gallant scout, John Jordan, again is of service to him. While a dozen Confederates were grinding at a mill, they were surprised by as many Union men, who, taking them by surprise, captured their corn, and made them prisoners. Jordan eyed the miller with a critical eye, and a plan was instantly formed. The miller was a tall, gaunt man, and his clothes would fit the scout. He takes a fancy to exchange raiment with the miller. Then, smearing his face with meal, he goes back to the Confederate camp in a new character. Even if he is surprised he will escape suspicion, for the miller is a pronounced disunionist, and he looks his very image.

His midnight ramble enabled him to learn precisely what it was important for Garfield to know. He found out their exact position, and that they had laid an ambuscade for the Union commander. They were waiting for him, strongly posted on a semicircular hill at the forks of Middle Creek, on both sides of the road, with cannon commanding its whole length, hidden by the trees and underbrush.

"They think they've got you, general," said Jordan. "They're waitin' for you as a cat waits for a mouse."

Upon a steep ridge called Abbott's Hill, the Union soldiers, tired and sleepy, had thrown themselves upon the wet ground. There was a dense fog, shutting out the moon and stars, and shrouding the lonely mountain in darkness. The rain was driven in blinding gusts into the faces of the shivering men, and tired as they were they hailed with joy the coming of morning. For more than one brave man it was destined to be his last day upon earth.

At four o'clock they started on their march. About daybreak, while rounding a hill, their advance guard was charged upon by a body of Confederate horsemen. In return Garfield gave the Confederates a volley, that sent them reeling up the valley.

It was clear that the main body of the enemy was not far away. To determine this Garfield sent forward a body of skirmishers to draw the fire of the enemy. He succeeded, for a twelve-pound shell whistled above the trees, then plowed up the hill, and buried itself in the ground at the feet of the little band of skirmishers.

Noon came, and Garfield made the necessary preparations for battle. He could not have been without apprehension, for he knew, though the enemy did not, that their force was far superior to his. He sent forward his mounted escort of twelve men to make a charge and draw the enemy's fire. His plan succeeded. Another shell whistled over their heads, and the long roll of five thousand muskets was heard.

It was certainly a remarkable battle, when we consider that a small band of eleven hundred men without cannon had undertaken to attack a force of five thousand, supported by twelve pieces of artillery, charging up a rocky hill, over stumps, over stones, over fallen trees, and over high intrenchments.

"The battle was fought on the margin of Middle Creek, a narrow, rapid stream, and three miles from where it finds its way into the Big Sandy, through the sharp spurs of the Cumberland Mountain. A rocky road, not ten feet in width, winds along this stream, and on its two banks abrupt ridges, with steep and rocky sides, overgrown with trees and underbrush, shut closely down upon the road and the little streamlet. At twelve o'clock Garfield had gained the crest of the ridge at the right of the road, and the charge of his handful of horsemen had drawn Marshall's fire, and disclosed his actual position.

"The main force of the Confederates occupied the crests of the two ridges at the left of the stream, but a strong detachment was posted on the right, and a battery of twelve pieces held the forks of the creek, and commanded the approach of the Union army. It was Marshall's plan to drive Garfield along the road, and then, taking him between two enfilading fires, to surround and utterly destroy him. But his hasty fire betrayed his design, and unmasked his entire position.

"Garfield acted with promptness and decision. A hundred undergraduates, recruited from his own college, were ordered to cross the stream climb the ridge whence the fire had been hottest, and bring on the battle. Boldly the little band plunged into the creek, the icy water up to their waists, and clinging to the trees and underbrush, climbed the rocky ascent. Half-way up the ridge the fire of at least two thousand rifles opens upon them; but, springing from tree to tree, they press on, and at last reach the summit. Then suddenly the hill is gray with Confederates, who, rising from ambush, pour their deadly volleys into the little band of only one hundred. In a moment they waver, but their leader calls out, 'Every man to a tree! Give them as good as they send, my boys!'

"The Confederates, behind rocks and a rude intrenchment, are obliged to expose their heads to take aim at the advancing column; but the Union troops, posted behind the huge oaks and maples, can stand erect, and load and fire, fully protected. Though they are outnumbered ten to one, the contest is therefore, for a time, not so very unequal.

"But soon the Confederates, exhausted with the obstinate resistance, rush from cover, and charge upon the little handful with the bayonet. Slowly they are driven down the hill, and two of them fall to the ground wounded. One never rises; the other, a lad of only eighteen, is shot through the thigh, and one of his comrades turns back to bear him to a place of safety. The advancing Confederates are within thirty feet, when one of them fires, and his bullet strikes a tree directly above the head of the Union soldier. He turns, levels his musket, and the Confederate is in eternity. Then the rest are upon him; but, zigzagging from tree to tree, he is soon with his driven column. But not far are the brave boys driven. A few rods lower down they hear the voice of the brave Captain Williams, their leader.

"'To the trees again, my boys!' he cries. 'We may as well die here as in Ohio!'

"To the trees they go, and in a moment the advancing horde is checked, and then rolled backward. Up the hill they turn, firing as they go, and the little band follows. Soon the Confederates reach the spot where the Hiram boy lies wounded, and one of them says: 'Boy, give me your musket.'

"'Not the gun, but its contents,' cries the boy, and the Confederate falls mortally wounded. Another raises his weapon to brain the prostrate lad, but he too falls, killed with his comrade's own rifle. And all this is done while the hero-boy is on the ground, bleeding. An hour afterward his comrades bear the boy to a sheltered spot on the other side of the streamlet, and then the first word of complaint escapes him. As they are taking off his leg, he says, in his agony, 'Oh, what will mother do?'"

Poor boy! At that terrible moment, in the throes of his fierce agony, he thought not of himself, but of the mother at home, who was dependent on his exertions for a livelihood. For in war it is not alone the men in the field who are called upon to suffer, but the mothers, the wives, and the children, left at home, whose hearts are rent with anxiety—to whom, at any moment, may come the tidings of the death of their loved one.

On a rocky height, commanding the field, Garfield watched the tide of battle. He saw that it was unequal, and that there was danger that his troops would be overmatched. He saw that they were being driven, and that they would lose the hill if not supported.

Instantly he ordered to the rescue five hundred of the Ohio Fortieth and Forty-second, under Major Pardee and Colonel Craven. They dashed boldly into the stream, holding their cartridge-boxes above their heads, and plunged into the fight, shouting:

"Hurrah for Williams and the Hiram boys!"

But their position was most critical, for shot, and shell, and canister, and the fire of four thousand muskets are now concentrated upon them.

"This will never do!" cries Garfield. "Who will volunteer to carry the other mountain?"

Colonel Munroe, of the Twenty-second Kentucky, responded quickly, "We will. We know every inch of the ground."

"Go in, then," cries Garfield, "and give them Columbia!"

I have not space to record the varying fortunes of the day. For five hours the contest rages. By turns the Union forces are driven back, and then, with a brave charge, they regain their lost ground, and from behind rocks and trees pour in their murderous volleys. The battle began at noon, and when the sun sets on the brief winter day it is still unfinished.

Posted on a projecting rock, in full sight of both armies, stands the Union commander—his head uncovered, his hair streaming in the wind, and his heart full of alternate hopes and fears. It looks as if the day were lost—as if the gallant eleven hundred were conquered at last, when, at a critical moment, the starry banner is seen waving over an advancing host. It is Sheldon and reinforcements—long and anxiously expected! Their shouts are taken up by the eleven hundred! The enemy see them and are panic-stricken.

The day is won!

Chapter XXV—The Perilous Trip Up The Big Sandy

I have followed Col. Garfield through the Kentucky campaign, not because it compared in importance with many other military operations of the war, but because in its conduct he displayed in a remarkable degree some of the traits by which he was distinguished. From a military point of view it may be criticised. His attack upon an enemy far his superior in numbers, and in a more favorable position, would scarcely have been undertaken by an officer of more military experience. Yet, once undertaken, it was carried through with remarkable dash and brilliancy, and the strategy displayed was of a high order.

I must find room for the address issued to his little army on the day succeeding the battle, for it tells, in brief, the story of the campaign:

"SOLDIERS OF THE EIGHTEENTH BRIGADE: I am proud of you all! In four weeks you have marched, some eighty and some a hundred miles, over almost impassable roads. One night in four you have slept, often in the storm, with only a wintry sky above your heads. You have marched in the face of a foe of more than double your number—led on by chiefs who have won a national reputation under the old flag—intrenched in hills of his own choosing, and strengthened by all the appliances of military art. With no experience but the consciousness of your own manhood, you have driven him from his strongholds, pursued his inglorious flight, and compelled him to meet you in battle. When forced to fight, he sought the shelter of rocks and hills. You drove him from his position, leaving scores of his bloody dead unburied. His artillery thundered against you, but you compelled him to flee by the light of his burning stores, and to leave even the banner of his rebellion behind him. I greet you as brave men. Our common country will not forget you. She will not forget the sacred dead who fell beside you, nor those of your comrades who won scars of honor on the field.

"I have recalled you from the pursuit that you may regain vigor for still greater exertions. Let no one tarnish his well-earned honor by any act unworthy an American soldier. Remember your duties as American citizens, and sacredly respect the rights and property of those with whom you have come in contact. Let it not be said that good men dread the approach of an American army.

"Officers and soldiers, your duty has been nobly done. For this I thank you."

The battle had been won, but the victorious army was in jeopardy. They had less than three days' rations, and there were great difficulties in the way of procuring a further supply. The rainy season had made the roads impassable for all but horsemen.

Still there was the river. But the Big Sandy was now swollen beyond its banks, and the rapid current was filled with floating logs and uptorn trees. The oldest and most experienced boatmen shook their heads, and would not attempt the perilous voyage.

What was to be done?

Col. Garfield had with him Brown, the scout and ex-canal-boatman, who had returned from reconnoitering Marshall's camp, with a bullet through his hat. Garfield asked his advice.

"It's which and t'other, General Jim," he answered, "starvin' or drownin'. I'd rather drown nur starve. So gin the word, and, dead or alive, I'll git down the river!"

Garfield gave the word, but he did not let the brave scout go alone. Together in a small skiff they "got down the river." It was no light task. The Big Sandy was now a raging torrent, sixty feet in depth, and, in many places, above the tops of the tall trees which grew along its margin. In some deep and narrow gorges, where the steep banks shut down upon the stream, these trees had been undermined at the roots, and, falling inward, had locked their arms together, forming a net-work that well-nigh prevented the passage of the small skiff and its two navigators. Where a small skiff could scarcely pass, could they run a large steamboat loaded with provisions?

"Other men might ask that question, but not the backwoods boy who had learned navigation on the waters of the Ohio and Pennsylvania Canal. He pushed to the mouth of the river, and there took possession of the Sandy Valley, a small steamer in the quartermaster's service. Loading her with supplies, he set about starting up the river, but the captain of the boat declared the thing was impossible. Not stopping to argue the point, Garfield ordered him and his crew on board, and himself taking the helm, set out up the river.

"Brown he stationed at the bow, where, with a long fending-pole in his hand, he was to keep one eye on the floating logs and uprooted trees, the other on the chicken-hearted captain.

"The river surged and boiled and whirled against the boat, tossing her about as if she were a cockle-shell. With every turn of her wheel she trembled from stem to stern, and with a full head of steam could only stagger along at the rate of three miles an hour. When night came the captain begged to tie up till morning, for breasting that flood in the dark was sheer madness; but Brown cried out, 'Put her ahead, Gineral Jim,' and Garfield clutched the helm and drove her on through the darkness.

"Soon they came to a sudden bend in the stream, where the swift current formed a furious whirlpool, and this catching the laboring boat, whirled her suddenly round, and drove her, head on, into the quicksands. Mattocks were plied, and excavations made round the imbedded bow, and the bowman uttered oaths loud enough to have raised a small earthquake; but still the boat was immovable. She was stuck fast in the mud, and every effort to move her was fruitless. Garfield ordered a small boat to be lowered, and take a line to the other bank, by which to warp the steamer free; but the captain and now the crew protested it was certain death to attempt to cross that foaming torrent at midnight.

"They might as well have repeated to him the Creed and the Ten Commandments, for Garfield himself sprang into the boat and called to Brown to follow. He took the helm and laid her bow across the stream, but the swift current swept them downward. After incredible labor they made the opposite bank, but far below the steamboat. Closely hugging the shore, they now crept up the stream, and fastening the line to a tree, rigged a windlass, and finally warped the vessel again into deep water.

"All that night, and all the next day, and all the following night they struggled with the furious river, Garfield never but once leaving the helm, and then for only a few hours' sleep, which he snatched in his clothes in the day-time. At last they rounded to at the Union camp, and then went up a cheer that might have been heard all over Kentucky. His waiting men, frantic with joy, seized their glorious commander, and were with difficulty prevented from bearing him on their shoulders to his quarters."

The little army was saved from starvation by the canal-boy, who had not forgotten his old trade. He had risked his life a dozen times over in making the perilous trip, which has been so graphically described in the passages I have quoted. But for his early and humble experience, he never would have been able to bring the little steamer up the foaming river. Little did he dream in the days when, as a boy, he guided the Evening Star, that fifteen years hence, an officer holding an important command he would use the knowledge then acquired to save a famishing army. We can not wonder that his men should have been devotedly attached to such a commander.

I have said that the Kentucky campaign was not one of the most important operations of the civil war, but its successful issue was most welcome, coming at the time it did. It came after a series of disasters, which had produced wide-spread despondency, and even dimmed the courage of President Lincoln. It kindled hope in the despondent, and nerved patriotic arms to new and vigorous efforts.

"Why did Garfield, in two weeks, do what it would have taken one of you Regular folks two months to accomplish?" asked the President, of a distinguished army officer.

"Because he was not educated at West Point," answered the officer, laughing.

"No," replied Mr. Lincoln; "that wasn't the reason. It was because, when a boy, he had to work for a living."

This was literally true. To his struggling boyhood and early manhood, and the valuable experience it brought him, Garfield was indebted for the strength and practical knowledge which brought him safely through a campaign conducted against fearful odds.

His country was not ungrateful. He received the thanks of the commanding general for services which "called into action the highest qualities of a soldier—fortitude, perseverance, courage," and a few weeks later a commission as brigadier-general of volunteers, to date from the battle of Middle Creek.

So Jim Garfield, the canal-boy, has become a general. It is an important step upward, but where are others to come?

If this were designed to be a complete biography of General Garfield, I should feel it my duty to chronicle the important part he took in the battle of Chickamauga, where he acted as chief of staff to General Rosecranz, aiding his superior officer at a most critical point in the battle by advice which had an important influence in saving the day. I should like to describe the wonderful and perilous ride of three miles which he took, exposing his life at every moment, to warn General Thomas that he is out-flanked, and that at least seventy thousand men are closing down upon his right wing, to crush his twenty-five thousand to fragments. Sometimes I hope a poet, of fitting inspiration, will sing of that ride, and how, escaping from shot and shell, he plunged down the hill through the fiery storm, reaching Thomas in safety, though his noble horse at that moment fell dead at his feet. I can not spare time for the record, but must refer my young reader to the pages of Edmund Kirke, or General James S. Brisbin.

Other duties, and another important field of action, await Garfield, and we must hurry on. But, before doing so, I must not fail to record that the War Department, recognizing his important services at the battle of Chickamauga, sent him a fortnight later the commission of a major-general.