strewn with the wounded and dead; the kitchen, out-houses, and even the stables were full of bleeding men. There was one vacant place in the parlor of the old mansion where a blanket was spread for Adjutant Edwards. The soldier nearest happened to be the brave artillery boy who had been shot down while acting as a voluntary infantryman, as above stated, and he appeared to be in the agonies of death. Although severely wounded, the chivalrous Edwards ministered all in his power; and as he gave him a drink of water from his canteen, the boy whispered : "My name is Minor." For three days these wounded sufferers remained without surgeons or nurses. Then the wounded companions were separated and unknown to each other, until recently, after twenty-nine years, Adjutant Edwards, now a prominent lawyer in Virginia, by accident ascertained that the comrade whom he believed dead is living, in the person of Launcelot Minor, colonel of the Second Regiment of Infantry, Arkansas State Guards, and a prominent lawyer of Newport, in that state. When Private Minor recovered consciousness he found a note pinned to the inside of his shirt, requesting that in case he died some one would give him decent burial, and a five-dollar gold piece was enclosed in the note to pay the expense. He still has the gold coin and wants to know from whom it came. The shadows of evening found our weary and starving soldiers in full possession of the battlefield at Cumberland Church and rejoicing over their last victory. The only rations which could be issued on this retreat were a few ears of corn to each soldier, but these men were of that pure metal which yields neither to danger nor hunger. Soon after dark the troops were withdrawn from this line of battle, and proceeded on the march toward Appomattox, where Mahone returned the silken trophies, which were so gallantly won at Cumberland Church, to his released prisoners. I was left to cover the retreat, with orders to withdraw my pickets from the line at three o'clock a. m., and follow the army. The long hours of darkness and anxiety dragged heavily along, while ever watchful pickets experienced the unpleasant anticipations of being. killed or captured. On the hour and the minute we quietly withdrew from the field of the last victory of the lost cause. About eight o'clock next morning, the seventh of April, 1865, we overtook the army, and though desperately tired, rejoiced with a "rebel yell " over our escape from capture, for which we received the congratulations of General Mahone. The following night we built our camp-fires on the brow of a hill and rested on our arms in line of battle for the last time. Before another sun gained the meridian, our arms were stacked and our battle-flags furled forever on the hills of Appomattox. AN ESCAPE FROM ANDERSONVILLE. BY FRANCIS WALLACE. EROES are plentiful after every war, because it is only in times of danger that the latent energies, stamina and sentiment of men are developed; no one can even judge himself, his courage no more than his endurance, until subjected to such supreme test as battle venture imposes. Now, at the close of the Spanish-American war, Uncle Sam rejoices in his noble sons who fought from merciful instincts, with compassion for the wrongs of Cubans, but always with impetuosity and unquenchable daring. Among the many humble heroes of our last war is Captain Francis Wallace, of the training ship "New Hampshire," whose adventures began when he was a boy, and whose life has been a succession of stirring, and generally daring events. His earliest danger was encountered in running the English blockade of the Baltic Sea, carrying guns to Russia, during the Crimean war. When the famous "foreign brigade" marched to the relief of Lucknow, in the terrible days of the Indian mutiny, Captain Wallace was one of the members; for two years he was on the Grinnell expedition searching in the arctic regions for Sir John Franklin; he was pilot of the "Monitor" in the famous battle with the "Merrimac;" he was a prisoner in Andersonville, from which he escaped after terrible sufferings and perils; he was with Farragut and Dewey at Mobile bay and New Orleans; he fell from a ship when many miles from land off the coast of Spain, and was rescued after being in the water Adrift in the Ocean. twenty-two hours. After serving on the "Monitor" for some time, Cap tain Wallace joined the fleet further south. While cruising on a scouting party with Lieutenant Cushing-who destroyed the "Albemarle "-Captain Wallace and a coxswain named Riley were captured and taken to the Confederate prison at Camp Andersonville, where so many of the Union prisoners died. Escape was almost impossible, but Captain Wallace was one of the fortunate few who succeeded in crawling across the dead line, under the kindly shelter of midnight darkness, and the special protection of Providence. Indeed, his life is a singular illustration of the exceptional fortune that belongs to the few, which seems to set at naught the laws of chance, and to furnish proof of the fatalistic doctrine "what is to be, will be." His life is not a romance, for it has been too invariable with hardships and hair-breadth escape, but it has been a strange one, that has run the whole gamut of human vicissitudes, and survived perils greater and more numerous than the pages of fiction have ever recorded. Some day, it is possible, Captain Wallace may conclude that posterity is entitled to read the story of his truly marvelous adventures, and will subject his modesty to the task of writing it, but to the present the following narrative is the only one he has ever been persuaded to write: After I had been at Andersonville for three weeks, I made up my mind that if I stayed there long I would either be shot by the guards or die from sickness and lack of food. So I made up my mind to escape. Riley, the coxswain, and two Union soldiers were in the plan with me. For several days we saved up what food we could-it wasn't much and one dark night we crept out to the dead line. We had to kill three sentries before reaching the stockade. We climbed over the stockade and pushed on in the darkness until we came to a river. There we separated. The soldiers wanted to push on across the country, but I knew we would be followed by bloodhounds, so after they left us Riley and I swam across the river and back three times, walking up and down the bank on each side in order to throw the bloodhounds off the trail. Then we climbed to the top of a big live-oak tree. From our station in the tree we could see the Confederates leave the camp in pursuit. They passed under the tree a number of times, but never thought of looking for us so near the camp. We stayed up in that tree for sixty-three hours, with some bacon rinds and pieces of cornbread as our only food. It was very cold at night, and we were far from comfortable, but we did not wish to go down until the pursuit had died away a little. Then I hailed a negro who was passing. "Lawd a' massa," said he, when he saw us coming down from the tree. "The soldiers have been looking everywhere for you." The darkey got us an old canoe and we made the trip to the coast. We traveled at night, and lay alongside of the bank during the day. When we reached the seacoast our troubles were by no means ended. All along the coast were divisions of the home guard, and they captured us. In the Water With Sharks. Four miles off the coast, almost out of sight of land, lay the United States gunboat "Unadilla." The waters of the South swarm with sharks, and no one for an instant suspected that we would dare to swim to the gunboat, so their vigilance was somewhat relaxed. But as there was no way of signaling the boat, we decided to swim for it. At midnight we slipped away from our guards and made our way to the beach. There a new danger awaited us. The southern waters are very phosphorescent at night, and if a man swims through them he leaves a trail which can be plainly seen. So Riley and I crept out as far as we could, keeping our bodies under water, and making no splashing. When we reached our depth, we struck out for the boat, swimming very cautiously until we were well out of gunshot. It was a mighty unpleasant experience. Four miles is a long swim for a man in the pink of condition, and we had been living on short rations for a long time. Then, too, we were afraid of sharks, and a number of times during the swim I drew up my legs suddenly and began to splash, thinking I had felt a shark giving a little nibble at my toes preparatory to a full meal. At last we got within hailing distance of the "Unadilla." I shouted to her, but at first they did not pay any attention to the hail. The Confederates were in the habit of rowing out near the gunboats at night, towing rude mines after them. Then they would light a slow match on the mine, hail the Federal boats and sneak off. The gunboats would send out small boats to see what the trouble was, and often be caught by the exploding mine. A number of men from the "Unadilla" had been killed in that manner, so when I called there was no response. I called a second and third time, but no answer. We were pretty well exhausted by this time, and had scarcely strength enough to swim the remaining distance to the gunboat. I gave one more call. Standing at the gangway of the "Unadilla " was a man with whom I had sailed on several voyages. He recognized my voice, and we were soon on board. A GALLANT DEFENCE. BY LIEUTENANT R. H. JAYNE. WONDER whether my young readers, in studying the accounts of battles and of fighting, always gather the full meaning of the struggle. You follow the story of Manassas, or Chickamauga, or Gettysburg, or Antietam, and are thrilled by the heroism displayed by both sides, but do you grasp the far-reaching consequences, the object of the engagements, and their effect upon the great issue itself? Now, the battle of Gettysburg was fought in the summer of 1863, and was very near, in point of time, to the middle of the war for the Union, and yet Gettysburg, it may be said, decided the conflict. The Confederates came awfully near defeating the Army of the Potomac, but they failed, and when they failed it sounded the knell of the Southern Confederacy. General Lee and his officers saw that ultimate defeat was as certain as the rising of the sun; they were simply fighting henceforward for terms. Neither army captured the other, and tremendous engagements followed and lasted for the better part of two years, but the sun of Southern independence was sinking steadily until at Appomattox it went down forever. What lad among you is not familiar with Perry's victory on Lake Erie, in September, 1813? Perry had never seen a naval battle before, and for the first time in the naval history of Great Britain she surrendered an entire squadron to an enemy. That was a brilliant victory indeed. The Americans had but 55 guns, while the British had 63; yet our loss was only 27 killed and 96 wounded. The British had 200 killed and wounded and lost 600 prisoners. Commodore Barclay went into the battle with only one arm and came out without any. The Englishmen fought gallantly, which makes the victory of Perry all the more creditable. But there was something more than a simple naval victory. Had Perry been defeated, the British General Proctor would have invaded Ohio. If Perry won, Harrison meant to invade Canada, with every prospect of great success. But I set out to tell you about one of the bravest exploits that marked our last war with Great Britain. At the beginning of the year 1813, General Harrison built Fort Meigs, on the right bank of the Maumee River. He had with him about twelve thousand men and selected this point as a convenient one for receiving supplies and reinforcements from Ohio and Kentucky, for protecting the borders at Lake Erie, and for aiding in the movement for the recapture of Detroit and the invasion of Canada. In the latter part of July, the British General Proctor and the great Shawnee chieftain, Tecumseh, with 5,000 English and Indians, appeared before Fort Meigs. Their wish was to induce the garrison to come out and fight them in the woods, but the Americans, with their inferior force, were too wise to do anything of that nature. Proctor inanœuvred and tried every possible trick until he saw his efforts were useless. Then he left Tecumseh with about half the force to keep up the vain effort, while he set out to capture Fort Stephenson, on the Sandusky, where Fremont now stands. Major George Croghan was in command of this fort. He was a youth not yet twenty-one years old, and he had as his garrison only about one hundred and fifty men. When Proctor appeared before Fort Stephenson he sent forward a flag of truce with the demand for surrender. "In case of refusal," he added, "your whole garrison will be tomahawked by the savages with me, for, as you are well aware, when their passions are aroused by the loss of any of their number, their fury becomes irrestrainable." The bearer of this terrifying message carried back the refusal of Major Croghan, with the appendix: "As to your threat of tomahawking us in case of capture, I have to say that it cannot affect the question, since when our surrender takes place there will not be left a man to tomahawk." This kind of talk was of the nature which may be described as meaning business. The British. general had more than a dozen men to the Americans' one, and he was confident of speedily capturing the post. He began with a sharp bombardment, under which the British advanced against the fort. Major Croghan had only a single cannon, which he crammed to the muzzle with slugs and pieces of iron. Indeed, it looked as if the tremen |