Read Online Karl Bacon by An Eye for Glory: The Civil War Chronicles of a Citizen Soldier - Free Book Online Page B

o’clock that afternoon. Harper’s Ferry lay just across the river, and it should have been a simple matter to march across the railroad bridge. But the bridge had been destroyed and burned by the Confederates, and the only path into Harper’s Ferry was through the rapid currents of the Potomac itself. Mr. McCarthy, the leader of the band, ordered his players to step off to the side of the road to let the regiment pass. They struck up a happy tune as the men of the Fourteenth started to wade across.
    Captain Carpenter approached the bandmaster as Company C started down the bank into the river. “Mr. McCarthy, this brass band of yours is pretty fair, but just how good are you?”
    “What do you mean, Captain?”
    “How about a little wager, Mr. McCarthy? Ten dollars maybe?”
    “All right,” said Mr. McCarthy, his arms never missing a beat as he conducted the band. “What’s the wager?”
    “I’ll wager that the boys in your band cannot keep playing all the way across the river. If any one of them stops playing his instrument for any reason from this side to the other, I win. Agreed?”
    Mr. McCarthy laughed. “I’ll take that wager, Captain. My boys will show you and all the rest of these men the stuff they’re made of, … sir.”
    The water was only about waist deep, but the current wasswift and footing on the rocky bottom was tenuous. The regiment splashed its way merrily across, the river’s cool flow refreshing and exhilarating. As each of the ten companies climbed the opposite bank, the men sought out vantage points from which they could view the crossing’s finale.
    The band members carefully made their way down the opposite bank into the waters of the Potomac. Thousands of eyes looked on intently; thousands of ears strained to catch every note. With every passing moment we expected one or more of the players to slip and fall. But Mr. McCarthy handled his charges wonderfully. He worked his way slowly across the river, feeling his way carefully step by step, and allowing each member of the band to do the same. On they came, foot by hesitant foot, fighting the buffeting current, fighting at once to maintain their tune and their balance, and slowly but surely nearing the hooting and hollering of the crowd that lined the bank to welcome them.
    And then it happened.
    “Look there, look at that fellow,” someone said.
    “Which one?”
    “The third one, with the cornet—he almost went in.” Indeed the young musician did seem to be struggling. The pitch of his horn had increased a tone or two and had begun to waver so that he was suddenly out of tune with the rest of the band.
    “He’s probably dancing like crazy on those slippery rocks.”
    “Yeah, tryin’ to do the underwater double-quick.”
    “There he goes.” The cornet player’s tenuous hold on the river bottom was reduced to none at all, and he was quickly swept a few feet downstream.
    Yet the man played on.
    “He’s going under.” Waist-deep water was suddenly chest deep; then it was up to his neck. The man inclined his instrument upward and ceased fingering the keys while he fought tokeep the river out of his horn. One more step forward and the man went completely under but for the very top of his head and the bell of his horn.
    Yet the man played on, albeit in monotone.
    “He’s coming back up.” Everyone began to cheer, at first hopefully and then lustily, as the soggy cornet player, with footing regained, slowly began to ascend in a gradual resurrection from the abyss. His head emerged, and his gasp for breath was clearly heard from the bank of the river. The man inched his way forward, rising little by little, recovering the tune and playing on to the great delight of us all, although with a somewhat damp timbre to his music.
    When he finally reached the riverbank, the soaked cornet player, Charlie Merrills by name, was lifted clear of the water by a host of helping hands with much cheering and backslapping. I doubt that Captain