The Evansville journal. [volume] (Evansville, Ind.) 1866-1870, 1867-03-20

1umlQ0Q c6udT GTuQkS lQIO the dark
road, walked up past the picket rope
where the artillery horses stood, ready
harnessed, champing their bits, past
the black caissons, up to the parapet
where the gun squads crouched behind
the slight shelter, and the two cannon
looked over into the darkness beyond,
ready to shatter the mountain still
ness with their roar. Behind us a
dim glow on the air showed where
our little force lay under the woods.
and beyond was the black, empty
darkness of the wide Shenandoah
Valley, unillumined by single light
save the fires of one or two detach-
ments Of the Federal army. while
away to the southwark red glow lit
up the horizon where the two great
tidal waves of Union and secs sion
we're chatting as they met, and where,
very likely, shots were ringing and
flames roaring in the night. Near us,
however, all was stiffness. and we
crossed the embankment and walked
silently down the steeply sloping
road. We advanced some two hun
dred yards, and then paused as
we heard an ominous double
click. The Captain whistled softly,
and was answered from the direction
of the click. We advanced, and
whispered consultation with the vi
dettes assured us that all was right,
although one of them had heard
voices, apparently long way off
along the other posts, and In course of
halt an hour, were once more seated
at our fire, and the Captain was
charging his inevitable pipe, prepare
tory to the promised yarn.
" Well, fellows" began he, I feel
sort Of confidential tonight
strange feeling for me, by the way.
and | think some great piece of luck
must be awaiting me, as conse-
quence. However, | think | will tell
you the story, although | never told
it to living soul before, and the very
thought of telling it now, sends a
chill up the small of my back, so you
mustn't be astonished if | turn child
ish before [ get through. You must
know that, in the Summer and Fall
of 1850, [ was, in my profession of
Engineer, rebuilding a long bridge
on the Sunset and Great Western
Railroad. My station was ten or ff-
teen miles from any town, and had
gang of thirty or forty of the
widest Irishman you ever saw caught,
beside the sober mechanics who did
the joiner work on the bridge. A
pretty lonely life [ led, for there was
hardly any one with whom it was
pleasure to associate for any length
of time, though, perhaps, that was, to
some extent, nay fault, for / was al
ways rather distant and reserved with
the men, more from fear of seeming
to intrude, or from the opposite hor-
ror of seeming to court popularity,
than from any other reason. My sta
ton was at the end of long and per-
| fectly straight stretch of road. lsup-
pose there must have been fifteen
miles of track without a curve of any
sort, save that which belongs to the
surface Of the earth. AS the line
neared the river an easy grade raised
it few feet, so as to carry the road
way of the bridge clear of floods.
Rather more than half way up this
grade was a cutoff, or side
track, crossing the river on
temporary trestle- work, and
intended to remain only while TIE
main bridge was undergoing its repairs.
This cut of was set at very acute
angle, so that the speed of passing
trains was scarcely checked while
crossing the river. One could stand on
this little grade and see the approaching
trains at least dozen miles off, when
the air was clear, as they came tearing
across the prairie and up the grade
and over the bridge, whirling past us
momentary glimpse of the world
and its life. Perhaps the conductor,
if he was a clever fellow, would
throw us off a package of papers.
That was all we knew of outside life,
for none but gravel trains conde-
scended to stop at our little station.
Our quarters consisted of cluster of
board shanties, with one Of more
luxurious build for me, all located for
convenience of getting water, aquarter
of a mile above the bridge, where the
banks of the river were accessible.
Those of you who have Irishmen
in your companies we'll know that
whisky naturally gravitates to their
vicinity, and almost always of a Sat-
urday night supply was on hand in
our little community, on which the
weeks wages were pretty certainly
expended. Saturday night was al
ways distinguished by tearing spree,
1 which invariably terminated in a free
fight, but, as the combatants were
usually too drunk to do much harm
to one another, when the fighting
time came round, no material dam
age was ever done. There was one
among these fellows with whom, from
the first, [ had foreseen trouble.
A thick set, surly dog he
was, Pete McGee, by name,