The Buglers' Drill—Getting Used to the Calls—No Ear for Music—A Visitor from Home—A Basket full of Goodies—Taking Tintypes—A Special Artist at the Battle of Bull Run—Horses for the Troopers—Reviewed by a War Governor—Leaving Camp Meigs—A Mother's Prayers—The Emancipation Proclamation—The War Governors' Address.
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HOULD there be living to-day a survivor of Sheridan's Cavalry Corps of the Army of the Potomac who can, without shuddering, recall the buglers' drill, his probationary period on earth must be rapidly drawing to a close. I do not mean the regular bugle calls of camp or those sounded on company or battalion parade. I refer to the babel of bugle blasts kept up by the recruit “musicians” from the sounding of the first call for reveille till taps. A majority of the boys enlisted as buglers could not at first make a noise—not even a little toot—on their instruments, but when, under the instruction of a veteran bugler, they had mastered the art of filling their horns and producing sound they made up for lost time with a vengeance. And what a chorus! Reveille, stable call, breakfast call, sick call, drill call retreat, tattoo, taps—all the calls, or what the little fellows could do at them, were sounded at one time with agonizing effect.
The first sergeant of Company I said to me one day while we were in Camp Meigs:
“The adjutant wants more buglers, and he spoke of you as being one of the light weights suitable for the job. You may go and report to the adjutant.”
“I didn't enlist to be a bugler; I'm a full-fledged soldier.”
“But you're young enough to bugle.”
“I'm twenty-one on the muster-roll. I want to serve in the ranks.”
“Can't help it; you'll have to try your hand.”
I reported to the adjutant as directed, and was sent with a half-dozen other recruits to be tested by the chief trumpeter. After a trial of ten minutes the instructor discovered that there was no promise of my development into a bugler, and he said with considerable emphasis:
“You go back mit you to de adjutant and tell him dot you no got one ear for de music.”
I was glad to report back to the company, for I preferred to serve as a private.
The recruits soon became familiar with the sound of the bugle. The first call in the morning was buglers' call—or first call for reveille. The notes would be sounding in the barracks when the first sergeant, all the duty sergeants and the corporals would yell out:
“Turn out for reveille roll-call!”
“Be lively, now—turn out!”
As a result of this shouting by the “non-coms” the boys soon began to pay no attention to the bugle call, but naturally waited till they heard the signal to “turn out” given by the sergeants and corporals. And in a very short time they ceased to hear the bugle when the first call was sounded.
In active service in the Army of the Potomac so familiar with the calls did the soldiers become that when cavalry and infantry were bivouacked together, and the long roll was sounded by the drummers, it would not be heard by the troopers, and when the cavalry buglers blew their calls the foot soldiers would sleep undisturbed. In front of Petersburg troops would sleep soundly within ten feet of a heavy battery that was firing shot and shell into the enemy's works all night. But let one of the guards on the line of breastworks behind which they were “dreaming of home” discharge his musket, and the sleepers would be in line ready for battle almost in the twinkling of an eye. And let the cavalry trumpeter make the least noise on his bugle, and the troopers would hear it at once.
A few weeks before our battalion left Camp Meigs for the front Mrs. E. L. Waterman of Berlin, mother of Irving Waterman, paid us a visit. She brought with her a basket full of goodies. Home-made pies, bread, butter, cheese, cookies and fried cakes were included in the supplies. She took up her quarters at the picture gallery of Mr. Holmes, the camp photographer, and we went to see her as often as our duties would permit. She brought us socks knit by our friends at home, and many articles for our comfort. About the first thing she said was: “My boys, what do they give you to eat?”
“Bread and meat and beans and coffee,” we answered.
“No butter?”
“No.”
“I thought not. I had heard the soldiers had to eat their bread without butter, with nothing but coffee to wash it down, so I brought you a few pounds of butter.”
And the dear woman remained at the gallery, and Irving and I would drop over and eat the good things she fixed for us. If we had taken our commissary stores to the barracks they would have been stolen.
Mrs. Waterman asked Irving and myself to have our pictures taken. Neither of us had ever been photographed or tintyped, but we took kindly to the idea. We sat together, and the picture, a tintype, was pronounced an excellent likeness. What a trying performance it was, though! We were all braced up with an iron rest back of the head, and told to “look about there—you can wink, but don't move.” Of course the tintype presented the subject as one appears when looking into a mirror. The right hand was the left, and our buttons were on the wrong side in the picture. But Mrs. Waterman declared the tintype to be “as near like them as two peas,” and we accepted her verdict. The dear old lady has kept that picture all these years.
The soldier boys resorted to all sorts of expedients to “beat the machine.” That is, to so arrange their arms and accoutrements that when the tintype was taken it would not be upside down or wrong end to. To this end the saber-belt would be put on wrong side up so that the scabbard would hang on the right side—that would bring it on the left side, where it belonged in the picture. I tried that plan one day and then stood at “parade rest,” with the saber in front of me. I put back my left foot instead of my right to stand in that position, and when the picture was presented, I congratulated myself that I had made a big hit. But when I showed it to an old soldier in the company he humiliated me by the remark:
“It's all very fine for a recruit, but a soldier wouldn't hold his saber with his left hand and put his right hand over it at parade rest.”
Sure enough. I had changed my feet to make them appear all right, but had forgotten the hands. But recruits were not supposed to know everything on the start.
We had photographs taken as well as tintypes. But the art of photography has greatly improved since the war. Most of the photographs of that day that I have seen of late are badly faded, and it is next to impossible to have a good copy made. Not so with the tintypes. They remain unfaded, and excellent photographic copies can be secured. In many a home to-day hang the pictures of the soldier boy, some of them life-sized portraits copied from the tintypes taken in the days of the war.
I know homes where the gray-haired mothers still cling to the little tintype picture—the only likeness they have of a darling boy who was offered as a sacrifice for liberty. How tenderly the picture is handled! How sacredly the mother has preserved it! The hinges of the frame are broken—worn out with constant opening. The clasp is gone. The plush that lined the frame opposite the picture is faded and worn. But the face of the boy is there. Surviving veterans understand something of the venerable lady's meaning when she puts the picture to her lips and with tears in her eyes says:
“Yes, he was only a boy. I couldn't consent to let him go, and I couldn't say no. I could only pray that he would come back to me—if it were God's will. He didn't come back. But they said he did his duty. He died in a noble cause, but it was hard to say 'Thy will be done,' at first, when the news came that he'd been killed. I'm so thankful I have his picture—the only one he ever had taken. He was a Christian boy, and they wrote me that his last words as his comrades stood about him under a tree where he had been borne, were, that he died in the hope of a glorious resurrection, and that mother would find him in Heaven to welcome her when she came. There's comfort in that. And I'll soon be there. I shall meet my boy again, and there will be no more separation. No more cruel rebellions.” The early war-time pictures are curiosities to-day, particularly to veterans who study them. Not a few of the special artists of the first year of the war seemed to have gained whatever knowledge of the appearance of troops in battle array that they had from tintype pictures. I have before me as I write, a battle scene “sketched by our special artist at the front.” The officers all wear their swords on the right side, and in the foreground is an officer mounting his horse from the off side—a feat never attempted in military experience but once, to my knowledge, and then by a militia officer on the staff of a Troy general, since the war. In some of these pictorial papers of the early war-days armies are represented marching into battle in full-dress uniform and with unbroken step and perfect alignment.
One thing, however, always puzzled me in these pictures—before I went to war—and that was how the infantry could march with measured tread—regulation step of twenty-eight inches, and only one hundred and ten steps per minute—and keep up with the major-generals and other officers of high rank who appeared in front of their men, and with their horses on a dead run in the direction of the enemy! These heroic leaders always rode with their hats in one hand and their swords in the other, so there was no chance for them to hold in their horses. But the puzzle ceased to be a puzzle when I reached the front. I found that the special artists had drawn on their imagination instead of “on the spot,” and that it was not customary for commanding generals to get in between the contending lines of battle and slash right and left and cut up as the artists had represented. In the majority of cases, great battles were fought by generals on both sides who were in position to watch, so far as possible, the whole line of battle, and to be ready to direct such movements and changes as were demanded by the progress of the fight. To do this they must necessarily be elsewhere than in front of their armies, riding down the enemy's skirmishers, and leaping their horses over cannon.
It is possible, however, that the special artists did not fully understand the danger to which a commanding general would be exposed, galloping around on his charger between the armies just coming together in a terrible clash. At any rate, the specials were willing to take their chances with their heroes—on paper. I have in my possession a picture of the “Commencement of the Action at Bull Run—Sherman's Battery Engaging the Enemy's Masked Battery.” In this picture, sketched by an artist whose later productions were among the best illustrations of actual warfare, the officers are, very considerately, placed in rear of the battery. But in front of the line of battle, in advance of the cannon that are belching forth their deadly fire, stands the special artist, sketching “on the spot.”
There was a good deal of stir in Camp Meigs the day that horses were issued to the battalion. The men were new and so were the horses. It did not take a veteran cavalryman but a day or two to break in a new horse. But it was different with recruits. The chances were that their steeds would break them in.
I had had some experience with horses on a farm—riding to cultivate corn, rake hay and the like—but I had never struggled for the mastery with a fiery, untamed war-horse. Our steeds were in good condition when they arrived at the camp, and they did not get exercise enough after they came to take any of the life out of them. The first time we practiced on them with curry-comb and brush, the horses kicked us around the stablesad libitum. One recruit had all his front teeth knocked out. But we became better acquainted with our chargers day by day, and although we started for Washington a few days after our horses had been issued, some of us attained to a confidence of our ability to manage the animals that was remarkable, considering the fact that we were thrown twice out of three times whenever we attempted to ride.
One day orders came for us to get ready to go to the front. None but old soldiers can appreciate the feelings of recruits under such circumstances. All was bustle and confusion. There was a good deal of the hip, hip, hip, hurrah! on the surface, but there was also a feeling of dread uncertainty—perhaps that expresses it—in the breasts of many of the troopers. They would not admit it, though. The average recruit was as brave as a lion to all outward appearances, and if he did have palpitation of the heart when orders came to go “On to Richmond”—as any advance toward the tront was designated—the fact was not given out for publication.
The first thing in order was a general inspection to satisfy the officers, whose duty it was to see that regiments sent out from the Old Bay State were properly armed and equipped, that we were in a condition to begin active service. After all our belongings were packed on our saddles in the barracks, before we took them over to the stables to saddle up, the department commander with his inspecting officers examined our pack kits. As originally packed, the saddles of a majority of the troopers were loaded so heavily that it would have required four men to a saddle to get one of the packs on the horse's back. When the inspection was completed each trooper could handle his own saddle.
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The following articles were thrown out of my collection by the inspectors:—
Two boiled shirts; one pair calfskin shoes; two boxes paper collars; one vest; one big neck scarf; one bed quilt; one feather pillow; one soft felt hat; one tin wash basin; one cap—not regulation pattern; one camp stool—folding; one blacking brush—extra; two cans preserves; one bottle cologne; one pair slippers; one pair buckskin mittens; three fancy neckties; one pair saddle-bags—extra; one tin pan; one bottle hair oil; one looking-glass; one checker-board; one haversack—extra—filled with home victuals; one peck bag walnuts; one hammer.
Some of the boys had packed up more extras than I had, and it went against the grain to part with them. But the inspectors knew their business—and ours, too, better than we, as we subsequently discovered—and we were made to understand that we were not going on a pleasure excursion. It is hardly necessary to say that there was scarcely an article thrown out by the inspectors that the soldiers would not have thrown away themselves on their first expedition into the enemy's country.
After we had been inspected and trimmed down by the officers, we were reviewed by Governor John A. Andrew. He was attended by his staff, the department commander and other officers. Each company was drawn up in line in its barracks—it was sleeting outside. As the governor came into our quarters, the captain gave the command, “Uncover!” and the company stood at attention as the chief executive of the Old Bay State walked slowly down the line, scanning the faces of the men.
I remember that the governor looked at me with a sort of “Where-did-you-come-from, Bub?” expression, and I began to fear that my time had come to go home. The governor said to a staff officer:
“Some of the men seem rather young, Colonel!”
“Yes, sir; the cavalry uniform makes a man look younger than he is.”
“I see. They are a fine body of men, and I have no doubt we shall hear of their doing good service at the front.”
A few words of encouragement were spoken by the governor, and he passed on to the barracks of the next company.
It strikes me that Governor Andrew reviewed us again as we were marching from the barracks to the railroad station, but I am not clear on this point. I know there was a good deal of martial music, waving of flags, cheering and speech-making by somebody. Our horses claimed our undivided attention till after we had dismounted and put them aboard the cars. On the way down to the railroad an attempt was made somewhere near the barracks to form in line, so that we could be addressed by the governor or some other dignitary. It was a dismal failure. Our steeds seemed to be inspired by “Hail to the Chief,” “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and other patriotic tunes played by the band, and they pranced around, stood upon their hind legs and pawed the air with their fore feet, to the great terror of the recruits and the delight of all the boys in the neighborhood who had gathered to witness our departure. How the boys shouted!
“Hi, Johnny, it's better'n a circus!”
“Guess 'tis—they don't fall off in a circus; they just make b'lief.”
“Well, these fellows stick tight for new hands.”
It was fun for the boys—the spectators—but just where the laugh came in the recruits failed to discover. I was told that the governor—or somebody—gave us his blessing as we rode by the reviewing officer, but I have no personal knowledge on the subject.
After we had put our horses on board we waited a few minutes before entering the cars while the other companies were boarding the train. There was a chain of sentinels around us, and Mrs. Waterman was outside the line. She caught sight of us as we stood there, and she advanced toward us.
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“Halt—you can't go through here!” commanded one of the sentinels.
“I must go through.”
“But my orders—”
“I don't care; my boys are there, and I'm going to speak to them again.”
She came through and gave us her parting blessing once more.
“Boys, I'll pray God to keep you and bring you both back to your mothers—God bless you; good-by.” The mother's prayers were answered. Her son and his tentmate were spared to return at the close of the war.
There was a scramble to secure seats when orders were given to board the cars. Good-bys were said. Mothers, wives and sweethearts were there, and with many it was the last farewell. The whistle blew, the bells rang, the band played, the troops remaining at Camp Meigs cheered and we cheered back. The train moved away from the station, and we were off for the front.
I never saw Governor Andrew again, but I recall his appearance as he reviewed our company in the barracks very distinctly. I observed that while inspecting officers paid more attention to the arms and accoutrements of the men the governor was particular in looking into the faces of the recruits, to satisfy himself, no doubt, that they could be trusted to uphold the honor of the State when the tug of war should come. John A. Andrew was one of the “war governors” whose loyal support of President Lincoln's emancipation programme held the Northern States in line when the time came for the President to issue the proclamation that freed the slaves of the States in rebellion against the Government.
The proclamation was promulgated September 22, 1862, a few days after the battle of Antietam. It is on record that Lincoln had made the draft of the document in July, and had held it, waiting for a Union victory, that he might give it to the country at the same time that a decisive defeat of the rebels was announced. The second battle of Bull Run came, and Pope's shattered army retreated into the works around the national capital. Lee, with his victorious followers, crossed the Potomac into Maryland. The Confederate chief hoped to rally the disloyal element in that State and along the border under the rebel flag. It began to look as though the victory Lincoln was waiting for would never come. It was one of the darkest hours of the conflict. What would have been the effect of issuing the Emancipation Proclamation at that time? The rebels had invaded the North! The Union army had been defeated—everything seemed to be going to destruction!
Lincoln is credited with saying in respect of the rebels crossing the Potomac just before the battle of Antietam:
“I made a solemn vow before God, that if General Lee were driven back from Maryland, I would crown the result by a declaration of freedom to the slaves.”
September 24, 1862, two days after the proclamation was issued, Governor Andrew, with the governors of other loyal States, at a meeting at Altoona, Penn., adopted an address to the President that must have set at rest any doubts the chief magistrate may have had that his policy was the policy of the loyal people of the North. The document was inspired and executed by patriots in whom the citizens of the loyal States reposed unbounded confidence. They declared:
“We hail with heartfelt gratitude and encouraged hope the proclamation of the President, issued on the 22d inst., declaring emancipated from their bondage all persons held to service or labor as slaves in rebel States where rebellion shall last until the first day of January ensuing.
“Cordially tendering to the President our respectful assurances of personal and official confidence, we trust and believe that the policy now inaugurated will be crowned with success, will give speedy and triumphant victories over our enemies, and secure to this nation and this people the blessing and favor of Almighty God. We believe that the blood of the heroes who have already fallen and those who may yet give up their lives to their country will not have been shed in vain.
“And now presenting to our chief magistrate this conclusion of our deliberations, we devote ourselves to our country's service, and we will surround the President in our constant support, trusting that the fidelity and zeal of the loyal States and people will always assure him that he will be constantly maintained in pursuing with vigor this war for the preservation of the national life and hopes of humanity.”
Arrival at Warrenton—Locating a Camp—Dog Tents—Building Winter Quarters—On Picket—A Stand-off with the Rebels—A Fatal Post—Alarm at Midnight—Bugle Calls—The Soldier's Sabbath—The Articles of War and the Death Penalty.
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T rained the day the third battalion of the First Massachusetts cavalry arrived at Warrenton, Va., and it rained for three days, almost without a let-up, after we, reached our destination.
Recruits always received a hearty welcome at the front—the less the old soldiers had to do in the way of picket duty, the better they liked it. The recruits were—at first—ready to do all the duty, and the veterans were willing to let the new arrivals have their own way along this line. But after a few weeks of wear and tear at the front, the raw recruits could generally give the old soldiers points on dodging duty and feigning sickness, so as to have “excused from picket,” or “light duty” marked opposite their names on the sick book. These peculiarities of soldier-life were characteristic of camp and winter quarters. As a rule, when the troops were brought face to face with the “business of the campaign,” there was a sort of freemasonry among them. Then the veteran was ready to share his last cracker with the recruit, and they drank from the same canteen. An engagement with the enemy was sure to place all who stood shoulder to shoulder on a level. In the jaws of death, with comrades dropping on every hand, all were “boys,” and all were soldiers—comrades.
Our first night's experience at Warrenton was not calculated to inspire us with love for the place. When we arrived we were drawn up in line in front of headquarters.
“You will camp your men just south of that row of tents,” a brigade staff officer said to the major in command of our battalion. “You can pitch tents till such time as you can build winter quarters. Stretch your picket lines so as to leave proper intervals between your camp and the regiment next to it.”
The staff officer hurried back into his log-house, to get out of the rain. We broke into columns of fours, and were marched to the ground on which we were to build our winter quarters. The outlook was discouraging. The camp was laid out on a side hill, down which good-sized brooks of water were flowing. And the ground! It was like a bed of mortar. Next to prepared glue, Virginia mud is entitled to first prize for its adhesive qualities.
“See here,” exclaimed Taylor, “they're only just making fools of us. No general could order us to get off our horses and make camp in this mud-hole.”
Taylor's indiscretion was always getting him into trouble, and his talking in ranks this time secured him another tour of double duty.
Down came the rain, and we were in for it. In due time the horses were picketed and their nosebags put on. As soon as the animals were taken care of and fed, the weary troopers, drenched to the skin, were directed to “pitch tents!” The tents with which we were provided were known as shelter, or dog tents, the latter name being most popular, as they often failed to afford anything but a poor apology for shelter. Each soldier had half a tent—till he lost it. The half-tent was a piece of canvas about five feet by four, or somethinglike it. Along one edge was a row of buttonholes, and a little further back a row of buttons. Two pieces buttoned together were put over a ridge-pole, supported by two crotches, and the bottom edges of the tent were fastened to the ground by little cord loops through which sticks were driven. Both gable ends of the tent were open to the weather, but sometimes a third “bunkey” would be taken in, and one end of the tent closed up with his piece. The shelter tents were always too short at both ends. Think of a man like Corporal Goddard of our company, who was an inch or two over six feet, trying to “shelter” himself under such a contrivance. A man of medium height could find cover only by doubling himself up in the shape of a capital N, and it was necessary to “spoon it” where two or three attempted to sleep under one dog tent.
Waterman and I continued as bunkies. At Camp Stoneman, Taylor and Hom had occupied the upper bunk in our log-house, and the same quartette had decided to go together when we should build winter quarters at our new location. Hom was detailed for stable guard as soon as we dismounted, and Taylor, Waterman and myself concluded to pitch tents together.
The ground was so soft that the sticks would not hold, and the tent was blown down several times. All our blankets were wet. Long after dark, however, we made fast the tent as best we could, and crawled in. Taylor being the oldest and largest, was assigned by a majority vote of Waterman and myself, to the side from which the wind came. I took the middle. It was close quarters.
“I don't see what's the use of getting up to fix it again,” said Taylor, as the dog tent was blown down the third time after we had turned in. “I'm just as wet's I can be, and I'd rather sleep than get up again.”
I had managed to raise myself a few inches above the water. My saddle was under my head, and I had two canteens under my back. The water was running a stream between Waterman and Taylor.
“I'll sit up and hold the tent while you fellows sleep,” volunteered the genial Taylor the next time the tent went down.
There was nothing selfish about Taylor. After we had gone to sleep he “hadn't the heart to disturb us,” as he expressed it the next day, and when the wind shifted and there was a slight let-up in the deluge, he took the three pieces of tent, our rubber ponchos, saddle blankets and bed blankets and, selecting the dryest spot he could find on the side-hill, he rolled himself up in them and slept till reveille. Just before daybreak Waterman and I were drowned out, and sought shelter in an old brick building up on the hill.
The erection of log huts for winter quarters at Warrenton was no “joke.” We had to go on Water Mountain to cut the trees for building material. Then we waited our turn for teams and wagons to haul the logs.
It was thirteen days before we got our log-house built and our shelter tents nailed on for a roof. Two bunks, one over the other, were made of poles. Taylor and Hom had the upper bunk, while Waterman and I slept “downstairs.”
“There's more of Giles than there is of us,” suggested Waterman, “and we'll put him and Hom in the top bunk so that when it rains and the roof leaks they'll absorb a good deal of the water before it gets to us.”
Waterman and I chuckled over our success in securing the lower bunk, but one night when the upper bunk broke, and Taylor and Hom came tumbling down upon us, we realized, indeed, that there was a good deal more of Giles than there was of us.
We went on picket in our turn. The line ran along the top of Water Mountain for some distance, and we occasionally exchanged compliments with Mosby's men. The first night we were on picket, a little down to the south of the mountain, I went on duty at nine o'clock. The post was across a creek and near an old stone mill. It rained, sleeted and snowed during the night, and the creek filled up so that the “relief” could not cross over to my post when the time came to change the pickets. As a result I remained on post till daylight. It was one of the longest nights I ever put in during my army service.
Of course, every noise made by the wind was a bushwhacker. I was so thankful to find myself alive at daybreak that I forgot to growl at the corporal for not relieving me on time. When I unbosomed myself to Taylor, and told him how nervous I felt out there by the old mill, he laughed and said:
“Don't you never feel nervous again when you're caught in such a scrape, for, mark my word, no rebel, not even a 'gorilla' would be fool enough to go gunning for Yankee recruits such a night as last night was.” I found a good deal of comfort in Taylor's logical admonition after that when alone on picket in stormy weather.
Just over the divide on Water Mountain, on the side toward the rebel camp, was an old log shanty. We called it the block house. Our pickets occupied it by day, and the rebels had possession of it by night. This happened because the Union picket line was drawn in at night, and the pickets were posted closer together than during the day. Our line was advanced soon after daylight.
One morning when we galloped down to the block house from our reserve, we surprised the Johnnies. They had been a little late in getting breakfast, and their horses had their nosebags on. We were just as much surprised as they were, and we stood six to six. Carbines and revolvers were pointed, but no one fired.
“Give us time to put on our bridles and we'll vacate,” said the sergeant of the rebel picket.
“All right; go ahead,” our sergeant replied.
The Johnnies bridled their horses, mounted and rode down the mountain.
“We kept a good fire for you all,” the rebel sergeant remarked as they left.
“And you'll find it burning when you come back tonight,” was the Yankee sergeant's assuring reply.
After the rebels had got out of sight our boys began to feel that they had missed a golden opportunity to destroy a detachment of the Confederate army. We had longed for a “face-to-face” meeting with the rebels.
“I could have killed two rebels had I been allowed to shoot,” said Taylor.
“Who told you not to shoot?” demanded the sergeant.
“Well, nobody gave the order to fire. I had my gun cocked and if the rest of you had killed your man I'd killed mine.”
“Bu-bu-bu-but they had si-si-six t-t-to ou-ou-our si-si-six, di-di-didn't they?” interrupted Jack Hazelet, whose stammering always caused him to grow red in the face when he wanted to get a word in in time and couldn't.
“Yes; we stood six to six, but if each one of us had killed his man they would all be dead.”
“Je-je-jesso; bu-bu-bu-but di-di-didn't they ha-ha-have gu-gu-guns, t-t-too?”
“Of course they did.”
“Sup-po-po-posen they ha-ha-had ki-ki-killed 's mama-many f us a-a-as we di-di-did o-o-o-of th-th-them, wh-wh-where wo-wo-would wc-we-we b-b-be n-n-now? co-co-confound you!”
As we found that only two of our party had their carbines loaded when we surprised the rebels, we concluded that it was just as fortunate for us as it was for the enemy that the meeting had resulted in a stand-off, although Taylor insisted that if any one had given the command “fire” he would have killed his man. When his attention was called to the fact that his carbine was not loaded, he said:
“Well, I could have speared one of them with my sword before they could all get away.”
“Bu-bu-bu-but wh-wh-what wo-wo-would th-th-the re-re-reb be-be-been do-do-doing; yo-yo-you in-in-infernal blockhead!” exclaimed Hazelet, and Taylor subsided.
There was one picket post half-way down Water Mountain, toward the Federal camp, that was dreaded by all the boys. It was within three hundred yards of the picket reserve or rendezvous. There was an old wagon road winding through a narrow ravine, and a stone wall crossed at right angles with the road opposite the reserve. On either side of the ravine was thick underbrush, and just back a little were woods. We were informed that four pickets had been shot off their horses near the old tree. The bushwhackers would ride to within a few hundred yards of the stone wall, dismount and while one would remain with the horses another would crawl like a snake in the grass up behind the wall and pick off the Union cavalrymen. It was cold-blooded murder, committed at night, without cause or provocation. Let it be said to the credit of the Confederate rank and file, that the boys in butternut—the regularly organized troops—discountenanced the cowardly acts of the guerrillas and bushwhackers.
A soldier was shot on picket at the old tree one night, and our company relieved the company to which he belonged the next morning. The murdered trooper was strapped across his saddle and taken to camp for burial. When our boys were counted off for picket Taylor “drew the fatal number,” as it was called.
“If I'm murdered on post, boys,” he said, “don't bother about taking my carcass to camp. Bury me where I fall.”
Taylor made a poor attempt to appear unconcerned. But he was a droll sort of a boy. He continued:
“I've no doubt I was cut out for an avenger; so if any of you fellows want me to avenge your death just swap posts with me to-night. If any infernal gorilla steals up on you and takes your life, I pledge you that I'll follow him to Texas, but what I'll spill his gore.”
“I'd rather go unavenged than to take chances on that post from eleven o'clock to one o'clock to-night,” chorused several of Taylor's friends.
I had the post next to Taylor toward the reserve. The rain was falling, and it was dark down in the ravine. I could hear Taylor's horse champing his bit, and once my horse broke out with a gentle whinny, the noise of which startled me tremendously at first. And I have no doubt it operated the same on Taylor. Soon after that the rain let up and the clouds broke away so that the moon could be seen now and then. All at once there was a flash and a loud report.
“That's the last of poor Giles,” I exclaimed, as the sound of the shot reverberated through the ravine.
Then I rode toward Taylor's post as cautiously as I could. I was pleasantly startled by the challenge in his well-known voice:
“Who comes there?”
The reserve came galloping down the hill. After the usual challenges and answers had been given, the lieutenant inquired:
“Who fired that shot?”
“'Twas me,” replied Tavlor.
“What did you fire at?”
“A bushwhacker.”
“Where?”
“Over by the wall.”
“Did you see him?”
“Of course I did; you don't suppose I'd fire at the moon, do you?”
The reserve rode forward to the wall and a few hundred yards beyond. It was decided that it would be useless to follow the guerrillas in the darkness. The pickets were doubled, two men on a post, for the rest of the night. I was put on the same post with Taylor, and after the reserve had returned to the rendezvous I questioned him about the alarm:
“Are you sure you saw a live bushwhacker, Giles?”
“If I hadn't seen him I'd be dead now.”
“You didn't challenge him?”
“Well, I should say not. I saw him raise his head over the wall, just as the moon broke through a cloud. I first saw the glisten of his gun. Then I fired, and I believe I singed his hair, for I took good aim. If the moon had staid behind the clouds three seconds longer, the gorilla would 'a' had me sure. After I fired I heard him run, and then there were voices, followed by the noise of horses' hoofs as the bushwhackers galloped away. It was a close call for Taylor, but I tell you I sat with my carbine cocked and pointed at that wall all the time till the gorilla appeared. If my horse hadn't shied a little, that fellow would never have gone back to tell the story of his failure to murder another picket.”
The next day arrangements were made to surprise the guerrillas in the event of another visit. Two dismounted troopers were stationed behind the stone wall, within easy range of the opening down the road toward the rebel lines. But the bushwhackers did not return during our tour of picket.
It was never clearly explained why the post at the old tree had been used, when the picket could be so much more safely stationed up behind the wall. There were a good many things that seemed strange to privates, but whenever an enlisted man made an effort to suggest that the plan of operations of his superiors be revised or corrected, it did not take him long to discover that he had made “one big shackass of mineself,” as a recruit from Faderland expressed it when he was booted out of a sergeant's tent at Warrenton for simply informing the wearer of chevrons that in “Shermany the sergeants somedimes set up der lager mit de boys.”
The experiences of the First Massachusetts cavalry at Warrenton during the winter were similar to those of other regiments in camp at that station. Some of us would have been fearfully homesick if we had found any spare time between calls. We scarcely had opportunity to answer letters from home, so thick and fast came the bugle blasts. One of our boys received a letter from his sweetheart, and she wondered what the soldiers could find to occupy their time—“no balls, no parties, no corn-huskings,” as she expressed it. Her soldier boy inclosed a copy of the list of calls for our every-day existence in camp, and when we were not on picket duty.
I have no doubt the dear girl was satisfied that her boy in blue would suffer little, if any, for the want of something to keep his mind occupied. As near as I can remember, the list of calls for each day's programme—except Sunday, when we had general inspection and were kept in line an hour or two extra—was as follows:
0074m
The roll was called at reveille, drill, retreat and tattoo. The boys had “words set to music” for nearly all the calls. The breakfast call was rather inelegantly expressed when infantry and cavalry troops were camped close together. The foot soldiers, not having horses to groom and feed, had their breakfast the first thing after reveille. Then they would stand around, and as the cavalry bugler-boys would sound the breakfast call after stables, the heroes of the knapsack would chorus: