Sent to the Hospital—The Convalescent's Vision—The Name on the Head-board—Killed July 28, 1864—Hom Taylor Died—Shot with his Harness On.
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HAD stood the fatigues of the campaign thus far without once answering sick call, but in the latter part of July I began to feel “de misery in de bowels,” as the contrabands described the disease that attacked the soldiers when in camp, and sent so many of them to the cemeteries. I fought against it as long as I could, but I was finally compelled to give in, and allow the first sergeant to put my name on the sick book. I was very weak, and Taylor assisted me over to the surgeon's tent. The doctor marked me “sick in quarters” the first day, and I swallowed medicine every two hours all night. The next morning I was unable to get out of the dog tent Taylor had arranged for me.
Along in the middle of the day I fell asleep. Taylor had insisted that I should “take a nap between drinks,” as he called it.
“I 'll wake you up in time for your toddy,” he said.
I was awakened by the sounding of “boots and saddles” all through the camps.
“What's up?” I asked Taylor.
“Got to move right away; guess the Johnnies have broke in on us somewhere. But I'll ask the major to let me stay and take care of you.”
And my faithful nurse ran over to the commanding officer's tent and made the request.
“We ran away and enlisted together, Major, and the doctor says the chances are against him unless he's tended with great care. I don't want to shirk duty, but I'd like to stay and see my towny through.”
“I'll speak to the doctor about it,” replied the officer. “Tell the doctor to come here.”
When the surgeon appeared, he stated that the sick were to be sent to the hospital, and so it was decided that Taylor could not be spared to remain with me, as the movement was to be a reconnaissance in force on the north bank of the James, and every man would be needed. Taylor had to hustle to pack his traps and saddle up. After he had “buckled on his harness,” as he called it, he came back to me, and assisted the hospital steward and the driver in lifting me into an ambulance. I had just strength enough to raise my head and thank my comrade, who stood with a canteen of fresh water he had brought for me, beside a trooper who had been wounded in the arm while on picket, and who was to go with me in the ambulance.
“Thank you, Giles. Write and tell my folks about me the first chance you get.”
“I'm sorry to leave you, but I'll come over to City Point and see you in a few days. Keep up your courage; you'll pull through all right. But the company's leading out. I must go. Good-by.”
“Good-by, Giles.”.
I did not have strength enough to sit up in the ambulance and see the boys as they rode by, but Taylor had told them I was in the vehicle, and I could hear them say, “Good-by, Allen,” as they passed along.
Then I was “all shook up” as the ambulance driver cracked his whip and shouted to his mules to “git out o' hyar!” I do not remember how long we were on the road. I did not know then, for I was unconscious part of the time. Now and then we struck a long stretch of corduroy road. Oh! how it tortured me. Only old soldiers who “have been there” have any idea of the agony experienced in a ride over a corduroy road in an ambulance, particularly when the passenger is so weak that he cannot help himself at all.
“Drive around to the third tent there!”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many men have you?”
“One wounded, and one sick or dead boy, I don't know which. He's been fainting like, all the afternoon.” The above is what I heard upon regaining consciousness. We had arrived at the cavalry corps hospital on the bank of the Appomattox, just above City Point. I was taken from the ambulance and placed on a cot in one of the tents. Then I became unconscious again, but restoratives were given me, and I was able, when the attendants came around with supper, to swallow one spoonful of tea, after which I was given an anodyne which put me to sleep.
The cavalry corps hospital was separate from the general hospital of the Army of the Potomac at City Point, and was used exclusively for sick and wounded troopers. The best possible care was taken of the patients, and delicacies in the shape of corn starch, farina, beef tea, canned fruit, jellies and other articles not included in the regular rations were supplied. It was several days after my arrival before I was considered to have one chance in twenty of pulling through, but I had a strong constitution, and nature and the surgeon's prescriptions won after a hard struggle.
What a luxury I found the cot with its mattress, clean sheets and a pillow—just think of it!
After I had passed the critical point, hovering between life and death for several days, and began to mend, I took as deep an interest in my surroundings as was possible under the circumstances. Part of the time I was in a sort of semi-unconscious state, the quinine and other drugs causing my brain to be fired up so that the incidents from the campaign of the Wilderness to the crossing of the James were all jumbled together with recollections of home and the events of my boyhood.
My cot was near the open fly of the tent, and one day, early in August, I was bolstered up so that I could get a view of the grounds sloping away toward the Appomattox. The tents were on a little knoll, and the ground fell away toward the river for a short distance, and then there was quite a stretch of open land sloping upward to a ridge, on the other side of which was the Appomattox.
The intervening space, beginning at the foot of the slope and extending nearly to the rising ground toward the river, had been converted into a cemetery. Here were buried the troopers of Sheridan's command, whose bodies had been brought from the battlefields, and also those who had died in hospital. I soon tired of looking at the rows of head-boards, and asked to be laid back on my cot. Just as the attendant was removing the bolster which had supported me in a sitting posture, I fancied I saw the name “Taylor” on one of the slabs out there in the field.
As the nurse laid me back on my cot I was so fatigued that I could not collect my thoughts for some time. Then I began to think about the regiment. Why had not Taylor been to the hospital to see me? Was the cavalry on the north bank of the James? Had there been another raid? Was Giles sick? I went to sleep, and my dreams were of the kind that causes one to wake with his mind more confused than when he goes to sleep. The real and the unreal were so linked together that it was difficult to separate them.
The next day I was permitted to sit up in bed again. Then I began to search for that head-board that had made such an impression on me the day before.
After a time I located the one which had “Taylor” on it. But I was so weak that my eyes gave out before I could make out the rest of the inscription.
“Taylor?” said I to myself, “Taylor? Why, there are hundreds of Taylors in the army. This Taylor could be nothing to me.
“But where is my Taylor? Why hasn't he been to see me? Of course if anything had happened to Giles the boys would have sent me word.”
The ward master came along, and as he seemed to be a good-natured fellow, I said to him:
“Will you do me a favor?”
“Certainly, my boy, if I can. What is it?”
“Tell me what the inscription is on that head-board out there—the one with 'Taylor' on it?”
“Taylor is all I can make out from here, as the board is a little obliqued from this point; but if it'll be any accommodation to you, I'll go down there and see what it is.”
“I would be so thankful if you would.”
The ward master went down the slope and to the grave in which I had come to be so deeply interested. I was confident, or thought I was, that nothing could have happened to Giles, but at the same time I could not rest until I found out the full name of the trooper who slumbered in that particular grave. In a few minutes the ward master returned.
“It's Taylor,” he said.
“Yes; but what's the other name?”
“Giles Taylor.”
“What regiment?”
“First Massachusetts Cavalry.”
“What company?”
“Company I.”
“What else?”
“Killed, July 28, 1864.”
“Where?”
“Near Malvern Hill.”
“Lay me down, please.”
“All right, my boy; did you know the trooper buried out there?”
“Yes; we ran away together to enlist. He nursed me in camp when I was stricken, and helped put me in the ambulance when I was sent to the hospital; he was my bunkey, and the best friend I had in the company.”
“It's too bad; but war is a terrible thing.”
The day that I started for the hospital Sheridan crossed to the north bank of the James, to support a movement intended to cause Lee to withdraw the bulk of his army from the works in front of Petersburg. There was some lively fighting out near Malvern Hill, and during one of the attacks of the enemy Taylor was shot. The bullet entered his groin, severing the main arteries.
Daniel Booth, a bugler who was near Taylor when the latter was struck, assisted in getting the wounded man back out of range. Booth told me that Giles did not flinch—he was in the front rank when he was shot. He did not fall from his horse, but fired one or two shots after he was struck. Then he said to Booth:
“I'm hit—the blood's running into my boot; guess I'm hurt bad.”
Booth hastened to Taylor's assistance. The latter was growing weak from loss of blood. Just then Gen. Davies's headquarters ambulance came along, and the general who was near at hand and had seen Booth and another soldier supporting Taylor in the saddle, directed them to put him in the ambulance.
“No; don't let them put me in the ambulance, it'll kill me if they lay me down. Let me stay in the saddle, boys.”
Booth remained with Taylor till they reached the landing where the wounded men were being loaded on boats to be taken to City Point. A surgeon examined Taylor's wound.
“It's fatal,” the doctor whispered to Booth. “But he can't stay here; help him on board the boat.”
The boy bugler and others raised the dying trooper and bore him tenderly on board the steamer. They laid him down on a blanket among other wounded soldiers. Then the whistle blew, and the command was given, “All ashore that's going!” Taylor was sinking fast, but he pressed Booth's hand and said:
“Good-by, Booth; I'm dying. Send word to my folks at home—tell them I faced the music, and was shot with my harness on. Remember me to the boys.”
“Good-by, Giles.”
Booth jumped ashore as the gang plank was being pulled on board, and hastened back to the regiment. Poor Taylor was a corpse before the boat reached City Point. His body was taken to the cavalry corps hospital, and buried in the grave the head-board of which attracted my attention.
Doleful Tales by Deserters from Lee's Army—President Lincoln's Visit to the Front—A Memorable Meeting—The Fort Steadman Assault—Lincoln on Horseback—At the Head of the Column—Wan ted to Get Off and Pull Down his Pants.
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ESERTERS from the Confederate army at Petersburg came into the Federal lines with doleful tales of hunger and hardships. The “bull pen” near Meade's headquarters was filled with Johnnies who had run away from Lee's army. They had seen the handwriting on the wall, and were convinced that they had been fighting for a lost cause; the hopelessness of the struggle had struck home to their hearts—and stomachs. In March, 1865, before Grant began the movement on the left of Petersburg, a number of rebels came through the lines and surrendered.
“We can't stand another campaign,” said a rebel deserter at the bull pen. “We can't march and fight on quarter rations of meal and only a smell of meat.”
“Do you think the Confederacy is gone up?”
“Shuah's yo born, but Bobby Lee's game. He'll fight till the last ounce of powder is used up.”
“What's the use?”
“No use, except to show his fidelity to the cause.”
“He has shown that already.”
“So he has, and he's in a mighty bad way.”
In the latter part of March the signs began to indicate that a general break-up was at hand. Dispatch bearers were seen on all sides, dashing away with messages from army headquarters to corps commanders in the lines in front of Petersburg. Horses were being shod, army wagons overhauled—the thousand and one things betokening a move were noticed in the camps.
At Meade's headquarters it was understood that Grant intended to begin hammering again on or about the first of April, and the boys were satisfied that there would be no April fool business about it.
President Lincoln visited Grant's headquarters, and was present when the Federal army moved “on to Richmond” for the last time. The President arrived about March 22, and he did not return to Washington till after the fall of Richmond, which city he entered the day after Jeff Davis fled. Lincoln was at City Point when Sheridan arrived after he had whipped Early out of the Valley. And here, too, came Sherman, the hero of the March to the Sea.
Tuesday, March 28, Gen. Meade rode down to the point and conferred with the general-in-chief. It was the day before that fixed for the movement. An informal council was held between Lincoln, Grant, Sheridan, Sherman and Meade. It was the first and last time that these five great men were ever together. In Richardson's Personal History of Grant, the following pen-picture of the group is given:
“Lincoln, tall, round-shouldered, loose-jointed, large-featured, deep-eyed, with a smile upon his face, is dressed in black, and wears a fashionable silk hat. Grant is at Lincoln's right, shorter, stouter, more compacts wears a military hat with a stiff broad brim, has his hands in his pantaloons pockets, and is puffing away at a cigar while listening to Sherman. Sherman, tall, with high, commanding forehead, is almost as loosely built as Lincoln; has sandy whiskers, closely-cropped, and sharp, twinkling eyes, slouched hat, his pantaloons tucked into his boots. He is talking hurriedly, gesticulating to Lincoln, now to Grant, his eyes wandering everywhere. Meade, also tall, with thin, sharp features, a gray beard and spectacles, is a little stooping in his gait. Sheridan, the shortest of all, quick and energetic in all his movements, with a face bronzed by sun and wind, is courteous, affable and a thorough soldier.”
Lincoln visited Meade also. I was one of the detachment sent to the railroad station to receive the President and escort him to headquarters. Orders had been issued for a grand review in honor of the chief magistrate, but before Lincoln had reached the station the troops were more seriously engaged. Gen. Lee had discovered that his situation was becoming more critical each hour that he remained in Richmond, and he determined to make a break for the Union works near the Appomattox, on the Petersburg line. If he could capture and hold Fort Steadman and the ridge in rear of it, he could seriously cripple Grant's army and perhaps seize City Point.
General John B. Gordon was the commander selected by Lee to undertake the capture of the works. The assault was successful so far as getting into and taking possession of Fort Steadman was concerned, but the Federals rallied and recaptured the fort, the guns of which had been turned on our works to the right and left. The rebels had plunged into the Union lines in the darkness. The pickets were scarcely one hundred and fifty feet apart in front of Fort Steadman, and the main earthworks were separated by about as many yards. It is said that Gordon had the utmost confidence in the success of the expedition. He had been assured that the assault would be supported by troops from A. P. Hill and Longstreet's corps. It was a bold attack, but the gallant boys in blue, though driven from the fort and some of the works in the immediate vicinity at the outset, returned to the front, and the rebel general found that he had no time to spare in getting back behind the Confederate breastworks. The Johnnies were routed with great loss, and nearly two thousand prisoners were captured by the Federals.
The attack on Fort Steadman woke up the whole army. Meade concluded to give the Johnnies all the fighting they wanted, and he ordered the Second and Sixth corps—occupying the line to the left of the Ninth corps in the front of which the rebel assault was made—to push out and see what was going on in their front.
The boys went forward with a cheer, and the Confederate pickets were driven back into the main fortifications, the rifle pits and the strongly intrenched picket line being taken by the assaulting forces. Nearly nine hundred Johnnies were captured.
Several counter charges were made by the rebels to drive our boys out of the works, but they satisfied themselves that the Yankees had come to stay. It was a cold day for the Confederates all along the line.
President Lincoln witnessed the battle in front of the Second and Sixth corps. He was on a ridge near the signal tower of the Second corps. Several ladies—I think Mrs. Grant, and I don't know but Mrs. Lincoln was in the party—were there. They had been driven out from the railroad in an ambulance to see the review, but the President came to the front mounted.
As a horseman Lincoln was not a success. As I remember it, he rode Grant's best horse. Several staff officers were at the station with a detachment of cavalry to look after the President. The latter's clothes seemed to fit him when he got into the saddle, but before he dismounted at the signal tower he presented a sorry spectacle indeed. The cavalry escort reached the station a few minutes before the train from the Point came puffing along. The President stood on the platform of the only passenger coach. The escort presented sabers and Lincoln acknowledged the salute by raising his hat.
Then he came down from the cab and shook hands with the staff officers, who seemed to feel highly complimented to be recognized by the commander-in-chief. But when the President extended his hand to a high private of the rear rank who stood holding the horse His Excellency was to ride, and insisted on shaking hands with each soldier of the escort, the wearers of shoulder straps appeared to be dazed at such familiarity. The honored head of the greatest nation on earth recognizing in the wearer of the plain blue blouse of a humble private a fellow citizen! Military red tape could not comprehend it, but it made no difference with “Father Abraham”; he had a way of doing just as he pleased on such occasions. As the President advanced to mount, the orderly in charge of the horse, with a sly glance at Lincoln's legs, said:
“You ride a longer stirrup than the general, sir. I'll fix them in a jiffy.”
“No, no, my man; never mind. The stirrups are all right. I don't like to stand on my toes in the saddle.”
Then the President threw his right leg over the horse's back and smiled at the orderly's surprise at such an unmilitary exhibition as Lincoln made of himself in getting into the saddle.
“Thank you,” said the great emancipator, as the orderly relinquished his hold of the bridle, and the horse with his distinguished rider began to dance around ready for the word “Forward.”
The staff officers sprang into their saddles, the escort broke into columns of fours, and the party started for the front. The President had jammed his hat well down over the back of his head to keep it from falling off. He leaned forward in the saddle so that his chin almost touched the horse's mane. His coat was unbuttoned and soon worked itself up around his arms and flapped out behind. His vest seceded from his pantaloons and went up toward his neck, so that his white shirt showed between the vest and trousers like a sash. And it did not take long for the pantaloons to creep up the long legs of the distinguished visitor. Up to the knees they went—and higher. The President discovered that he was not cutting a very fine figure, but he had no time to fix things. His horse required all his attention, and more, too. The animal knew he was entitled to the head of the column, and he kept there.
Some of the staff officers, fearing perhaps that the horse would run away with the President, essayed to ride alongside and seize the bridle. The attempt proved a dismal failure. On went the fiery steed, bearing his honored rider out the road toward the breastworks. Lincoln held on. Now his feet were in the stirrups with his knees bobbing up nearly to his chin; anon his feet were out of the stirrups and his long legs dangled down almost to the ground. As we approached the line of battle of the Second corps, it was understood that the horse had “taken the bit in his mouth.” Would he stop when he reached the group of officers up on the knoll, or would he go on and carry the President into the battle over there between the forts? Whatever apprehensions may have been felt by the chief magistrate or any of those in the escort on this score, were quieted as we drew near to the signal tower. The horse slackened his speed and gave the President an opportunity to shake himself a little, so that his coat and pantaloons were to some extent brought back where they belonged.
The President seemed to regain his wonted good nature at once upon halting, and when some of the general officers who came to greet him asked him how he had enjoyed his ride, he exclaimed, with a merry twinkle in his eye: “It was splendid. I don't know but I rode a little too fast for the gentlemen who followed, but I was anxious to get here—or somewhere—where I could have a good view of the fight and get off and pull down my pants.”
And Father Abraham laughed heartily as he joined the group near the signal tower. Did the President relate an anecdote or two called up by the incidents of the trip? No; for the booming of the cannon, the roaring of the musketry and the cheers of the troops as they marched by and took up the double quick to join in the assault on the enemy's outer works in front of Petersburg, called the attention of all to the serious events transpiring so close at hand.
How the soldiers cheered when informed of Lincoln's presence! They waved their caps and held their muskets over their heads as they pushed on, many of them to die in a few minutes in that desperate struggle for the rebel pits and breastworks.
Meade succeeded in capturing and holding several important points in front of Petersburg, and the poor Johnnies were more discouraged than ever before. The President and his party returned to City Point that night, and he remained at Grant's headquarters till after the lieutenant-general moved out to the left and until the fall of Richmond.
Grant's Spring Opening—By the Left Flank Again—Sheridan at Five Forks—The Fall of Richmond and Petersburg—A Dangerous Ride—How Jeff Davis faced the Yankees—Chasing Lee up the Appomattox—Breaking the Backbone of the Southern Confederacy—The Surrender—Confiscating a Confederate Goose—A Colored Boy to the Rescue.
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ND now came the orders for what Grant intended should be the last grand campaign of the gallant Army of the Potomac. Sheridan, as usual, was to lead off and push out around the right flank of the rebel forces cooped up in Petersburg and Richmond. The bulk of the army was to follow, and it was evident that unless the Southern Confederacy got out of the way “right smart,” somebody would get hurt. Everybody was on the move, or ready to move, even the troops who were to remain in the fortifications having their knapsacks packed.
The feeling was general among the rank and file that a decisive battle was to be fought, and all felt that the Union cause would triumph. There were no spread-eagle proclamations promulgated through general orders. Grant was never given to that. His instructions to his lieutenants gave them to understand just what they were expected to do—they were to move against the rebels and go in to win.
Little Phil opened the ball at Five Forks on the last day of March. The army had moved March 29, but the infantry had been unable to make much progress, being stuck in the mud, for the rain set in during the evening of the twenty-ninth and continued all night and the next day and night. The rebels pressed Sheridan hard. Yet the hero of Winchester held on like grim death. The next day with the aid of the infantry sent to his support, he pitched in and routed the rebels, capturing more than five thousand prisoners and putting to flight fifteen thousand or more, who skedaddled in such a hurry that they left behind all their cannon and supply wagons. The battle was anything but an April-fool joke.
Meade, Ord and Parke made a general assault on the works in front of Petersburg, April 2. It was Sunday morning. The roar of battle could be heard from away over on the Appomattox above City Point, all along the line. It was a magnificent sight to see the infantry going in. As the charge was being made, Gen. Meade sent Major Emory of his staff with a dispatch to Gen. Wright commanding the Sixth corps. I was directed to accompany the major. Gen. Wright was said to be hotly engaged in capturing intrenchments off to the left of Petersburg, and to reach him it would be necessary to make a wide circuit to the left and rear, or ride directly across the field where the battle was raging. Major Emory decided upon the latter course, and away we went.
The Johnnies, realizing that their time had come, were making a desperate defense of the works, and the shot and shell screeched over and under and around us on all sides as we rode the line of battle. One shell exploded directly under the major's horse, throwing up a cloud of dirt and smoke, and for a moment I felt sure Gen. Meade had lost one of his aids. Then I heard the major shout:
“Come on. I'm all right.”
It was dangerous work. The infantry soldiers were falling on all sides. But we came out alive and reached Gen. Wright, who had broken through the outer lines and was pushing toward Petersburg.
The fall of Richmond! All Sunday night the rebels were getting out of Richmond and Petersburg. The backbone of the Confederacy was broken indeed. The news seemed too good to be true. We rode into Petersburg Monday morning, bright and early, and without dismounting, we kept on and immediately took up the line of march in pursuit of Lee's army, which was now retreating up the Appomattox.
It was a hot chase—a sort of go-as-you-please. Of course when Richmond was evacuated, the boys in blue felt that the end was at hand. When the Confederate commander telegraphed to Jeff Davis that the “enemy” had broken the line in front of Petersburg, it was a cold day for C. S. A.
It is recorded that Jeff Davis was attending church when he received Lee's dispatch, and that he quietly stole away without waiting for the doxology or the benediction. It was a clear case of “every man for himself.” The “president” didn't whisper even to the brother in the next pew that it was time to flee from the wrath to come. No. Perhaps he had heard the echo of that familiar Yankee hymn:
“We'll hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree,As we go marching on.”
The “president” made better time in getting away from the seat of government than was made by the braves in butternut. He did not draw a long breath till he had distanced the retreating Confederates and reached Danville. To stimulate his soldiers to deeds of daring—and to induce them to beat back the Union army if possible till he could make good his escape—Davis declared in a proclamation, issued on the wing at Danville, April 5, 1865, that “Virginia, with the help of the people, and by the blessings of Providence, shall be held and defended.”
“Let us,” he continued, “meet the foe with fresh defiance, and with unconquered and unconquerable hearts.”
Before his signature to the document was dry, Jeff was making a bee-line for Georgia. He was willing to meet the foe face to face on paper. “You hold Grant in check till I can get far enough South to establish a rallying-point,” was the burden of his messages to the rebel general when read between the lines. At all events, the president of the Southern Confederacy took to the woods, and was next heard of at Irwinsville, Georgia, May 11, 1865. Wilson's troopers took the fugitive into camp on that day.
The circumstances of the capture of Jeff Davis have been the subject of heated controversy—in magazine articles and newspaper publications. Whatever may be the fact in respect of his wearing apparel at the time the Yankee cavalrymen overhauled the rebel president—whether he had on his wife's petticoats or was clad in masculine attire—certain it is that in abandoning the “lost cause,” and leaving Lee and his followers to “meet the foe with fresh defiance,” while he skedaddled, the “rebel hero”—still idolized and worshiped by the solid South—made a sorry exhibition of himself.
On the chase up the Appomattox our boys were kept busy—in the saddle night and day—carrying dispatches to and from Meade's headquarters. It was a very interesting period. Sheridan was neck-and-neck with Lee, while the grand old Army of the Potomac was hot on the rebel commander's trail.
Gen. Meade was seriously ill for several days preceding the negotiations that led to the surrender. But he kept in the saddle most of the time, in spite of the request of the headquarters' medical men, that he should “avoid all excitement!” It was strange advice to give under such circumstances. The hero of Gettysburg realized that the boys were knocking the bottom out of the Southern Confederacy, and he was determined to be in at the death.
Whenever there was heavy firing at the front, Meade would get out of the ambulance, in which he rode when compelled to leave the saddle, and call for his favorite horse “Baldy.” Then he would ask his son George, one of his aids, or Major Jay or Major Emory, to assist him into the saddle. Once mounted, the general seemed to have a way of shaking off his sickness. He would press on to the head of the column and make a personal reconnaissance. As soon as the rearguard of the rebels—left to check the Union advance while the Confederate wagon trains and artillery were hurried to the west—was brushed out of the way, and the line of march resumed, the general would return to his ambulance, at times completely exhausted.
April 4, 1865, was one of the hardest days of the chase. It was a forced march with only an occasional breathing spell when the advance was feeling its way along the roads leading toward Appomattox. That night we unsaddled with what we considered fair prospects of rest. But before we had settled down for sleep, a trooper dashed up to Meade's headquarters. The general was so ill that he could scarcely hold up his head, but when told that Sheridan had intercepted the Confederates, and predicted the capture of Lee's army if the Army of the Potomac would push to the front near Jettersville, Meade got out of bed and gave orders for the march to be resumed at two o'clock in the morning.
The boys were waiting for the wagons to come up with the hard tack and coffee, and the prospect of pushing on without grub was anything but transporting. Still when the time came to “fall in,” the men obeyed with a cheerfulness characteristic of the veterans of the gallant army that for four years had fought Lee's soldiers with varied success.
The next morning Sheridan's men—a scouting party under Gen. Davies, our brigade commander—played havoc with a Confederate wagon train that was “sifting west.” Nearly two hundred wagons were destroyed. It was hard for the Johnnies to witness the destruction of their supply train. Poor fellows, they needed all the grub they could get, and more, too. They fought desperately, but the battle was against them. The Federal column moved on, and the surrounding of Lee's army was pushed on all sides. The boys in blue were hungry, but they kept in good spirits. “We can stand it if the rebs can,” was remarked now and then as the boys were ordered to move on just before the supply train would get up.
On the battlefield of Sailor's Creek I picked up Gen. Lee's order book. The last order copied into the book was dated Saturday, April 1, 1865, and, as I remember it, the order referred to the sending of re-enforcements from the works in front of Petersburg to oppose Sheridan's advance on the Union left. The ground was strewn with the debris of the rebel headquarters' train. Army wagons with spokes cut out of the wheels were overturned on both sides of the road.
“In the last ditch;”
“The C. S. A. is gone up;”
“We all can't whip you all without something to eat,”
and other humorous inscriptions appeared on the canvas covers of the wagons. I wish I had held on to Lee's order book. It would have been valuable to-day. But it was heavy, and I threw it aside.
April 9, 1865, while Sheridan was square across the road preventing Lee's further advance without cutting his way through, and the Army of the Potomac was on the flank and rear, came the news that white flags were displayed along the rebel lines and that Grant and Lee were negotiating for the surrender of the Confederate army of Northern Virginia. Meade's headquarters contingent was bivouacked just off the road leading to Appomattox Court House from Farmville.
“Lee's going to surrender!”
The boys could scarcely credit the report that the Confederate commander had asked terms, for, somehow or other, after a week's hard chase the Yankees had begun to fear that Lee would effect a junction with Johnston in North Carolina. But when an orderly from Grant's headquarters dashed up and handed Meade a letter from the lieutenant-general confirming the report that Lee had accepted Grant's terms, there was the greatest joy at headquarters.
The news spread like wildfire, and in a few minutes the tired soldiers were dancing with joy. I was broiling a confiscated chicken in the angle of a rail fence when the orderly rode up. When I was told of the tidings he had brought I threw the chicken as high as I could, kicked the fire in every direction, and shouted till my throat was sore.
Gen. Meade, with a few members of the escort of which I was one, rode into the Confederate lines and to Lee's camp. The Southern commander had only a wall tent fly for headquarters. Longstreet was there and several others whom Meade had known in the old army. Meade and Lee conversed for a few minutes alone. In the meantime a sergeant of Meade's escort and a sergeant of Lee's headquarters guard entered into such a heated argument that the interference of several officers of both sides was necessary to prevent them from fighting to a finish.
As we were riding down the slope from Lee's bivouac, a weather-stained Confederate, wearing an old slouch hat, a short butternut jacket, and with a dilapidated blanket wrapped about his shoulders, shouted to Meade. The commander of the Army of the Potomac did not recognize the man who hailed him and who held out his hand, until the rebel said:
“Don't you know me, General? I'm Gen. Wise of Virginia.”
Then there was another handshake. Wise was the sorriest looking general I saw at the surrender. Lee and Longstreet and some of the others were clad in bright new uniforms, but Wise looked as though he had been rolled in the mud all the way from Petersburg.
After calling on Lee, Meade rode over to the Court House and congratulated Grant and Sheridan on the result. The Union generals seemed to enjoy the “love feast.”
There was joy and gladness on all sides. A majority of the rebels who surrendered at Appomattox accepted the inevitable with better grace than could have been expected of them after the desperate resistance they had made. But when you put food into a starving man's mouth the chances favor his smothering his hatred if he has such feeling toward you.
“Dog gone it, that's splendid coffee,” said a butternut clad veteran who shared my supper the night of the surrender. “You all overpowered us; we couldn't hold out on wind any longer. I like this meat; I tell you, it's good. I didn't know I was so hungry; I must have got beyond the hunger point.”
Then came the order for the return. It was not “on to Richmond” this time, but “on to Washington.” We all knew that the war was over—that Sherman would make short work of the Confederate Army in the Carolinas under Johnston.
When we mounted our horses and rode back toward Burkesville station, leaving the provost marshal and a small force at Appomattox to parole the prisoners, it was conceded by both Yankee and rebel that the Army of the Potomac and the army of Northern Virginia would never again meet as enemies on the battlefield. The boys in blue felt that they had fought a good fight, won a glorious victory, and could now return to their homes proud to have been permitted to suffer and do battle under the flag of the Union.
It was a happy army that faced about at Appomattox and took up the march for Washington. The bands played, and the victorious Federals sang. The bivouacs at night were camp meetings on a large scale. Somehow the boys did not need as much sleep as was required when in winter quarters. Discipline was relaxed, and colonels and corporals, captains and privates talked over the results of the last campaign without any “red tape nonsense,” as the boys were wont to call a strict observance of military discipline when there was no fighting to do.
The song that was sung with the most expression on that homeward march, was a parody on “Dear Mother, I've come home to die,” the last word being changed to “eat.” Then there was that lively air:
“When Johnny comes marching home again,Hurrah, hurrah!When Johnny comes marching home again,Hurrah, says I;The lads and lassies, so they say,With roses they will strew the way,And we'll all feel gayWhen Johnny comes marching home.”
On the road between Farmville and Burkesville station I dismounted at a farmhouse and asked a little negro boy who stood near the fence with mouth and eyes wide open, for a drink of water. The lad seemed to be frightened, and ran away around the house.
“You, Julius, come here!” shouted a middle-aged lady who stepped out on the piazza. She had overheard my request for water. The young darky returned at the lady's command.
“I'se 'fraid dese Yankees,” he said.
“I don't think they'll molest you, Julius. Bring the gentleman a drink of water.”
I was invited to a seat on the piazza pending Julius's expedition to the spring house, a rod or two back of the dwelling. He returned with a large gourd dipper filled with deliciously cool water. In the meantime three young ladies, daughters of the middle-aged lady, appeared on the piazza and were presented by their mother to the Yankee. Then Julius went to the spring to fill my canteen.
“I'm sorry we have nothing but water to offer you,” said the mother.
The young ladies also ventured to speak.
“The two armies, ours and yours, just took everything in the shape of provisions on the place.”
“Yes; and the soldiers found where we had stored a few hams and a sack of flour down in the woods.”
“And they made out they came across the place accidentally like. I believe Jeb, a brother of Julius, told the Yankees where we had buried the box with the hams and flour, for he hasn't been seen on the plantation since.”
“I am really sorry for you, ladies. I will speak to Gen. Meade, and I am sure he will direct the commissary to supply you with something to eat.”
“I think we can hold out for another day,” said the mother. “My husband was in Longstreet's corps, and he said when he galloped by here the other day that the Confederacy was played out, and that if something providential did not turn up on the side of Lee's army they would all be gobbled up inside of ten days. His last words were: 'If you can save me a dish of meat of some kind till I get home, do it; it may save my life.'”
“And we're doing our best for papa.”
“Yes, we are. When the last Yankees marched by on the way to the surrender, we found we had one goose left—”
“Yes; and we've got the goose yet, down in the cellar—”
“Now, Miss Emma, you have told a Yankee about the goose, and papa's chances for dinner when he comes home are mighty slim.”
“Dear sir, you will spare us?”
“Mr. Yankee, let us keep our goose?”
“I know you didn't mean to rob us!”
“The goose is safe, ladies. Cook your goose for the family reunion, for I assure you that there isn't a man in the Federal army mean enough to steal a goose under such circumstances, especially now that the war is over.”
“I feel relieved.”
“Oh! so much.”
“How kind you are.”
“The Yankees are not so black as our papers have painted them. I'm so rejoiced to know that we can save the goose.”
Just then Julius came bounding around the corner of the house. His hair fairly stood on end, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets.
“Miss Julia! Miss Julia! Miss Julia!”
“What is it, Julius?”
“O, Miss Julia! Miss Julia!”
“Speak, you idiot!”
“De goose, Miss Julia, de goose! See dar, see dar! Look, dat Yankee gwine ober de fence yonder wid de goose you's a-keepin' for Massa Colonel Bob!” Sure enough, Julius was right. While the ladies had been entertaining me on the piazza a straggling cavalryman had entered the yard. He had filled his canteen at the spring house. Then he interviewed Julius. Next he slipped into the cellar and raised a tub that was bottom-side up on the cellar bottom.
Under the tub he found the goose, which he seized by the neck. In a few seconds he had jumped over the fence to where his horse was standing, and without paying any attention to my shouts for him to “stop or drop that goose,” the blue-coated robber put spurs to his steed and disappeared down the road.
The goose was gone. Col. Bob's dinner was spoiled so far as that goose was concerned.
“Ladies—”
“Don't speak to me.”
“Nor me.”
“Nor me.”
“Nor me.”
“But I assure you—”
“Yes, you assured us a few minutes ago.”
“I had misgivings all the time that Miss Emma would tell about the goose.”
“But, mother dear, don't cry; I thought we could trust a gentleman.”
“So we could, but we should have known better than to trust a Yankee.”
I believe that I would have shot the bummer who confiscated that goose had he been within range of my revolver while I was under fire on that piazza. I never felt quite so mean in the presence of ladies before.
“Go and join your partner,” said the mother.
“Leave us, sir!” chorused the daughters.
What a predicament for a youthful soldier. There I stood, despised and hated by four ladies with whom I had been apparently on good terms a few moments before. Had a band of bushwhackers opened fire on me at that moment I should have been happy again.
The bushwhackers did not come, but Julius did. I shall never forget Julius.
“Miss Julia, dis yere Yankee doan' know nuffin 'bout stealin' dat goose.”
“How do you know, nigger?”
“Cos' what dat oder Yankee say.”
“What did he say?”
“He tole me 'fi made de leas bit of holler so dat Yankee sittin' on de porch wid you all see he, he would don' cut my brack hed off wid he's s'od. Deed he did, Miss Julia.”
“How did he know about the goose?”
“Spec I'se de nigger to blame. He axed me whar missus kept her pervisions, an' fo' I know'd what I do'n, I say, 'Nuffin left but one ole goose, Massa.' Den he say, 'Whar dat goose?' an' what wor a poor nigger to do, Miss Julia?”
“We have done you an injustice, sir,” said the mother, again turning to me.
“Pardon us, sir,” said the younger ladies.
“Don't mention it, ladies. I am so glad that I am relieved from the suspicion of complicity in the stealing of that goose, that I would stay and help cook a dinner to celebrate Col. Bob's return were it not for the fact that I must go on and report to Gen. Meade.”
We parted very good friends. A goodly store of flour, meat, coffee and sugar was sent to the ladies from the Union commissary department, and no doubt Col. Bob reached home in time to share the rations with his charming family.
Although twenty-six years have come and gone since my experience on the piazza of that Virginia farmhouse, I cannot repress a feeling whenever I recall the circumstances, that I would be pleased to meet that “other Yankee” who did steal that goose and choke him till he cried “peccavi!”