Tabor was lying on a cot in a hospital.
We marched back to our Virginia camp that night, and as the men were unbuckling their equipments Dennis looked up and said: “’Twas a bloody shame that James wasn’t with us to-day.”
WOMAN AND WAR.
Down the picket-guarded laneRolled the comfort-laden wain,Cheered by shouts that shook the plain,Soldier-like and merry;Phrases such as camps may teach,Sabre cuts of Saxon speech,Such as ‘Bully!’ “Them’s the peach!”‘Wade in Sanitary!’—Harte.
The names of women do not figure in the official reports of the war. They were not gazetted for gallant deeds; thousands were unknown beyond the neighborhood where they worked zealously to organize “Soldiers’ Aid Societies,” for no town was too remote from the scene of action not to have its relief committee who were constantly collecting comforts and necessities to be forwarded to the front.
What each family first started out to do for their own fathers, brothers, husbands and lovers soon became general, and many prompted by love and patriotism left home and its comforts and went down into the very edge of the great battles to help rescue the wounded. They endured hardships and proved themselves angels of mercy as only women can.
Tens of thousands of maimed veterans will remember with tenderness the noble women who ministered to them on the battlefield, on transports and in hospitals.
I am sure that none of Hancock’s old corps will ever cease to remember the motherly Mrs. Husband, Miss Clara Barton, Mrs. Lee, Mrs. Anna Holstein, Miss Cornelia Hancock, a relative of the general; Miss Willetts, or Mrs. Barlow, wife of Gen. Francis C. Barlow of the 1st division.
The story of the army life of the last named woman is full of interest and romance. She was a true friend of the men in the ranks, and her purse was frequently opened to give money to some wounded soldier who was being sent to some northern hospital without a cent in his pocket.
She followed her husband’s troops through the unequaled and appalling scenes of blood and hardship in Grant’s campaign of ’64, using her strength so that she finally sickened and went home to die in a few months. If ever there was a pure noble woman it was Mrs. Barlow.
I heard an incident of a lady going among the wounded at Spottsylvania. Seeing a pale-faced boy whose helplessness had touched her heart, she stopped by his side and said: “Is there anything that can be done for you, my poor boy?”
“No, thank you,” was the reply, “but there’s a fellow at my left that you might help,” pointing to an ashen-faced man dressed in confederate gray.
“He’s a rebel,” she said, “and there’s thousands of our own boys that need attention.”
“That’s so,” the boy in blue said, “but he is far from home, helpless and among the enemy, and is somebody’s boy and if he is a rebel, he’s an American.”
The reb feigned sleep, but he had heard every word, and when the woman kneeled down by his side and commenced to bathe his face and hands with bay rum the tears began to steal out from under his eyelashes and he finally burst right out crying. This was too much for the tender heart of woman and she cried, too, and rough men about them who had marched up in front of flaming guns the day before wept like children.
THE ARMY SUTLER.
The sutler was a prominent person in war times. He sold everything, from a molasses cookie to butter, at 80 or 90 cents a pound.
When the boys did not have the money they would get an order on the sutler from their captain, and the amount was charged up against their pay. The sutler would issue tickets in various amounts from 5 cents up.
The business was very profitable and many made fortunes. The soldiers used to regard the prosperous sutler with envy, but he is never heard of now, and I do not know of one who makes claimto having assisted in saving the Union in that capacity.
I remember our first pay day in Virginia. Our colonel thought it would be a fine thing to give the men a three days’ holiday, so after dress parade he made a little speech about as follows:
“My poys, I vas browd of you and I vas goin’ to gif you a tree day holiday. There vill pe no drills, no parades, no notting but fun. Haf a good time. Pe good poys and after it vas all ofer we vill go after that Sheneral Shackson and lick him like h—l.”
As the sutlers all sold beer in the early part of the war, there was pretty hilarious times for three days.
Peddlers of all sorts used to infest the camps about pay day and more than one “pieman” got his cart upset during Col. Von Wagner’s “three days’ grace.”
In the summer of 1862 gold and silver went to a premium and got pretty scarce. It was before the “shinplasters” were issued and postage stamps were used largely in lieu of small change. I remember one day I was over among McClellan’s troops, and as I was passing a wagon where ice cream and soft drinks were dispensed, I heard some loud words and pretty soon someone cried out, “Over with the wagon boys,” and over it went. The vendor claimed that someone had been treating a large crowd to everything he had to sell andthen offered in payment stamps that had been once used on letters. Of course the boys took offense at an imputation on their honesty, hence the capsizing of the cart.
OLD LATITUDE AND LONGITUDE.
A lieutenant of our regiment who was captured at the second Bull Run, was returned to us some months later. We were then doing garrison duty near Arlington. Our company was at a fort named “Haggerty,” which had been built on a little hill on the road leading from the Georgetown bridge to Arlington.
The roadway had been dug through the hill leaving the banks for a long distance on each side, from 10 to 40 feet above the road.
An old dry canal ran parallel with the road from the bridge to Alexandria.
The next day after the lieutenant had been returned to the regiment he obtained leave to go over to Washington for the purpose of supplying himself with a new uniform, and it is more than likely that he celebrated his release from captivity by visiting numerous places where liquid as well as other refreshments were dispensed. He did not return to camp until evening, and the night being dark and the officer not being familiar with the lay of the land he started up the bed of the old canal instead of the road. When opposite the fort he heard the drummers beating the tattoo and hemade a sharp turn to the right and headed in the direction of the sounds.
After going a few rods he walked off the bank and dropped about 30 feet into 15 inches of soft Virginia mud. We heard cries of help interspersed with oaths and other remarks that would have done credit to a pirate captain. A light was procured, a crowd gathered and one of the men asked what was the matter. The voice was recognized and out of the depth came the response: “Its me sergeant and for God’s sake come and help me out of this hole.” Three or four of the men went to his rescue and when the party came up the pathway they were greeted by a large crowd headed by the captain, who inquired of the officer how it happened that he was down there in the road.
The lieutenant presented a ludicrous appearance, bare-headed and in his mud bedraggled uniform as he saluted and explained: “You see Cap’n,” said he “I lost me latitude and longitude when I left the bridge.” The captain laughed. The men shouted and ever after that he was known as “old latitude and longitude.”
FAKING DISABILITY.
In a regiment of 1,000 men it is not to be wondered at that there are some few who are deficient in the qualities that make good soldiers.
Perhaps they had enrolled their names because they had been carried away by the enthusiasm ofa “war meeting” where it was always pictured out as being an act of heroism to volunteer. Then the chances of promotion and the opportunities to see the country were always depicted in their most glowing colors by speakers who in most cases were very careful to not put their own names down. After the recruit has become an atom of a thousand he realizes that he is not of as much consequence as he expected to be, and it is not strange that now and then there was one who had not the “sand” to stand up like a man and be just as good a soldier as he could. In that case he resorted to all sorts of ingenious devices to procure his discharge from the army.
In the summer of 1862 our surgeon—we used to call him “Old Symptoms”—was puzzled by the numerous cases of fever sores that he had to treat; finally he “got onto” their game by the accidental discovery of a man wearing a copper penny bound on his leg for the purpose of producing one. “Weak heart” was frequently feigned by a candidate for discharge and all sorts of deceptions were attempted on the surgeons, who had to be pretty good judges of human nature in order to detect the true from the false.
The case of a man in our regiment, whom we will call Jackson, baffled the cunning and skill of “Old Symptoms” when we were in the forts near Fairfax seminary. Jackson pretended to be out of his head and the officers got so they did notexact any duties of him, not even to answer roll call. He came and went and did as he had a mind to. Near the fort was a large farm which he pretended he had bought and he used to spend most of his time down there working and ordering about the men, who humored him in his notions. Finally his case was passed upon by a board of surgeons and his discharge ordered. As he was leaving camp for home one of the boys asked him what he was going to do with his farm and he winked as he replied, that he thought the Watkins family could run it without his help.
I recall the case of another young man who became demented. He would not eat or leave his tent unless driven out. His clothes and person became filthy and finally the old surgeon ordered two men to take him to a stream and give him a good scrubbing in almost ice cold water, for it was in a winter month.
The treatment was severe but had the desired effect of arousing his manhood and from that day he was a changed person and soon became a model soldier, noted for clean gun, equipment, etc., and I am pleased to add was finally made a sergeant and served to the end of the war with honor.
AN ACT OF HEROISM.
When Frederick Funston swam the little Filipino river in the face of a handful of cowardly natives, the act was heralded all over the worldas one of great heroism and he was rewarded by a general’s commission, yet I venture to say that there is hardly a civil war veteran, who saw active service, but that has knowledge of numerous equally as heroic acts that were scarcely known of outside of the man’s own company or regiment.
Scarcely a gathering of veterans but has more than one hero among them whose fame has been forgotten except but for a few of his comrades, and the chances are that the man has had hard work to get the government to recognize his claim to a pittance of a pension to keep him out of the poor house.
I recall an incident of great bravery by an officer of our regiment who went to the war as a bugler in my company. In December, 1864, a part of the 5th and 2d corps, and Gen. Gregg’s division of cavalry were sent to the left again to try and turn Lee’s right flank. The weather was intensely cold for that country, ice forming on all of the streams.
The enemy were encountered at Hatcher’s Run and it was desired to dislodge a confederate battery that was masked in some woods on the opposite side of the stream. A staff officer rode down in front of our regiment and asked Maj. Hulser if he could furnish men to cross the stream and charge the battery. The major called for volunteers and the first man to respond was Capt. Orlando T. Bliss of Co. F, a former Carthage boy,who with the missiles flying thick and fast stepped out in front of his company and asked all who were willing to go with him to step ten paces to the front, and when every man of the company lined up with their captain the 2nd heavy applauded the act with a hearty cheer.
Additional volunteers were called for and Capt. George Armes (now Major Armes, retired, of Washington, D. C.), and his company responded.
It seemed a hazardous undertaking but the men did not falter as they waded into the icy cold water which was up to the armpits of most of them and in many places there were deep holes, so that not a few had to swim, but once across the stream they made a rush for the battery and the rebel artillerists took to their heels.
The suffering of the soldiers was great that night, as it was bitter cold and the clothing of those who forded the stream would have frozen on them only that the men built fires and stood around them.
Gen. Miles commended the conduct of the men in general orders and the two officers were breveted for their gallantry.
In this connection I cannot refrain from relating a little episode in the army experience of Capt. Bliss in which a certain drummer boy was mixed up.
It was earlier in the war and our regiment was doing duty at Arlington.
Bliss was a corporal and had charge of our drum corps. One day the acting drum major and a certain lad of my acquaintance thought they would go over to Washington. When they applied to the adjutant for a pass he told them they would have to defer their visit until some other day, as he could not issue any more passes that day, but who ever knew a boy that would put off a pleasure until to-morrow that he could have today. The two boys had friends in the quartermaster’s department who had standing passes to go after supplies, and it occurred to them that they could borrow a couple, which they did, and went to the city, visited the theatre, and had a fine time.
Not having the countersign they had to return before dark, and as they walked up to the sentry box at the end of the bridge on the Georgetown side, who should step out with the sentry but our adjutant.
It is needless to say that the boys were surprised and the officer admitted he was also. He inquired if they had passes and when they were produced he took them and sent the young volunteers over to the fort under arrest.
Shortly after noon the next day the sergeant major took the youngest lad over to the colonel’s tent where he listened to a severe lecturing, after which he was made to do penance by standing on the head of a barrel four hours in the sun. Say,but the end of a barrel is a pretty small space to stand on for that length of time with the sun up in the nineties! Among the orders read on dress parade that night was one reducing Corp. Bliss to the ranks.
But a more fearless man never shouldered a musket and shortly after we went to the front Bliss had won his stripes again. At Cold Harbor he was made a sergeant, at Petersburg a lieutenant, at Reams Station a captain, at Hatcher’s Run brevet major and if the war had lasted long enough and some rebel bullet had not caught him he would have been wearing a star.
BRAVE PETE BOYLE A DRUMMER BOY FROM THE BOWERY.
As I passed a man in City Hall park, New York, late one afternoon not many years ago I instinctively felt that I had known him. He was sitting on one of the park seats and the particular thing that arrested my attention was a red clover shaped badge that was fastened on the lapel of his coat. To one who was with Hancock at Gettysburg or followed his lead from the Rapidan to Appomattox, tender memories are evoked when the old 2d corps’ badge is seen.
Whenever I see a man with the talismanic emblem on I just feel like taking off my hat to him. So after I had passed the New York veteran I thought to myself I should like to knowsomething of his history. I wheeled about, retraced my steps and approaching him saluted and said, “How are you, old 2d corps.”
It does not take long for two veterans to get acquainted and the exchange of a few words revealed the fact that we had been members of the same regiment. In fact it was none other than “Pete” Boyle, a member of our old 2d heavy drum corps.
One of the first things “Pete” said was, “Do you remember that Maryland fair?” I certainly did and will try and tell the readers something about it.
It was just a town fair and not on a very large scale either, but it was held in a beautiful and prosperous settlement a few miles from Washington and the people all turned in and made the most of it and had a glorious time. The drum corps of the 2d New York was engaged as one of the star attractions.
It all came about because our adjutant married a daughter of Mrs. E. D. E. N. Southworth, the famous writer of those old-time fascinating Ledger stories, such as the “Hidden Hand,” “Ishmael,” etc., etc. Her home was in Georgetown and she, having friends out in the country, where the fair was to be held had told marvelous tales of the dandy drum corps of the 2d and as a result we were excused from camp duties and allowed to go to the fair, drinkred lemonade and dance with the pretty country maidens. We thoroughly enjoyed the respite from camp life and made the most of our two days’ stay with the Marylanders.
Did you ever go out into a peach orchard in the early morning and eat the luscious fruit that had dropped off in the night? “No?” Well, then you have never tasted the true flavor of a peach. The house where we were quartered was flanked on three sides by a peach orchard and we got up in the morning, went out and sat under the trees and stowed away peaches enough to stock a fruit stand.
Pete Boyle was the largest boy of the drum corps and he was a born swell. His home was New York. He had been a newsboy in the Bowery district. He was a clog and jig dancer equal to many of the professionals and when it came to sparring and wrestling he was the champion lightweight of the regiment.
After Pete had taken part in one “Virginia reel” which gave him the opportunity to show off some of his fancy steps he could have had anything he wanted from those Maryland farmers, and the girls, why they were just falling over each other to get a chance to dance with him.
As I have stated, Pete was a swell and would never wear government clothes without having them cut over and made to fit, and he would nothide his shapely No. 5 foot with a government brogan.
The girls were all watching Pete from out of the corners of their eyes, but it was noticed that one in particular was his favorite and that he danced with her quite frequently, which was not looked upon with favor by her Maryland escort who was big enough to eat Pete up.
The morning of the second day while we were out in the peach orchard a darkey approached our party and asking for “Mistah Boyle” handed Pete a note which after looking over, Pete read to us. It was in substance as follows:
“Mr. Peter Boyle:
I thought you might like to know, being as you are a Union soldier, that the young lady you have been paying so much attention to is a secesh sympathizer and has a brother with Mosby the rebel guerilla. A word to the wise is sufficient.
“JOE YARDSLEY.”
Of course I am not giving the real name that was signed but it will answer for the purpose of this article.
Pete called the darkey, gave him a quarter and said, “You can go and tell Joe Yardsley that I said that if he was half a man he would be with Sue’s brother. Tell him that I think he is a sneak and a coward and if he will come over in the grove about 5 o’clock this afternoon I will slap his face.”
The darkey showed his white teeth, scratchedhis head and digging his big toe in the sand said, “I reckon I bettah not tole dat to Joe. Dem Yardsleys got a powerful temper, dey hab, an’ dey boss all de young fellahs’ roun’ yere.”
“All right, Sam,” said Pete, “You tell him just what I told you.”
That afternoon Pete and Sue were inseparable. They made themselves conspicuous everywhere.
The darkey brought Pete another note during the day and it simply said, “I will meet you in the grove. J. Y.”
Of course all of us boys went over with Pete and the Marylander brought three companions.
The two principals stripped to the waist and I confess I was fearful of the result when I saw how much larger Pete’s antagonist was than he.
When they got the word Yardsley made a spring at Pete who dropped his head and butted the big fellow below the wind and slid him over his back. He got up and came furiously at our Pete again. But he knew a lot of Bowery tricks and quick as a flash stepped aside, caught him around the neck, whirled him around and threw him, slapped his face smartly and then let him up. The fellow rushed at Pete again, who now thought it about time to quit fooling, and he landed a good hard blow on the fellow’s nose and mouth which staggered him and made the blood fly.
The spectators on both sides thought that the affair had gone far enough and called for a cessationof hostilities. Pete offered to shake hands with his antagonist, but he declined and went away muttering threats.
That evening we started for our Virginia camp in a large carry-all accompanied by a bevy of young people on horseback. They rode with us a couple of miles and then bade us good night and good bye, and as we drove away we heard them singing, “Maryland, My Maryland.”
When I sat down to write of my old comrade it was to tell of two deeds of heroism performed by him and not of his adventures at a country fair, but when I unrolled my knapsack of war memories, the incidents narrated came tumbling out with the rest so I have jotted them down.
A HERO OF WAR AT COLD HARBOR.
A drummer boy of our regiment who was carrying a musket was wounded and left between the lines. There were many others of our comrades there, too, but somehow to us drummer boys who had beaten the reveille and tattoo together and tramped at the head of the regiment so many long and wearisome marches, the thought that one of our number was lying out there in the blazing June sun suffering not only pain but the terrible agony of thirst, stirred our sympathies to the uttermost and we longed to go to his relief, but dared not for it was like throwing one’s life away to show himself over the breastworks.
It was late in the afternoon that Peter Boyle, “our Pete,” suggested a plan by which our comrade was rescued. Pete cut three or four scrub pine trees which abounded there and proposed that he and a couple of others should use them as a screen and go out between the lines.
“Why not wait till dark and go?” someone asked. But then it was feared he could not be found.
The bushes were set over the breastworks one at a time so as not to attract attention and as there were many more growing like them they were probably not noticed. When the evening twilight came on Pete and two others crawled over the breastworks and got behind the trees. Each had a couple of canteens of water for they knew that there would be many to whom a mouthful would be so very acceptable.
The three boys crawled and wriggled themselves toward the rebel lines shielded by the trees. Their movements necessarily had to be very slow so as not to attract the attention of the enemy. The ruse was well planned and executed, but fraught with much danger. They found their comrade and had to lie behind their shelter until darkness concealed their movements, and then the wounded comrade was brought into the lines and his life saved.
A HERO OF PEACE.
Boyle performed a more heroic act at a New York fire in the Bowery a few years ago.
One afternoon a fire broke out in a block, the two upper stories of which were used as a “sweat shop.” Boyle was playing the drums in the orchestra of an adjoining theatre. He, with others, ran up on to the roof and saw scores of girls who had been working in the burning building, running frantically around the roof. The flames had cut them off from the lower part of the building and they had gone to the roof, but as the block was higher than all of the adjoining ones except the theatre and that was separated by the space of several feet, it seemed that they were lost and many flung themselves in despair to the street.
Boyle took in the situation instantly and calling to his aid two men they wrested an iron fire escape from its fastenings on the theatre and with it bridged the space between the buildings.
Pete then laid a board on top of it and finding that many of the girls dare not cross, he took a rope with him, and went over on the burning building, threw one end back to his helpers and then compelled the girls to walk over the bridge, using the rope as a hand rail. His bravery and nerve saved the lives of very many who but for him would have been lost.
He was the last one to leave the roof of the building and was so badly burned that he had to go to the hospital, and when I met him that day in the park he was just getting around again.
Peter Boyle probably never attended a Sundayschool in his life, but I am glad that my faith is of the kind that helps me to believe that when the Book of Life is opened there will be found a balance to his credit.
A COMRADE IN GRAY.
While attending a G. A. R. encampment at Washington not many years ago, a party of us thought we would run over to the sleepy old town of Alexandria one afternoon.
Grass was growing in the streets and the town had a deserted appearance, all so very different from war times, when thousands of soldiers were in and about the city. Among other places of interest we visited was the little church where Washington used to worship. Sitting on the steps was a dusty, grizzly, crippled man of 60, munching a dry crust of bread. He was dressed in a threadbare suit of gray, and we knew he was a southerner, but as we passed into the church he gave us a military salute.
When we came out he was still nibbling away, trying to find the soft side of his bread, and one of our party ventured the remark that “dry bread wasn’t much of a meal.”
“That’s so, but when rations are low and the commissary wagons are to the rear, you’ve got to fill up on what you can get. I’ve camped longside of dry bread and water more’n once.”
“Going anywhere?”
“Well, I reckon I be if my old legs don’t give out. Got a brother over on the Eastern Sho’ of Maryland and I am marching that way.”
“Were you in the war?”
“I reckon I was, boys, but on ’tother side. Ah, but I can shet my eyes and see jist how Gineral Pickett looked when he led us agin your 2d corps, (he had noticed the red clover leaf pinned on our coats) over at Gettysburg on that 3d of July. Say, Yanks, but ’twere bilin’ that afternoon. How one of us got back alive is more’n I can tell.”
The survivor of the “Lost cause” had by this time forgotten all about his rations. He was living again in the past. Like a tired old war horse at the sound of a bugle, he had risen from the steps and the light of battle flamed in his eye as he continued:
“Yes, boys, I was right there with Pickett—not coolin’ coffee back under the wagons, or I wouldn’t hev got two of your bullets in me, nor been jabbed with a bay’net trying to get over the stone wall near that clump of trees. Lord, but I thought I was a goner sure.”
We acknowledged it was a hot place.
“Hot! Well I reckon I got ’bout as near old satan’s headquarters that day as a live man can. When 37 out of a company of 50 are snuffed out and a half a dozen of the others wounded you may reckon we thought you’uns were going to wipe we ’uns out.”
He now tossed his crust away with a look of contempt and, grasping his hickory stick with a firm grip, followed us to a nearby restaurant, where we invited him to a good square meal, after which we smoked our cigars while the survivor of Pickett’s charge continued his narrative as he sipped a generous glass of apple brandy.
We held our breath waiting for the signal guns that were to let us know when the ball was to open.
The regiments fell in just like clockwork, lots of the boys lookin’ white round the gills, and not a word was spoken above a whisper except as the commands were given. Attention! Forward! and we went down across those fields, with Pickett leading on horseback and every company dressed as though we were marching in a review.
“Boom! Boom! You’ns let ’em all off on us at once. Say, Yanks, the screamin’ of the grape and cannister was awful, and they just cut wide swaths in our ranks, but we didn’t quit—did we—until we were all cut to pieces?”
“We were close to your lines when I got a bullet in my leg and as I stooped over to see where I was hit my shoulder caught another. That made me fighting mad and I tried to go over the stone wall when one of them Irish brigade fellers chucked his bay’net into me and that laid me out so that I was off duty awhile.
“But dog-goned if I didn’t get back just in time to run up against your old second corps againat Spottsylvania. Kinder seems we couldn’t git away from you’ns. But, comrades, I ain’t got nuthin’ agin you.
“Say, that ‘bloody angle,’ reminded me of Gettysburg. The bullets made basket stuff of the small oaks, and large ones, too.”
“And when we charged up against them log breastworks you fellers would jest reach over and jab us with your bay’nets.”
“My, but your man Grant was no quitter, was he? We thought we were going to drive you fellers back ’cross the Rapidan, as we had done many times before, but Ulysses jist shut his teeth down tighter on his cigar and kept moving by the left flank.
“But our Uncle Robert wasn’t caught napping anywhere, was he? When you tried us at the Pamunky river, Totopotomy, North Anna and Cold Harbor, you found us ready for you every time. Say, old second corps, we got even with you fellers at Cold Harbor for the way you had treated us before. Didn’t we?
“But I’m dog-goned if U. S. G. knew when he was whipped, and, instead of going back and restin’ up as the others useter do, and come out in the spring with new uniforms and guns a-shinin’, why he jist tried another left flanker on us and brought up at Petersburg, where it was nip and tuck for a long time.
“You could get plenty of men and money andwe had got the last of the boys and their grandfathers months before and were busted in everything but grit. We knew the jig was up, but were goin’ to die game, and when you rounded us up at Appomattox the last ounce of corn meal wer’ gone.”
The veteran’s eyes were moist as he expressed thanks for his entertainment and said he must be “marchin’ on.” We suggested that he would probably find his brother in Maryland, settle down and forget his hardships and battles.
“Forgit nuthin; why I’d rather lose my arms than to forgit how Gen. Pickett looked that day as 5,000 men behind him marched to death. When you keep step with a man down to the jaws of death and go back alone, if you forgit him ye are not fit to crawl! But, I ain’t anything agin ye, Yanks; ‘All is quiet on the Potomac’ now and if I git in comfortable quarters over in Maryland should like to have you boys come and camp with me a week and eat some of them luscious Eastern Sho’ oysters, canvas backs and fat terrapin.”
As we shook his hand we pressed a few silver quarters in the palm and when he started away he turned and with a husky voice said:
“Good bye, old second corps; I’m dog-goned if I’ll ever forgit you’ns.”
A PRECIOUS COFFEE POT.
Not many years since I spent a night with acomrade in his home in a city of central New York and we sat and smoked and talked, and talked and smoked, until long after midnight. The walls of his den were adorned with guns, sabres, canteens, cartridge boxes and belts and various other war relics. Conspicuously displayed among the other decorations was a battered and blackened coffee pot.
“Yes,” he replied in answer to my inquiry, “it is the same old coffee pot I carried from Washington to Appomattox and is one of my most cherished keepsakes.”
“About the time we went to the front I was in the city one day and knowing that a coffee pot was a very useful utensil to a soldier I invested in the best copper bottom one that I could find. There was not another one in the company and money could not buy one when we were in the field. Six of us regularly made coffee in it, and others used to take turns in borrowing it for various purposes, such as cooking rice, beans, meat, boiling shirts and the making of those famous old ‘Liverpool stews’ when we were fortunate enough to get an onion, two or three potatoes with hardtack, pepper and salt.”
“Many a batch of flap jacks have I stirred up in that old coffee pot, paying the sutler 25 cents a pound for self-rising flour. The ears and handle got melted off after a time, but I punched holes where the ears had been, hooked the bale in andso it lasted to the end. My wife wanted to scour the black off, but I wouldn’t have it.
“Why, it took the smoke of more than a thousand camp fires to put that finish on it!
“I thought once I had lost it. You remember the day we had that running fight at Sailor’s Creek when we were chasing Lee and waded the stream waist deep? The banks were steep, you know, and fringed with bushes that got tangled with our equipments as we went through them. Well, somehow or other my coffee pot got pulled off my haversack, but I did not know it until we had got some distance away, when one of the boys who used it regularly, exclaimed: ‘By thunder, Will, you’ve lost your coffee pot, and what in Sam Hill will we do for coffee now?’”
“I remembered having it when we crossed the creek, for several of us used it to fill our canteens, so I told my pardner I was going back after it. I found it hanging to a bush and was better pleased than if I had picked up a hundred dollar greenback.”
ARMY CHAPLAINS.
Just why the 2d New York did not have a chaplain I do not know, and it is too late now to find out. Probably the officers didn’t want one or else there were not enough to go around among the 2,000 or more organizations in the service, for we were not the only regiment without one.
There were some grand men who served as chaplains and they not only ministered to the soldiers in spiritual matters, but looked after the welfare of the men in many ways. Particularly were they of service to the wounded on the battlefield. I never heard of a cowardly chaplain and instances are not few in number where they were wounded or taken prisoner. There were also several killed in battle.
Speaking of a regiment not having a chaplain, reminds me of an old camp fire story about two New York regiments between which existed great rivalry. An earnest and eloquent chaplain was conducting a series of meetings among the regiments that were without chaplains and he went to the colonel of one of the regiments referred to and asked permission to hold divine services. The colonel told him it would do no good. “The truth is, chaplain, the boys are the devil’s own fighters, but I am afraid you would find it a tough job trying to make saints out of them.”
The chaplain insisted he should like to hold a service and mentioned incidentally that he had preached several times to the ——d New York and there had been a number of converts. “Why only last Sunday I baptized a dozen of them.”
At the mention of his rival the bluff old fighter was interested and immediately gave his consent.
The Sunday following the regiment was drawn up in a hollow square and the colonel told the menthat he had invited chaplain “so-and-so” to preach to them and then added: “If one of you dares to make faces, laugh or even move I’ll order you to the guard house with ball and chain.”
The men were all attention during the preaching and when the chaplain had finished he was surprised to hear the colonel give the following order to the adjutant:
“Officer, detail 24 men for baptism immediately. I’ll be d—d if we are going to be beaten in anything by that dirty, cowardly —d New York.”
A SENTINEL’S REVERIE.
The lonely picket on an outpost between two vast contending armies occupies an important position. Great responsibilities rest upon him, hence the penalty of being found asleep on one’s post used to be death.
The situation is conducive to serious meditations. You stand in the shade of a tree which screens you from any reb who may be crawling about for a shot at some careless Yank.
The moon sends a beam through the leaves right into your eye, and you recall that it is the same old moon way down in Virginia that used to shine up in York State. You think how you and some one else who is far away used to lean across the gate, look at the moon and then at each other and sigh.
Then you wonder if some one is thinking of you.You wish you might get a slight wound so you could go home where all would be talking of your bravery. Perhaps it would touch some one’s heart so she would say “yes.”
Then you would think of your present condition; you wonder why it is that such a fellow as lazy Jim Lee should be “commissioned” instead of you, who never “shirked” a guard. You pronounce the war a failure, and would like to see the leaders on both sides hung. You wonder if your regiment will get into another battle to-day, and say to yourself that you don’t care if you get killed (you do though), and then you think of your poor comrade “Dave,” who was killed at your side yesterday morning in a charge on the enemy in that clump of “pines” over there at the right. You put your hand in your pocket and draw forth the lock of hair you cut from his head when his life’s blood was ebbing away, andwhichhe told you to send to his “dear old mother.” You brush the silent tear away that has commenced to course its way down your dust covered cheek.
Then from out the half-light sounds a solitary bugle, like the first wavering note of the roused bird, chirping good morning to its mate. A second bugle answers itsreveille. Another and another sound along the line. The drums take up their morning rattle. Soon the air is filled with their deafening jubilee, for they beat with a perfect recklessness at the “get up” time of the camp. Thehum of voices begin to rise. The roll call is gone through with. Mules whinner and horses neigh. The camps are alive. The birds sing, and—it is day. There comes the “relief guard.”
A LETTER FROM THE FRONT.
The following is the copy of an old letter yellow with age, that was sent home during wartime.
“In the trenches near Petersburg, Va.“Sept. 14, 1864.”
“My Dear Friend:
Having a little leisure time I thought I would send you a few lines.
You are aware that I am attached to the 2d N. Y. Heavy Artillery, or as the infantrymen call it, the “2d Weighty.” 1st brigade, 1st division, 2d Corps, under the command of Gen. Hancock; one of the finest looking soldiers in this or any other army, and what is better the boys all love him, and he is proud of his men. If you have kept track of the movements of the army of the Potomac I need not tell you the part that Hancock and his men have had in them.
We are now in camp about midway between City Point and Ream’s Station, and the corps is recruiting up very rapidly. The recruits and convalescents are pouring in by thousands, and we shall soon have a grand army again, and then look out for the splinters. Johnny Reb must talk differentlyor find his last ditch. The impression here seems to gain ground that the rebellion is about played out, and that there will be but few more months of fighting. Within the past few days the City Point railroad has been extended several miles on our left, and where a few days since no signs of a track were visible, large trains are running regularly. It is certainly very astonishing; but that is a way they have of doing business down here.
Ten or twelve days since, our corps was ordered to the left of where we now are. Arrived there after dark, and halted on a flat open space with a fine pine wood on our left. In the morning the woods had almost entirely disappeared, and in our front a splendid line of breastworks had sprung up as if by magic. Those who have never been in the business can have no correct conception of how quickly and how quietly an order is executed at the front. Our new railroad runs but a few rods in front of our camp, and it seems like old times to see the trains moving, and to hear the whistle and bell. This forenoon all the bands and drum corps of the division were ordered to report to division headquarters, which we did. Numbering in all about one hundred and seventy-five, and under the leadership of Mr. Higgins, of the division band, played “Hail to the Chief,” and “Hail, Columbia,” after which the brass bands played the “Grand March from Belsaria,” “GarryOwen,” “Larry O’Gaff” and “Yankee Doodle,” and if there was any lack of harmony there certainly was not of noise. We were then dismissed, with an invitation to repeat the thing at some future day.
The weather here is delightful, the days warm and pleasant, and the nights cool enough to make blankets necessary. As fast as the new recruits arrive they are set to drilling, and you can see them in all directions going through the different evolutions, and it will take but a short time to have the corps in fine trim for anything that soldiers can do, and so with the whole army. So you may look out for stirring news shortly. Speaking of news, reminds me of the many complaints of the boys.—They cannot get enough to read, and would be very thankful for anything in the way of old books, magazines and papers, in fact anything which contains stories would be very acceptable, and a few books and magazines would afford reading for several hundred, and while away many a tedious hour. If it is not asking too much, won’t some of the friends of the 2d Heavy do something for the boys? They have not been paid off for the last six months, and many of them have not seen any money for a still longer time, and there is no telling when they will be paid, and there are few who have the means to purchase the WashingtonChronicle, New YorkHerald, or PhiladelphiaEnquirer, which are brought to camp daily.
President Lincoln visited the front a short time ago and rode along our lines accompanied by Generals Grant and Meade. They were without any staff officers with them and only had three orderlies. The President wore a black tile that had seen much service and had on a long linen duster, and was an awkward looking man on his horse. But the boys love “Uncle Abe” as they call him and when the party passed us one of our boys enthusiasm got the best of him and he sang out “three cheers for honest Abe,” and they were given in true army style. The President lifted his hat and looked mightily pleased.
If Grant was like some of the new brigadiers he would have had about 25 staff officers and orderlies following him, but U. S. G. is not much on style. He keeps right on sawing wood though all the same.
“Old Spectacles” as Gen. Meade is called, is Grant’s right bower, and is virtually the commander of the Army of the Potomac. Like Grant he is a silent man, too, although they do say that he makes the fur fly when things don’t go to suit him.
My chum is the cook to-day and has just called out “get ready for grub.” We are to have an extra dish and you will laugh when I tell you the name. It is called “slumgullion” by the boys, andis made by pounding up hard tack which with chopped onions fried with salt pork makes an appetizing dish fit for a king. My chum has also set up a can of peaches which he paid the sutler 75 cents for, so I will cut this short.
THE FIGHTING REGIMENTS.
Statistics are considered dry reading and the writer has not bothered the readers of his sketches with many, but they do tell the story better than pen or tongue.
There were something over 2,000 regiments in the Union Army. Some never participated in a battle; others were constantly at the front. Perhaps they were no better fighters than those who were exempt from battle, but in war blood is what tells, therefore the casualty lists tell plainer than words whether a regiment was where the bullets were flying thick and fast or not.
Col. Fox, the government statistician found that of the 2,000 there were 300 whose losses of killed and died of wounds were over 130, and he has called these the “300 fighting regiments.” A conservative estimate of the wounded is six to one, so the reader can easily figure out what the total casualties of these regiments probably were.
There were about 50 regiments out of the 300 “fighting regiments” that lost in killed or mortally wounded over 200.
The regiment that heads the list, both in thetotal and percentage was the 1st Maine Heavy artillery. Their total was 423. Their loss at Spottsylvania was 82 killed and 394 wounded. A month later at Petersburg they made the assault with 900 muskets and their casualty list was 632.
The New York regiment that suffered the greatest loss of killed was the old 69th, of the Irish brigade. Their total was 259.
A LOSS NEVER EQUALED.
In proportion to the number of men engaged, the greatest loss to any one regiment during the Civil War was that of the 1st Minnesota at Gettysburg. Gen. Hancock was desirous of holding back a column of confederates until reinforcements could be brought against them and, turning to the colonel of the regiment, he ordered him to capture the enemy’s colors. The command was obeyed literally, and the enemy was forced back, leaving their banners in the hands of the Minnesotians. The regiment took into the fight 262 officers and men. It lost 50 killed and 174 wounded and none missing. Seventeen officers were killed and wounded. Here is a record that has not as yet been equalled in military statistics. Gen. Hancock said it was the most gallant deed of history. He knew the men must be sacrificed when he issued the order, but he needed five minutes time and would have ordered the regiment if he had known every man would have been killed.
Probably the most remarkable loss on either side during the Civil War was that of the 26th North Carolina at Gettysburg. They took into the fight 820 men. Of this number 588 were killed and wounded the first day. The survivors went into the charge with Pickett the third day, and when the roll was called the next day but 80 men were present. All of the rest had been either killed or wounded.
Another remarkable case was that of Duryea’s Zouaves at Manassas, or Bull Run. Out of 490 men who went into action it lost 79 killed, 170 wounded and 48 missing; total 297. This is the regiment which closed up its ranks and “counted off” anew while exposed to a terrific fire.
The following nine heavy artillery regiments lost over 200 killed and died of wounds.
First Maine, 2d corps, 423; 8th New York, 2d corps, 361; 7th New York, 2d corps, 291; 2d Connecticut, 6th corps, 254, 1st Massachusetts, 2d corps, 241, 2d Pennsylvania, 9th corps 233; 14th New York 9th corps, 226; 2d New York, 2d corps 214; 9th New York, 6th corps, 204.
Naturally the writer is proud of the fact that his old regiment stands high on the honor roll. The record of 214 killed in battle tells the story, plainer than words, that the 2d New York Heavy Artillery were where the bullets were flying thick and fast.
BOUND FOR THE LAND OF FREEDOM.
The negro contrabands that flocked to our lines during the closing days of the struggle furnished a great deal of amusement to the soldiers. In their hasty flight for freedom they picked up the very articles that were of little use to them, even to feather beds, boxes, cotton umbrellas, stovepipe hats and of course every musician his banjo. The girls wore huge hoop skirts which were then in vogue, and many had on flounced silk dresses that had evidently been borrowed from “Missus’ wardrobe.” There was nothing these poor black people would not do for “Massa Lincum soldier men,” whom they fairly worshiped. An old “Mammy” made my chum and I an old fashioned “hoecake” at high bridge, baking it in a skillet which she buried in the coals of a campfire, and it was about the most toothsome morsel I ever ate. Goodness gracious! what would I give for the appetite and digestion of those days.
PRAYER FOR THE C. S. A.
We entered a neat looking church one day, and one of the boys opened an Episcopal prayer book at the altar, and at the “Prayer for All in Authority,” found that the words “the president of the United States” had been cut out, and, folded in the book, was a manuscript copy of prayers for the “Confederate States of America.”
RICHMOND AFTER THE EVACUATION.
Those who have visited this beautiful Virginia city in recent years have no idea of the appearance of the place after it was evacuated by the Confederates. Lee’s message of April 2, telling Jefferson Davis that “my lines are broken in three places, Richmond must be evacuated this evening,” found Mr. Davis in church. He quietly withdrew, and the fate of the city was soon noised about the streets, which became filled with men, wagons and negroes carrying trunks and bundles of every description.
After the departure of President Davis and others of the Confederate government, Gen. Ewell issued orders for the burning of the large warehouses of the city, and thus a great conflagration was started that threatened to lay in ashes all of the business structures.
The city council met and decided to destroy every drop of liquor in town, and at midnight committees of citizens visited every ward and rolled hundreds of barrels of whisky into the streets, and, knocking the heads out, the gutters were flooded. The shipping at the wharves was fired and pandemonium reigned complete for 24 hours.
The Union forces entered the city the next day and proceeded to restore order.
A few days later the writer accompanied a party of officers to the city, going by way of City Pointand up the James river by boat, past formidable forts and earthworks that had swarmed with Confederate soldiers ten days before, now deserted. The cannon that had hardly cooled off for over nine months were now silent. White tents that had sheltered the enemy stood as lonely sentinels for the “Lost Cause.”
There were many points of interest, such as the famous Howlett house battery, Butler’s Dutch Gap canal, the “Crow’s Nest,” a lookout station, Haxall’s landing where the exchange of prisoners used to take place. The river was full of mines and torpedoes, and the thought that every minute might be our last was anything but pleasant.
The defenses of the City of Richmond appeared to have been impregnable, if the confederates could have kept a sufficient force there to man them. Every elevation about the city had a fort, and there were two lines of abatis and three separate lines of rifle pits and earthworks encircling the city. No attacking army can ever carry by direct assault a city so fortified, if the army within is anywhere equal in numbers to that on the outside and has supplies to subsist upon. It used to be reckoned that the troops that assaulted a fortified position must lose five or more men to one of those defending the works.
LIBBY PRISON.
The name of which was quite enough to give a Union soldier the cold chills, was filled withConfederates the day we were there. The blue and the gray had exchanged places. We being human, were much pleased to see the rebels peering out through the grated windows with the Union sentries pacing up and down around the building.
The bridges leading out of the city had mostly been destroyed, also the great warehouses, the postoffice, the treasury, the leading banks, and, in fact, the heart of the city had been burned out and the ruins were smoldering when we were there. The street where the treasury and war department had been was knee deep with official papers and records that had been thrown out.
We wandered through the deserted State house, the capitol of the confederacy, and the writer has a piece of the upholstering taken from the chair that was presented to the speaker of the Confederate congress by English sympathizers.
The home of Jefferson Davis was used as the headquarters of Gen. Weitzel, who commanded the forces that entered the city after its evacuation.
President Lincoln, who was at City Point during Grant’s final operations against Lee, went up to Richmond the next day after the city fell and held a levee in the house that had been occupied by Jeff Davis two days before. Thousands of black people crowded the streets to welcome and bless their emancipator, and it became necessary to use military force to clear the streets so that Lincoln could pass. His personal safety was fearedfor when he proposed the visit, but no insult was offered him, and two days later he repeated his visit, accompanied by Mrs. Lincoln, several United States senators and Vice-President Johnson. Eight days later he was assassinated in Washington, and the South lost the best friend they could have had in the pacification and reconstruction days that were to come, for the heart of the great Lincoln was free from all bitterness and resentment towards his erring brothers.
BILL’S LAST FIGHT.
William Slater and Eber Ponto were among the best soldiers of our company. Neither had ever shirked a duty and, having kept step side by side for three years, were the closest of comrades. In fact, I believe either would have walked into the jaws of death for the other.
Ponto lived to see the end of the war and came home wearing a sergeant’s chevrons, while Slater was left sleeping on a hillside at Petersburg.
Ponto was a Frenchman and in after years, at a reunion of the regiment, he told us the circumstances of Bill’s death in about the following words:
“Remember dat charge at Petersburg, boys? ’Twas a beeg fight, I’ll never forget dat night when we wer’ lyin’ behind dat stone wall waitin’ for mornin’ to come.”
“I don’t lak dat waitin’ round’ for a fight. Ze Frenchman he lak de word an’ de blow together.
“Well, Bill and I were smokin’ our laurel root pipes and I notis Bill wer’ keepin’ mighty quiet lak he doin’ a heap of thinkin’—of course he never say much, tain’t his way. Fin’ly he look up an he say, Ebe, ole’ boy, dere goin’ to be a hot time in ze mornin’ an’ ’twill be my las’ fight.”
“I say ’pshaw, Billee boy, guess you bin soke up too much dat air Chickahominy malaria over at Cole Harbor las’ week’—cause you know boys when you git dat in your bones it mak’ everything look blue even to your finger nails.
“Bill he say, ‘no, I’m all right, but something tell me dat if you’re alive tomorrow night you’ll be smokin’ alone.’
“Then I say to Bill, ‘You just lay low in de mornin’ an’ I’ll tell them you’r sick an’ get you excuse from dis scrap.’ An’ Bill he say, ‘Ebe, you never knew me to ‘flunk’ did you? Well, I’m not goin’ to do it now. Where you an’ old Co. H go I’m goin’, but promis’ me, Ebe, that you’ll keep close to me and if I’m killed I want you to take my watch an’ always carry it,’ an’ I promis’, an’ we shake hands for I lak Bill and he lak me.
“Well ze next mornin’ Col. Whistler he led us up thro’ dat peech orchard; remember dat, boys? Bill and I we touch elbows and say nuthin’. Dem minies go, zip! zip! pretty fas’. I get excited an’ all at once I don’t feel Bill’s elbow touchin’ mine. I look roun’ an’ I see him lyin’ on his face. I turn him over an’ there’s a red spot on hisforehead. I unbutton his shirt an’ feel for his heart; it was stop, an’ mine beat lak a beeg bass drum. I take this watch you see. I close his eyes. I press my lips to his, an’ cover him with my blanket, an’ that was the las’ of poor Bill.”
THE COLONEL AND THE PENSION AGENT.
A man whom we will call Jarvis Jenkins was a member of the same company and regiment as the writer. He served his country well, was wounded in battle and for nearly 25 years has been trying to establish his claim to a pension, but, living in the far west away from all of his old comrades, it has been a hard matter for him to get the testimony to satisfy the department.
One day, some months since there walked into my place of business a gentleman who announced himself a special agent of the pension department, and, after asking my name, age, and if I was the identical person who served as drummer boy in such a company and regiment during the Civil war, the answer being in the affirmative, he then desired to know if I recalled one Jarvis Jenkins, and, if so, could I tell of any particular thing that happened to him. Yes, he received a scalp wound in one of the assaults at Petersburg. This did not seem to be the information wanted, for sometimes it would seem that the affairs of the pension office are administered somewhat after the manner of the “circumlocution office” described by CharlesDickens in the charming book of “Little Dorrit.” So another tack was taken and the following question propounded: “Did you while at Fort Haggerty, Va., own a revolver?” I admitted that I had once in my life, and only once been the proud possessor of a deadly weapon. Could I tell what became of it?
Answer: “Traded with ‘Lige’ Moyer, our company cook, for a watch, and paid him in boot more than the watch was worth.”
“Now, sir, can it be that you are mistaken and is it not possible that you loaned your revolver to Jarvis Jenkins to hunt rabbits with and that it exploded in his hand, lacerating his fingers badly?”
Answer: “No, sir.”
“Then,” said the government agent, “I must look up another drummer boy of the 2d New York, for it is certain that some one loaned him a revolver which exploded as stated.”
The special agent was a pleasant fellow, and as we smoked a couple of cigars he showed me a great mass of testimony that had been taken in the case and said that he had traveled more than 1,000 miles to interview members of the regiment. “By the way,” he said, “I am going to read you extracts from the testimony of your old lieutenant colonel which I took down in shorthand.”
As near as I remember it ran something like this: “I believe you are Col. Hulser whocommanded the 2d New York in the last months of its service?”
Answer: “The same.”
“What was your previous rank, colonel?”
“Major, captain and lieutenant.”
“Can you give me the dates of your promotions?”
“No.”
“Were you in command of a certain fort in Virginia in 1862?”
“I was.”
“Do you remember of a man being injured on one of the heavy guns in the fort?”
“No.”
“Do you remember a soldier by the name of Jarvis Jenkins?”
“No.”
“Now, colonel, look at this paper and tell me if that is your signature.”
“Well, I should say it was.”
“Now, colonel, will you oblige me by reading the statement you signed many years ago and then tell me how you reconcile that statement with the one you just made to me?”
The colonel was something of a rough diamond but the soul of honor. He was sturdy, honest and blunt. A man who called a spade a spade. He disliked subterfuge or deceit. A fighter from way back, and I can imagine something of theindignation he felt when he got up out of his chair to make reply.
“Say, young man, I’m no highwayman or perjurer. I was fighting my country’s battles when you was nursing a bottle. The lapse of time, and my infirmities, the result of wounds and hardships, do not permit me to remember the names, the color of hair and eyes of several thousand men who were on the rolls of my regiment nearly 40 years ago, but I will have you to understand, sir, that I am no less a gentleman than a soldier and whatever I have put my name to you can bet your bottom dollar is God’s truth, every word of it, and if you dare to stand up before me and intimate otherwise, damn me if I won’t knock you down in a jiffy and walk all over you.”
The government special laughed as he read the interview and rolling the papers up put them in his grip as he remarked: “Say, I rather liked the old veteran after all.”
THE COMPANY COOK.
One of the most important personages of a company was the cook. Even the officers stood in awe of him. What if he did boil his shirts and greasy trousers in the kettle in which he cooked our food, made soup, tea and coffee.
As a result the flavor was somewhat mixed at times, but no one dared to remonstrate with the “son of a sea cook,” for the one that provoked hisdispleasure was sure to suffer in some way. If they punished those whom they disliked they bestowed many favors upon those whom they happened to take a liking to. The writer always stood in well with “Uncle” Hawley, our first cook, who was taken prisoner at Bull Run, and “Lige” Moyer, who succeeded him. Hawley was an elocutionist of no mean ability. “Lige” used to while away his spare moments with a fiddle.
STORY OF THE MUSTER ROLL.
Spread out before me is a copy of the muster-out roll of Co. H, 2d New York heavy artillery, organized at Carthage, N. Y., Oct. 14, 1861, mustered into United States service at Staten Island, Oct. 18, 1861, and disbanded at Hart’s Island, New York harbor, Oct. 10, 1865.
When a regiment was mustered out of service each company was required to hand in a muster-out roll bearing the names of every man who had served in the organization and the particulars of his service were written opposite the name.
The names were grouped under various headings of: “Present at Muster-out,” “Previously Discharged,” “Transferred,” “Deserted,” “Killed in Action,” “Died of Wounds,” “Died of Disease,” etc., etc.
Almost anybody would be interested in looking over an old muster-out roll, but to the man who was a part of the organization, who knew its historyfrom beginning to end and can read between the lines, so to speak, the story told is doubly interesting and in many respects a sad one. Such a reader is carried back to the war and is enabled to vividly recall its thrilling scenes.
He knows who were the best soldiers, who stood in the front rank, who led in the assaults. Likewise he knows who were the skulkers and cowards, for it was an impossibility for a soldier to hide his weaknesses from his comrades.
In scanning the remarks opposite of the names one is brought face to face with the past as in no other way. For instance: “Lieut. William H. Roff, wounded in a charge at Cold Harbor, June 6, 1864, leg amputated, died.” “Lieut. John Clapsaddle, disabled by wounds at Petersburg and discharged.” Another reminder of the desperate fighting at Cold Harbor is the name of an old schoolmate, “Henry C. Potter,” “wounded June 6,” “died Aug. 2, 1864.” Under the group of “killed in action,” I read “Roscoe Williamson, killed at Cold Harbor, June 6,” and I recall a bright, rosy cheeked young fellow that was a great favorite.
“George H. Ormiston, taken prisoner at Reams Station, Aug. 25, 1864; died en route north April 9, 1865.” And one shudders as he thinks of the thousands that were literally starved to death in Andersonville and other southern prison pens.
“Second Lieut. O. T. Bliss promoted to firstlieutenant and transferred to Co. F,” recalls one of the bravest of the brave who enlisted as a bugler, exchanged his trumpet for a gun at Bull Run, was captured and later passed through all the various grades of rank from corporal to brevet major.
“Sergt. Franklin B. Farr, mortally wounded at Round Fort, Va., April 7, 1865,” only two days before the surrender of Lee, and one thinks how sad to fall in the last battle of the war with victory and home in sight.