“John Satterly, wounded at Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864,” and I see long John with his peculiar hook-shaped nose which caused one of the boys who was waggishly inclined to suggest that he could make big money picking cherries as he could hang to a limb with his nose and gather the fruit in with both hands. Ever after that John was called “Cherry Picker.”
I pause at the name of “Edwin Smith, mortally wounded at Petersburg, June 16, 1864,” and I recall what he said when being carried to the rear. “Hold on, boys, don’t carry me off without my grub.” Our regiment was lying behind a stone wall supporting a battery that was firing over our heads. Rations had been brought up to us that morning and “Ed” was eating when wounded, and the stretcher bearers were carrying him off without his haversack. He never made a murmurabout his wound but did not want to lose his rations. He was a son of a Watertown tailor and was one of the youngest and smallest boys of our company that carried a musket. There were a number under 18 years of age in the company and they were called the “ponies,” but they could outmarch most of the large heavy men. The “ponies” made up in grit and enthusiasm what they lacked in size.
“Patrick Devereaux, veteran” and I hear the rollicking laugh of as gallant an Irish soldier as ever carried a gun, whose ready wit and cheery disposition made him to Co. H what Dickens’ “Mark Tapley” was to “Martin Chuzzlewit.”
It was Patsy who made Major “Quicker nor that” mark time for him, and Pat who, when our regiment, with fixed bayonets was lying behind the stone wall at Spottsylvania waiting for Ewell’s charge, broke the awful stillness of those few minutes, that seemed like hours, by remarking: “Boys, wouldn’t a little ‘commissary’ taste good about now?”
He was the “Mulvany” of our company and a prime favorite with everybody. “Halt who goes there!” was never spoken by a better soldier than Patrick Devereaux of the 2nd Heavy.
The following letter from my old comrade is characteristic of the man:
PAT’S LETTER.
Troy, N. Y., April 6, 1904.
“Me Little Boy in Blue:”
I see by the papers which somebody has been sendin’ me that our little ‘Sheepskin beater’ of company H has trun down his drum sticks an tuk up a pen an’ is riting’ war stories. I’ve hearn tell that the ‘pen is mightier than the sword’ which was probably true of the ‘toad-stabbers’ carried by the drummer boys durin’ the war. But say, youse lads were great wid the drum sticks, and would make a divil of a racket in the mornin’ whin a fellah wanted to slape.
Many’s the time whin lyin’ so comfortable wid me rubber poncho betwix me an’ the sod, an’ dreamin’ of me darlin’ an’ dear ould Ireland, hev you disturbed me slumbers wid your batin’ of the reveille, and I’ve bin that mad I cud have kicked you an’ your drum into the middle of nex’ week. But whin youse kids led us out on a p’rade to the chune of ‘Rory O’More’ it was like goin’ to a Donnybrook fair so aisy was the marchin’ behind the drum corps of the Second Heavy. If ould Pat does say it you were a foine lot of youngsters, and whin it came to drummin’ youse cud give odds to any drum corps in the 1st division. Say me boy, them were great days, weren’t they? You were but a small kid but I suppose are growin’ grey wid the rest of the ould boys.
Your riferince to me tilt wid Major Roach, who was forever yellin’ out ‘Quicker nor that,’ brings those days back to me mind, an’ it does not seem 40 years ago. Roach an’ some of the other officers we had on the go-in were a quare gang. But that Colonel Whistler from the regulars was all right. Wasn’t he? Jermiah N. G. was a peach an’ he made a good regiment out of us, an’ the Second Heavy made a brigadier out of him by the way they wint for them Jonnies the 16th of June at Petersburg. Say, me blood runs hot whin I think of the mornin’ in the peach orchard whin Whistler led us in that charge.
Dan, me oldest son, wint to the Spanish war and it makes me laf to hear him tell about the hardships at Tampa and the charge of San Wan. One evenin’ he was entertainin’ some of his friends wid riminescences and one of the young ladies said she thought it an outrage for the government to send them home from the war in common every-day coaches. ‘Palace cars were none too good for the soldier boys.’ I agreed with her, but said I remember thet our regiment who saw four years’ service were sint home in box cars with divil a seat or whisp of straw to lie on. I tell Dan that if he had followed Gen. Hancock’s old battle flag with the ace of clubs on it, from Bull Run to Appomattox, stopping occasionally to take a hand in skirmishes like Antietam, Gettysburg, Cold Harbor, Spottsylvania, Petersburg, Reams Station, Five Forks anda few other small affairs, he would know more about war.
The boys were all right though. The trouble in the last war, was, that there was not enough of it to go around.
By the way I think you galloped over the Appomattox campaign a little too lively. It was short and none too sweet, but there was a good bit doin’ in them ten days, and it seems to me you could have given a few more particulars without wearying your readers.
The prisint generation who are wadin’ knee deep in clover won’t be hurt by being reminded of what the old vets suffered for them.
I remember onct that our liftenant Tom Waters said that whin I got to talking I did not know whin to stop and I guess you’ll think it’s the same wid me letter rittin’, so here’s to you and yours. Keep a stiff upper lip. Never show the white flag.
Yours for the Union.P. DEVEREAUX.
MY CAPTAIN.
“Capt. Charles L. Smith, prostrated by sunstroke near Cold Harbor.” brings to mind the long, weary marches of that summer under broiling sun; the choking clouds of dust; the intense thirst; the scanty rations and consequent weakness which caused countless numbers to fall by the roadside. The name also stirs tender memoriesof a kind hearted officer, a gentleman and soldier—“My Captain,” who was ever gentle with and considerate for the welfare of the little lad whom he took with him to a real war.
“Peace be to his ashes!Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o’er,Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;Dream of battlefields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking—We would not forget our dead.”
Capt. C. L. Smith
In closing my memories of the war I am going to give an extract from an old letter written by my captain, who several years since went to join those of his command who had been summoned by the Great Captain of All.
“Nov. 8, 1883.”
“My Dear Boy: Your welcome letter of the 14th ult. at hand, and was most happy to learn over your own signature that you had not in the long years that have intervened forgotten me. Your old captain still lives, daily praying for and remembering the least under his command.
“Oh, that I could see them pass in review as I did many a time in those stirring days. Many years have passed since and probably not one in 50 would I recognize, still I remember them all, living or dead, who went with me to the great war.
“God knows my affection goes out to you all and I am not ashamed to say that my eyes fill with tears as I write.
“My great regret is that I could not return every man and boy to their homes. But I could not. You remember I said I had no cowards in old Co. H. They were a brave, intelligent lot of men who obeyed orders, endured hardships and faced the guns of the enemy unflinchingly.
“I recall you as but a child going with me to a real war where you were to spend years of your young life with your little drum. But my dear boy, it did good service, real genuine war service.
“I remember you were the first drummer boy the 2d New York had, and I am proud to know that my own little drummer boy marched at the head of the regiment in every campaign down to Appomattox and beat the last tattoo for the regiment at Hart’s Island, New York Harbor, after nearly four years of service.
“God bless you, how could I be other than proud of my little drummer boy?”
FINIS.
Transcriber’s Note:
Seemingly at random, these two lines were printed at the top of page 18 of the original text:
mules of the wagon trains, and after a couple ofnowhere else for him to go.