"General, I take great pleasure in presenting to you my congratulations upon the conduct of the men of your corps. I believe that they will carry anything they are put against. We tried very hard to stop Pickett's men from capturing the breastworks of the enemy, but couldn't do it. I hope his loss has been small."
"General, I take great pleasure in presenting to you my congratulations upon the conduct of the men of your corps. I believe that they will carry anything they are put against. We tried very hard to stop Pickett's men from capturing the breastworks of the enemy, but couldn't do it. I hope his loss has been small."
This reminds me to say here and now, without intending the least disparagement of others, that the 7th Virginia regiment was never ordered to take the enemy's line that it did not take it, never gave up or lost a position it was ordered to hold, and never left a position or battlefield unless ordered to do so. Once when bodily taken by the Federals and carried into captivity, the reader might consider an exception to the statement just made.
The charge last above referred to was not without its casualties, though I have nothing to show the division, brigade or regimental losses. In the 1st Virginia six men were wounded, and I remember that Sergeant William Parrott of Company I and J. B. Young of Company D were severely and Private William Davis of Company C mortally wounded.
During the remainder of June and for several months following we remained on this Bermuda Hundred line, occasionally shifting position from Howlett House on the James to Swift Creek near the Appomattox, until about the middle of July, then settling down on a high piece of ground behind a skirt of timber midway between Howlett House and Swift Creek. Here we worked hard to strengthen our lines.
Company D now had but a single commissioned officer, Captain Bane. Lieutenant Stone was still a prisoner, Lieutenant Walker had been disabled at Gettysburg and retired, and Lieutenant Mullins had died of the wound received at Howlett House in June. It was on this line that Sergeant T. S. Taylor was elected a lieutenant and E. Z. Yager made orderly sergeant of the company. These selections were well made, and the confidence reposed not misplaced.
Rev. J. Tyler FrazierRev. J. Tyler Frazier
Rev. J. Tyler Frazier
At or near this time there appeared on our lines a man representing himself to be a citizen of Alabama, who proposed then to do what could not be done, but in some degree has since been accomplished—to build a machine to navigate the air, carry shells and drop them on the Northern armies, and in their cities. He requested donations from each of the soldiers of one dollar, and of the officers five dollars each to enable him to build his machine. We concluded he was a crank, refused to contribute and the man departed. This fellow was only a little ahead of his time.
At an early hour of July 30th occurred the famous explosion of the mine at Petersburg. Though several miles away, it so shook the earth that the pickets and other men awake at the time felt the shock. The fearful artillery fire which followed convinced us that an important event had occurred. Later in the day we learned what had happened, seeing also a full account of the occurrence in the Richmond papers the next morning. I well remember the comments in the Richmond Examiner (a partisan paper) on the retaking of the line by the division of General Mahone. Describing the slaughter of the Federal soldiers in the crater, it said: "The slaughter was so great that General Mahone sickened at the sight and told his men 'for God's sake to stop,' and the next time we hope General Mahone will shut his eyes." The official report of General Mahone of the retaking of the line and the crater was not furnished by him to his superior officer, but was found by his family among his papers after his death, and published a few years ago. An incident related by the General in his report is worth reproducing here. The General states that his division was on the Confederate right and a mile or more from where the explosion took place; that the same was not unexpected, but just when and where it would occur no one could certainly tell; that on that morning he was lying on the ground, and on hearing the noise sprang to his feet, looking in every direction to locate from whence the sound came, when he discovered a Confederate soldier at full speed coming towards him. The men along the line were endeavoring to stop him, but without success, so seeing the man was following a path which led near by where the General was standing, he planted himself in the path of the fellow, who was without hat, cap, shoes or coat, and said: "Now stop long enough to tell me what has happened." "Why, Mister," said the soldier, "don't you know that hell has busted?" Evidently this man thought the infernal regions had accidentally exploded.
Between the lines of the two armies as now situated lay a strip of woods, where our men and the Union soldiers were in the habit of meeting to exchange newspapers, coffee and tobacco, now and then playing cards. Our officers on finding out what was going on concluded there was too much familiarity and sought to break it up; so when one of the officers located some of the men engaged in a game of cards with a Union soldier, this Federal was made a prisoner and brought into our lines. The Union soldier was highly indignant at what he considered taking advantage of confidence, for both parties by their acts had waived the fact that they were in the field as deadly foes to each other, and in their hearts our own men had a feeling of the same sort. A little later one of the Union soldiers, thinking to get even, induced a Confederate to meet him between the lines on pretense of exchanging papers, when he attempted his capture, but in the scramble the Confederate proved too much for his captor, dragging him toward our lines, when the Union pickets began firing at the Confederate, who let his man go and escaped. These incidents put a stop for the time being to communication and traffic between the opposing soldiers.
At another time some of our men under the lead of an officer, about daybreak crept over to the Federal skirmish line and between the men in their rifle pits, taking the line in flank and reverse, and raked it for a long distance, bringing out more than a hundred prisoners, including the commanding officer of the line.
How tender the fellow feeling of one soldier for another, though on opposite sides, is shown by the following incident: The Union soldiers, well knowing that we were scarce of food, at dusk one day called to one of our men, "Say, Johnnie, are you hungry?" "Yes," replied the Confederate, "have had but little to eat for two or three days," to which the Union soldier said, "Bring your haversack over here and I will take you to the sutler and fill it," but the Confederate demurred, giving as his reason that he was afraid he would be captured. Being assured, however, upon the honor of a soldier that he should have a safe return, he went, and the Union soldier filled his haversack and returned him safely to our lines.
The enemy was reported shifting about in our front beyond and behind the timber, where we could not see him, and supposing he might be preparing for an attack upon us, by order of the Colonel, with Pitts of Company C and Crawford of Company D, I went to the front, outside our pickets, where I ran upon a scouting or observation party of the enemy, by whom we were fired on, and came near being gobbled up, but escaped and returned within our lines. We had a close call.
Wishing to visit some friends in Captain David A. French's artillery company, then stationed near Chaffin's Bluff north of the James, three miles away, I obtained a pass and put off on September 28, spending the night with friends, finding myself the next morning almost in a hornet's nest, for on the morning of the 29th the Federal troops advanced and captured Fort Harrison, a mile to the front of the camp of French's company. I followed the battery, witnessing the fight, in which the Federals advancing from Fort Harrison were repulsed. French lost several men, among them Adam Johnston, killed. I did not tarry long, but set out for my command, meeting on the way a part of our division, the 24th Virginia regiment among them, on their way to reinforce our troops in front of Fort Harrison, where they were defeated in the attempt to recapture the fort.
As already stated, the line from the Howlett House to Swift Creek, some three miles in length, was held by Pickett's division, four thousand strong; the skirmish line or rifle pits of the opposing forces were close together, say 30 yards apart, and the main lines but a few hundred yards away. Our line was so thin and so drawn out that when thrown into the trenches it made scarcely more than a strong skirmish line. We were frequently in the trenches expecting attack, and the morning following the battle of Winchester we were sure the enemy was coming, but he was content with firing a shotted salute. At this time desertions from our ranks, as well as from the ranks of the enemy, became more frequent and punishment more sure. Numbers of the enemy came into our lines and were sent to the rear and the same course was pursued by the enemy with men deserting from us. Now and then a man instead of going over to the enemy would go home and hide and when caught would be tried and shot. This happened to a mere boy, a member of Company B of our regiment, who was executed October 18, 1864. At this distance from the war, a half century, such a thing may shock the reader, but war at best is a horrible thing and discipline must be enforced. It was not strange that some men deserted and went home. Many had families dependent on them for food and support. The soldier's pay for a month, in Confederate currency, with the necessaries of life advanced to enormous figures, would not buy a half bushel of wheat for his family. The cry of his children for bread reached his ears and this was more than his heart could bear. He became dissatisfied—anxious for the suffering ones at home. He was willing to bare his breast to the storm, and undergo the hardships and privations of camp life and the dangers of the battlefield, if he knew his wife and children were kept from starving, but their appeals for food moved him; he would obtain leave to go if he could, otherwise he would go without leave; but it will be seen if this were permitted the army would soon be depleted, and the cause we were fighting for lost. The dilemma was therefore a trying one to many a good man.
The Colonel of the 7th regiment, having instructions to capture a prisoner to obtain certain information wanted, and going to the skirmish line, where Company D under Captain Bane was on picket, instructed him to secure such prisoner. Bane called for volunteers for this enterprise and three men responded, among them John W. East, who agreed to capture the prisoner by playing the role of deserter, which he did by going over to the enemy. The Federal picket called our men up next morning and told them East had deserted the night before. This was no less than a ruse on John's part to desert and go over to the side of the enemy.
Among the inducements offered by the Federal officers to our men to desert was that if their homes were within the Federal lines they should be sent home and protected or given government employment at good wages, but love of cause and country were more potent than all the inducements offered on the other side.
A. L. Sumner, of Company D, an illiterate man, heard someone read from a Richmond paper one morning in November, 1864, that Mr. Lincoln had been re-elected president of the United States, and had called for a large number of additional men. Sumner sat with his head bowed, when a comrade approaching and seeing that something was troubling him, inquired the cause. Sumner responded, "Don't you know that Abe Lincoln is re-elected and has called for a million men, and that Jeff Davis says war to the knife? What shall we do?"—A pertinent inquiry.
Christmas, 1864, was approaching and extensive preparations were being made by city, town and country to furnish the army of Northern Virginia a Christmas dinner, the women taking the lead—God bless them! The newspapers urged the movement forward, committees were appointed to collect and forward the good things to the soldiers. The papers proclaimed that Virginia, devastated as she was by an invading host, was yet able to feed her soldiers; that the cattle upon a thousand hills were hers. Though the cattle were not there, the day came, and with it a bountiful supply which made us glad, and we thanked our benefactors and took courage.
The credit for our Christmas dinner was due the women. In every movement for the uplift and betterment of our race, and in every worthy cause, woman is the first to espouse, the last to forsake. Having once fixed her affections upon the object of our cause, her love therefor became as fast and enduring as the rock-ribbed hills. The wives, mothers and sisters of the men gave their husbands, sons and brothers to the cause, suffered untold agony and sorrows, depriving themselves of every comfort, to the end that the soldiers in the field might be clothed and fed. For them no sacrifice was too great. The Southern woman, accustomed to the indulgences and refinements of life, became familiar with the coarsest of personal apparel, and a scarcity of food which she had never known, and she bore these things without a murmur. She followed the plow, reaped the grain, took it to the mill, nursed the sick and wounded, buried the dead, and rendered thousands of kindnesses to our suffering soldiers, only recorded in the hearts and memories of the recipients of these loving deeds, and of Him whose eye is never shut. In the days of "reconstruction," when men were awe stricken, not knowing whither to look or what to do, these women stood with resolute trust in God, giving words of encouragement to the sterner sex; and became, as it were, the strong vine entwined around the sturdy tree when shaken by the storm. These Southern women were the only portion of our people who never surrendered. They are today the purest type of Anglo-Saxon womanhood on the face of the earth.
Memorial Day originated with our Southern women, whose custom it is to strew flowers, mementoes of their undying love, on the graves of the gray and the blue alike. They are the guardians of the graves of our noble dead.
"This place of burial isHallowed by woman's prayers;A nobler epitaph than thisCould not be theirs."
"This place of burial isHallowed by woman's prayers;A nobler epitaph than thisCould not be theirs."
"This place of burial isHallowed by woman's prayers;A nobler epitaph than thisCould not be theirs."
"This place of burial is
Hallowed by woman's prayers;
A nobler epitaph than this
Could not be theirs."
Things now began to look dark. General Sherman was marching through Georgia to the sea; Hood's army had been defeated at Nashville. The situation was grave in the extreme. With all this came strange presentiments. The dark clouds that had been for some time overhanging us were settling down. The patriotism, enthusiasm and untold sacrifices of the past four years seemed all for naught, and our men could not be required to shoulder a heavier cross than was now the lot of the Confederate soldiers. But a patriotic people and a valiant soldiery might yet accomplish success, looking we were, but in vain, for foreign intervention, or something else to turn up. If to satisfy the Northern people and gain our separate existence meant to give up slavery, the army was ready to see it abolished. In fact, the great bulk of the army was ready to make almost any sacrifice required for independent and separate government. Our forefathers had resisted British tyranny, we were resisting Northern aggression upon the sovereignty and reserved rights of the States of the Confederacy.
Dark and discouraging as were these days, the spirit of the army was yet unbroken, and the men were willing to fight it out, although it appeared but a question of time when we should all go down.
Thus closed the year of 1864, and to us it seemed final overthrow must come, for our foe was growing stronger, we weaker. Our star was surely on the wane.
My presentation of the subject of religion in the army will necessarily be confined to the command to which I belonged and what came under my personal observation. When the call to arms was made in 1861, the sentiment of our people was a solemn appeal to God for the rectitude of our intentions and purposes, an appeal to the God of battles for His abiding presence and blessing upon our undertaking. Nearly every step taken was witnessed by religious services. Our whole Southland was permeated with the spirit and teachings of the Bible. The brave people of our land believed in God—indeed, the foundations of their state government were based upon their faith in the Author of their lives and liberty. This was no mere phantom. Most of our great leaders were Christian men, who feared and worshipped God.
At the beginning of the war we had many wild, profane men who had joined the army, but from this it must not be inferred that our camps were scenes of vulgarity, and profanity. With but few exceptions, after the first year or so of the war, there was never an army freer from vice, immorality and anger. That which in the beginning would have been offensive and insulting, and probably brought the parties to blows, was now passed by. The men had come to understand each other's temperaments. They had lived, associated, marched, fought, slept and eaten together too long, had suffered in common too many hardships, enduring the same privations, not to know each other's Christian convictions. They were therefore "Souls that had but a single thought, and hearts that beat as one." They were, with a true Christian spirit, ready to bear each other's burdens, care for each other when sick or wounded, comfort each other when in trouble and distress, and therefore the better prepared to entertain the "King of Peace."
Many of the men of my company, some of whom I have already mentioned, were Christians when they entered the army, and by their example and character exerted a wholesome influence for good. When resting in camp, these men remembered their vows, conducting religious exercises in their quarters before retiring at night. On Sunday we usually had services, led by the Chaplains, who were zealous Christians, and patriotic men, even going into battle with us. One, Dr. Granberry, chaplain of the 11th Virginia, and after the war a Methodist Bishop, was wounded in the battle of Seven Pines. In the absence of the regular chaplain, Brother Frazier, acting as such, preached to us.
Near the close of 1862, and throughout the greater part of the year of 1863, a religious spirit seemed to possess the army; at least this was true of our command. Christians had great reason to thank God and take courage when they thought on the remarkable progress the gospel was making in the camp. Thousands of young men embraced religion. While churches at home were languishing, the gospel was moving forward with marvelous strides among the soldiers in the field. Indeed, what could be more fitting, with real men accustomed daily to witnessing carnage and death. There was therefore much comfort to the men in having the gospel successfully preached and the standard of the Master borne aloft in the trenches, in sight of the enemy, even within musket and cannon's range. At the administration of the baptismal ordinance, the banks of the Rappahannock, Rapidan and the James and other streams resounded with the songs of praise. Our chaplains often proclaimed the glad tidings amid the noise of the booming cannon and rattle of musketry. This spirit was caught by our division at Taylorsville in the spring of 1863, when Dr. Pryor of Petersburg preached for us for several days in succession, hundreds professing-faith in Christ. The whole camp was one religious gathering, and all men seemed greatly interested. There was a grand and glorious awakening. Many in the Spring of 1863 found the blessed Savior precious, to their souls and rejoiced in His love, I among the number.
When on the march to Gettysburg, halting for a day or more, religious exercises were conducted; scarcely would the column halt at night and supper over before the sacred songs began; around those singing would gather the soldiers in large numbers, the chaplain, or someone else, conducting the exercises. This was continued during the fall of 1863, in Culpeper, on the Rapidan, again at Taylorsville, in North Carolina, in Virginia, near Hanover Junction, around Cold Harbor, Malvern Hill, and on the south of the James, where Drs. Stiles and Fontaine were occasionally with us. The latter, Rev. P. H. Fontaine, a minister of the Baptist Church, visited us in September, 1864, preaching successfully for several days; many desiring baptism going to a small branch close by our line in a ravine, where a dam was constructed, furnishing sufficient water to bury a man in baptism, as was our Savior in the Jordan, a comforting scene to many wearied and homesick hearts. On Monday, September 12, 1864, Mr. Fontaine baptized a large number of soldiers on their profession of faith—how many I do not recollect, but of our company two, Tim P. Darr and the writer. Darr became a Methodist preacher, dying last year (1913) in the State of Kentucky.
The army of Northern Virginia by the close of the year 1864 had in large measure become a band of Christian soldiers, God-fearing men. Amid the trying scenes, shoeless, in tattered rags, hungry, chilled by the cold, they gathered, if opportunity offered, and on bended knees asked God to comfort their homes and little ones, to bless our arms with success and to crown our efforts with early peace and stable government.
The venerable Doctor Stiles and General Pendleton—the latter an Episcopal minister and the chief of artillery of the army of Northern Virginia—occasionally preached to the troops. Through the instrumentality of J. Tyler Frazier there was organized a Young Men's Christian Association, of Kemper's brigade, into which was largely incorporated all the professing Christians in the brigade. It met regularly when not on the march, and among the articles of the constitution was one providing that if any member of the Association should desert or absent himself from his command without leave, he should be excluded. The Association stood pledged to discourage desertions or insubordination, and on the other hand to encourage obedience and fidelity to cause and country; by all means within its power to diffuse religious thought and morality throughout the brigade. While on the Bermuda Hundred line, the men built a church in which religious services were held, and which was also used as a place of entertainment.
J. Tyler Frazier, whose name has been frequently mentioned in this narrative, deserves a more extended notice. Mr. Frazier was born in Giles County, Virginia, in the year 1840, embracing Christianity at an early age. His early opportunities for acquiring an education were quite limited, but being a man of exceptionally good sense, a preacher when he entered the army—the company chaplain, did his duty nobly and well. By precept and example upon all proper occasions he endeavored to impress upon the men the importance of living a Christian life. Notice has already been taken of some of his messmates, Taylor, Henderson, Fortner, Darr and others, God-fearing men. Mr. Frazier preached whenever opportunity offered, not only to the company, regiment and brigade, but to the people of the region roundabout. The chaplaincy of the regiment being vacant, the Young Men's Christian Association desired the appointment of Mr. Frazier to the vacancy, naming a committee consisting of Thomas S. Taylor (who died in this year, 1914), Edward Hoge (now dead), and David E. Johnston, to take up the matter with the Colonel, but our mission failed because the commander felt that a man could not be spared from the ranks who was so good a soldier as Brother Frazier. We secured, however, the privilege for Mr. Frazier to preach where and when he pleased, having his musket and accouterments transported in headquarters wagon, the only requirement being demanded that he should take his gun and go into battle. Mr. Frazier was as useful as chaplain without a commission as with it, for he still continued to preach, pray, march and fight, to exhort and encourage men to do their duty to God and their country. He was spared and returned home, entered the regular Methodist ministry of the Southern Methodist Church, has been a presiding elder, a successful preacher, and still lives to bless humanity. He now resides on his fine estate near Chilhowie, Virginia, preaching regularly, esteemed and highly respected by his brethren, old comrades, friends and neighbors.
In closing this chapter, I may be permitted with genuineness of purpose to add a final word to the sons and daughters, descendants of the noble Confederate soldiers of Virginia, whom I deeply loved, and of whom I have endeavored, though with much imperfection, to write in these pages.
Another warfare is today calling you to the field. I have seen much of life and know the fruits of vice and shame, the danger of gilded pitfalls and deceptive traps which are set for you and your children. I beg of you not to think of this as idle talk on my part. You are in imminent danger of the captivity from which there is no return. For your safety the Great Leader is calling you to join His forces, to enlist in His cause. This Leader has never known defeat, has never lost a soldier. If you are in His service, your name is enrolled on high. If you are faithful, you will not be overlooked nor forgotten. If you have not given Him your life and everything belonging to you, I beg you not to delay. Your father obeyed our country's call in 1861. It is fitting now that you obey the gospel call into the noblest army earth has ever known. More than once did I look into the faces of your noble sires, as they stood at Sharpsburg, Gettysburg and Cold Harbor, in defense of the right. I think of the courage with which they followed the old flag, and I love you for their sakes. I pray God that each of you may honor the memory of those fathers by being brave and steadfast soldiers of the Cross; that you may have a place in the ranks of that great army composed of the pure and the good on earth and in heaven.
While near Swift Creek, A. L. Fry of Company D was appointed clerk and regimental historian, making a complete roll of the men of the regiment, noting their services, for which he received a short furlough. The record made by Fry was filed away in Richmond, but unfortunately was destroyed by fire on the evacuation of the city by the Confederate troops. This was indeed a calamity, for such a record would now, after half a century, be of priceless value. The record of many a poor fellow which was thus lost cannot be had anywhere else.
We changed position from near Swift Creek to the Howlett House on the James in January, 1865, where we erected rude shacks of timber and earth which furnished slight shelter from the pelting storms. Near the middle of the month the weather softened, and we were enabled to get out and engage in ball and other games, which gave us exercise and good appetites, though ordinarily we were ready to eat anything we could get, for at that time our daily allowance was one-fourth pound of bacon and one pint of coarse cornmeal, with occasionally a little sugar, rice, beans or peas.
The period was still gloomy. Fort McAllister had fallen, Savannah was in the hands of the enemy, Charleston and Fort Fisher seriously threatened; Hood's army had been wrecked and driven out of Tennessee; General Sherman was preparing to march through the Carolinas. General Grant had seized the Petersburg and Weldon railroad and was now threatening to strike the south side and Richmond and Danville road—the latter being the only remaining line connecting Richmond with the Southern states, over which our supplies must be drawn. The situation was therefore serious. This was fully realized by the men in the ranks. Vastly superior territory, unlimited supplies, and a call for 300,000 new troops in the North were calculated to produce discouragement in the hearts of men who had from the first been fighting against heavy odds. Desertions became more frequent; many men were absent without leave, on account of needy families and other causes, and were in no hurry to return. All these things were discussed by the soldiers in their huts. The army of Northern Virginia now consisted of less than fifty thousand poorly equipped, poorly clad, poorly fed men, who had marched and countermarched, charged and fought a foe two or three times their number for nearly four long, dreadful years. It was little wonder, therefore, that depression came to the noble army of Northern Virginia, which then held the toe line from a point north of Fort Harrison to the vicinity of Hatcher's Run to the south, more than thirty-five miles—in many places little more than a good skirmish line, which the enemy was able to confront with full lines, and yet overreaching our flanks, and was continuing to extend his lines. Why General Grant did not cut loose from his base at City Point and swing around the Confederate right, shutting the army up in Petersburg and Richmond, is a military problem I will not endeavor to solve.
I was in Richmond in January, 1865, and saw bread selling at $2.00 for a small loaf; a pound of soda for $12.00; a calico dress pattern, $25.00, a gold dollar commanding $60.00 in Confederate currency.
The mission of the Confederate "Peace Commissioners" had been a failure, and a great disappointment to the soldiers, who saw plainly nothing short of a bitter fight to the end. Public meetings of the men were held in many of the commands in the army, resolutions adopted, expressing regret at the failure of the Peace Conference, reaffirming their faith in the justness of our cause, and rededicating themselves to the defense thereof, resolving to fight to the end. Surely heroism and desperation equal to this cannot be found in the annals of history. With this situation confronting them, they demanded that all absentees should be returned to their places, all able bodied men should be required to take the field, and that every step possible should be taken to strengthen the army, even to the arming of the negroes—a thing which should have been done long before this.
In order to give some conception of the feeling and sentiment which then pervaded the soldiers, I here insert an extract from a letter written a friend in February, 1865, in which I say: "There is nothing left us but to fight it out; the cry is for war—war to the knife. If the people at home will support the army and drive all skulkers and absentees to the front, all will be right."
Amid the darkness and gloom surrounding us, some of the men would have fun. I well remember that W. D. Peters, of D Company, a wit and wag, having around him several of his comrades, inquired as to how the Southern Confederacy was bounded. One answered, "North by the United States, south by the Gulf of Mexico, east by the Atlantic Ocean, west by the Rocky Mountains." Peters insisted this to be a mistake, saying that "we were surrounded by Yankees!"
The general sentiment in the army favored freeing all negroes who would take arms and fight for the country. To this, singularly enough, came opposition from men who did not and never had owned a slave. The proposition to arm the negroes did not find favor with the politicians, but they were finally forced to yield, late in the Spring of 1865, on the eve of the retreat of the army of Northern Virginia from the Richmond-Petersburg lines.
While on the lines near Howlett House, a squad went out between the skirmish lines to gather fuel; among the number was Adam Thompson, who had so large a foot that special requisition had to be made to get shoes big enough for him; the shoes for Adam had to be made to order. On the occasion referred to, Adam deserted to the enemy, when a Union soldier called out, "Jonnnie! Have you another man over there three feet across the back and who wears a number two shoe—two hides to the shoe?"
I here relate an incident happening on this line while at the Howlett House, which caused much grief, growing out, as I believe, of misinformation and misunderstanding, whereby three of the best soldiers of Company D—A. J. Thompson, Harry Snidow and J. C. Hughes—were arrested upon a charge of encouraging insubordination and mutiny, of which they were convicted and sentenced to be shot, and pending the approval of General Lee (which was never had, so far as I know), were incarcerated in "Castle Thunder" in Richmond, from which they were only released by the Union army on entering the city April 3, 1865. In the opinion of the writer, who knew these three men, all sergeants, through and through, this proceeding was excessive and unwarranted. Surely three long years of untiring devotion and loyalty to the cause for which we fought should be counted worth something.
General Pendleton, the chief of artillery of the army, visited our lines the middle of March and made a speech, in which he said, "The time is rapidly approaching for the opening of the campaign, and that man Grant over there means mischief. Only with a union of strong arms and brave hearts can we hope to win. Pack your haversacks and be ready to move." There was now great activity within the lines of the enemy; the whistle of the locomotive, the inclination and the action of the enemy to crowd us, all pointed to an early movement, but the question confronted us—What are we to do? Can we get away and how far? Not a mule nor horse that can pull a hundred pounds five miles through the mud. It was suggested, let us go south and join General Joe Johnston, unite forces with him, whip Grant and then Sherman. Some said one thing, some another, but all agreed that if Richmond had to be given up, it were better it had been abandoned the fall before, when our transportation was in better shape and our army numerically stronger, and General Grant's not in such good condition, not yet having recovered from its bloody campaign from the Rapidan to Petersburg, and not so confident as now.
Brigadier-General David E. Johnston and Aid-de-Camp D. E. J. WilsonBrigadier-General David E. Johnston and Aid-de-Camp D. E. J. Wilson
Brigadier-General David E. Johnston and Aid-de-Camp D. E. J. Wilson
In March, 1865, at night, our division was withdrawn from the lines, Mahone's division taking our place. We were hurried up to Richmond to the outer intrenchments north of the city to meet the Federal General Sheridan's cavalry corps of 10,000 men, which a few days before had overwhelmed the little band of about 1500 men of General Early in the valley near Waynesboro, and were now rapidly approaching Richmond by way of Charlottesville. Near Ashland Corse's brigade had a brisk skirmish with Sheridan's advance. It was apparent that General Sheridan had no thought of attacking Richmond (he was never known to attack unless he had the advantage) but had crossed the Chickahominy and was making his way to join the main army south of the James.
We were hastened through Richmond and to the south of the James, marching to the South Side railroad west of Petersburg, thence on to Sutherland Station, reaching there at 9 P.M., Wednesday, March 29, and going forward through an all night's rain, arriving at the White Oak road at dawn, where a portion of General Bushrod Johnson's division was in line of battle, with a brisk skirmish progressing in front. Three brigades of Pickett's division, Corse's, Stuart's and Terry's, with Ransom's and Wallace's—the last two now consolidated under General Ransom—extended the battle line of Johnson's division to the right. Here we remained until the middle of the afternoon, a heavy rain falling during the greater part of the time, our skirmishers having an occasional brush with the enemy. The column then moved forward along the road in the direction of Five Forks, skirmishing front and flank, reaching the Forks at sunset; without halting, Corse's brigade, and the 1st and 7th regiments of Terry's, advanced, driving the dismounted cavalry of the enemy through and out of the woods and across the open country beyond; then returning to the Forks, lay down under a pelting rain upon the wet ground until morning, thus in line ready to fight or march.
It was 10 A.M., Friday, March 31, that the advance began in the direction of Dinwiddie Court House, the cavalry in our front fighting at every step, crossing Chamberlain Run, and being driven back, as the infantry was unable to afford them help on account of the swollen condition of the stream. Finally, at the remains of an old mill on the Run, the infantry succeeded in getting over, in the face of a sharp fire from the enemy, with whom, as soon as across the stream, we kept up a running fight until near sunset. When near the Court House we encountered a large body of the enemy's dismounted cavalry formed across the road prepared to oppose our further advance. A Federal battery of artillery in their center commanded the ground over which the advance had to be made, but we made a successful charge, sweeping the field, the enemy retiring in confusion, leaving their dead and wounded, we occupying the battlefield until nearly 1 o'clock next morning.
In this engagement, known as the battle of Dinwiddie, the famous cavalry officer, General Phil Sheridan, with all his brag, was scared out of his boots—calling that night on General Grant for an army corps of infantry to help him out of the scrape, although he already had more men on the field than the Confederates who were assailing him.
Humanity, the crowning grace of the brave soldier, secured for the wounded—the enemy's as well as our own—all the care and attention we were able to give them. Our loss had not been heavy, especially was it small in our regiment—none in Company D. General Terry's horse was struck by a cannon shot, which caused it to fall with the General, giving him quite a severe injury.[5]
Near midnight, or a little later, March 31, the Confederates retired to Five Forks, five miles away, taking position in battle line, and hastily throwing up temporary breastworks of logs. W. H. F. Lee's cavalry was on the right, then the infantry brigades, Corse, Terry, Steuart, Ransom-Wallace, in the order named, with a portion of Fitzhugh Lee's cavalry under General Munford on the left. Terry's brigade held the ground immediately on the right of the Forks, with the left of the 7th Virginia resting at the Forks, at which was posted three guns of Colonel William Pegram's Virginia battalion of artillery. The enemy did not appear in force in our front until nearly 10 A.M. next day.
Five Forks is situated in a thickly wooded, flat, wet country, and gets its name from the crossing of two country roads at right angles, with the deflection of another road bisecting one of these angles; the last place that a general with a small force would desire to meet a large force, or select his ground upon which to fight a defensive battle, because it was in an open country. This position could be easily turned, and a small force easily isolated from the main army at Petersburg, which the enemy, in fact, did by throwing General Warren's infantry corps, nearly 15,000 strong, against the Confederate left, between it and the right wing of our army. This point could only have been necessary to hold to protect the South Side railroad, and for this reason may have been regarded strategic, but it could not be held by a small force, if an enemy in superior numbers chose to turn it, who had the advantage of approach from two or more of the five roads converging there.
Privates Crawford and Dudley of Company D were on the skirmish line. After several unsuccessful attempts by the Federal skirmishers to drive in ours, they concluded to try something stronger. In the meantime Crawford had his musket stock at the small part thereof severed and he came back to the main line, procured another, and returned to his place with the skirmishers. By this time the Federal battle line, composed partly of dismounted cavalry, was advancing, and soon overran our skirmishers, killing, wounding and capturing nearly the whole of them, coming with a rush at our main line, by which they were severely punished and repelled. These attacks were several times repeated along our whole brigade front, each time being repulsed with loss to the enemy and with little to us. Warren's infantry corps, having placed itself near the middle of the afternoon around and beyond the Confederate left, advancing boldly struck Ransom's and Wallace's brigades in flank, doubling them up and pushing them to us in the center. Steuart's and Terry's brigades now moved out of their intrenched line and with a fierce, determined fight met the oncoming battle against more than 15,000 with less than two thousand. In the nature of things this could not and did not last long, but it did last until the moon was up and the evening shades had fallen. This scribe, it will be remembered, was still only a boy, and remembers distinctly Colonel Flowerree saying, "Now, boys, in marching away follow that moon." This because we were in a country unknown to us or to our commander. Our brigade was in conflict with Ayers' Federal division, which was massed in column, firing over each other and too high, thus accounting for our small regimental and brigade loss in killed and wounded.
Before being withdrawn from our intrenched line to meet the flank attack of Warren's corps, Colonel Pegram of the artillery fell on the left of our regiment, mortally wounded. The 7th regiment, numbering less than 300 men, under the fearless Colonel Flowerree, was thrown into the breach to stem the tide, but after a few minutes of close, almost hand-to-hand struggle, it left the field, not however, before being ordered three times by the Colonel to do so.
In the woods where we were fighting it was getting dark, the moon beginning to shine. My position as Sergeant-Major was on the left of the regiment, which I occupied during the fierce contest. Seeing the regiment move rapidly by the right flank and to the rear, but in good order, I stood for a moment reflecting whether I should leave or take the chances of death or becoming a prisoner. Choosing the former, and passing the road over which we had fought our way a few minutes before, I found myself with two Confederates, who were a little in advance of me, and proceeding but a short distance we found ourselves plump up against the lines of Federal cavalry. A Sergeant demanded our surrender, the Confederate nearest him threw down his gun; the one next to me turned and said, "What shall we do?" I still had the carbine I had picked up the day before in the battle near Dinwiddie, but no ammunition, and without replying to the question or dropping my gun, but keeping my eyes fixed on the sergeant, who was separated by a small space from his comrades as well as from me, I observed that his cap had been knocked off by the limb of a pine bush under which he had ridden, and that his attention was fixed upon an effort to get his cap. Just then seeing an opening where the Federal regiments joined, I darted through, amidst a shower of bullets, the wind and heat of some of them being felt distinctly in my face. The reader may easily imagine the speed made just then by a Confederate Sergeant-Major. In less than two hundred yards beyond, I overtook my command forming across the road.
Here Generals Pickett, Corse, Steuart, Ransom and Colonel Mayo were urging the men to get quickly into line, Pickett in the midst of the fire behaving with his usual gallantry and coolness. In the middle of the road stood the ensign of the 1st Virginia regiment, with his colors and guard, with Gentry and his Glee Club, singing, "Rally Round the Flag, Boys, Rally Once Again"—and rally they did, although badly mixed, but in a few minutes partial order was restored, not a moment too soon, for the enemy was coming. The position now held was not more than four hundred yards from the Forks. As yet, the enemy had gained but little ground, though he had captured a large number of prisoners, principally of Ransom's, Wallace's and Steuart's brigades, and of the 11th and the 24th Virginia of Terry's brigade. The enemy now bore down heavily upon our right front, advancing through an open field, we being in a skirt of woods, from which we sent into them a murderous volley. The smoke clearing away, it was revealed that his whole line had been shattered, large numbers of his dead and wounded on the ground, the living fleeing in full haste. In the meantime the enemy had thrown a heavy force around both the Confederate flanks, threatening to envelop us between his columns, and cutting our line of retreat, forming something of the shape of a horse-shoe, we being in the toe, having the heel open, as the only chance to get out. This gap in the heel was much broadened by a charge of the Confederate cavalry on the right. It was now dark, the command badly scattered, and almost surrounded by the enemy. We moved to the rear as rapidly as possible, and those remaining not killed, wounded or captured, made their way across the South Side railroad, where camp was made.
This was one of the most fiercely and best contested battles of the war, disparity of numbers considered. It can be safely and truthfully asserted by those present who witnessed what occurred that never were troops placed in a more trying situation—outflanked on both wings, attacked front flank and rear, by a force fully four times their numbers, in a comparatively flat, open country, away from supports, without shelter save rude log breastworks, hastily thrown up, occupied for a short time during the fight, which was as close as fearless men could make it. There was no panic, for the men rallied and fought again and again, until dark, when the enemy desisted. Much of the fighting was so close that there was a question as to who would be the victors.
General Grant in his Memoirs says of this battle: "It was dusk when our troops under Sheridan went over the parapets of the enemy. The two armies were mingled together there for a time in such manner that it was almost a question which one was going to demand the surrender of the other."
It now appears that the army of the enemy on the field numbered above 26,000, while I am satisfied we could not have had exceeding 8000 men at the opening of the battle. We had the consolidated brigades of Ransom and Wallace, about 1000; Steuart's brigade, about 1000; Corse's brigade, about 1100; Terry's brigade, about 900; cavalry, 3500, and artillerists 300; Rosser's cavalry division guarding the trains, not in the battle.
The Federal loss was 124 killed and 706 wounded; the Confederate loss, 450 killed, 750 wounded. The Confederates lost four guns, eleven colors and 3244 prisoners, a loss which the reader will see from statements made was by us sorely felt.
I do not know the division, brigade or regimental losses, but they were severe in the regiment, while Company D lost but six men—Crawford, Dudley, Sumner and Mullins, as prisoners. John A. Hale and William D. Peters severely wounded, both got off the field. Captain Bane, Lieutenant Taylor and the following men: Bolton, Crawford, Darr, Dudley, Eaton, Frazier, Fry, Gordon, Hale (J. A.), Henderson, Hurt (J. J.), Meadows, Mullins, Minnich (C), Minnich (G. A.), Peters, Shannon, Stafford, Sumner, Suthern, Wiley, Yager and the writer—25—were all the men and officers of Company D in this battle of Five Forks.
In Warren's swing around our left he had killed, wounded and captured a large part of our dismounted cavalry on that wing, practically the whole of the brigades of Ransom and Wallace and a large part of Steuart's. After this capture we could not have had more than 4500 men left, who kept up and maintained the fight until 6 o'clock P.M. It was simply a yielding to overwhelming numbers, and the strangest thing of all is that we were not all captured or killed. It was within the power of the Federals at any time after 4 o'clock P.M. to have made prisoners of us all, and nothing but bad Federal generalship and the protection of God saved us, for the Union army were brave enough. There is no doubt about Sheridan's men fighting; they were men many of whom for gallant conduct had been taken from other arms of the service and placed in the cavalry. They were brave, reckless, and withal generous foes.
In closing this account of the battle of Five Forks I here insert some extracts from General Longstreet's book, "Bull Run to Appomattox." Speaking of Warren's flank movement and after Ransom's and Wallace's brigades had been broken up, he says: "The brigades of Steuart and Terry changed front and received the rolling battle … the Confederate brigades were pushed back to their extreme right, where in turn Corse's brigade changed front to receive the march." Again: "The position was not of General Pickett's choosing, and from his orders he assumed he would be reinforced. His execution was all that a skilful commander could apply…. Though taken by surprise, there was no panic in any part of the command; brigade after brigade changed front to the left and received the overwhelming battle as it rolled on until it was crushed back to the next, before it could deploy out to aid the front—or flank attack, until the last brigade of the brave Corse changed and stood alone on the left…. It is not claiming too much for that grand division to say that, aided by the brigades of Ransom and Wallace, they could not have been dislodged from their intrenched position by parallel battle, even by the great odds against them. As it was, Ayer's division, staggered under the pelting blows that it met, and Crawford's drifted from the blows against it, until it thus found the key of the battle away beyond the Confederate limits. In generalship Pickett was not a bit below the 'gay rider.' His defensive battle was better organized, and it is possible that he would have gained the day if his cavalry had been diligent in giving information of the movements of the enemy."
Early in the morning of Sunday, April 2, we marched from our camp near South Side railway into the main road leading west to Amelia Court House. Reaching this road, we found portions of Heth's and Wilcox's divisions moving along the same, by whom we were informed that our lines around Petersburg had been broken and they cut off from the rest of the army.
We pushed on that day, learning en route that General A. P. Hill had been killed before Petersburg. We went into camp near Deep Creek, hungry and conscious of loss, both in the breaking of the lines at Petersburg and in the death of sturdy, gallant A. P. Hill—and still there was no murmuring.
During the forenoon on Monday the enemy's cavalry came up with our rear guard, when some brisk skirmishing occurred. We passed Deep Creek near 2 P.M., the enemy pressing closely. Late in the evening we received a scanty supply of rations, the first since March 29—four days. Beyond Deep Creek a short distance we went into camp; moving next morning on the road to Amelia Court House, but the enemy had been there ahead of us, had made an attack upon a wagon train, and were driven off by the teamsters and stragglers, leaving their dead and some of their wounded on the streets. Here we heard of the evacuation of Richmond. This, though looked for, brought deep gloom over not a few of the men, who for more than three years had not faltered in hope of ultimate success. From the time Amelia Court House was left at noon on the 4th until Thursday, the 6th, at the close of the battle of Sailor's Creek, there was scarcely an hour, day or night, that we were not engaged in skirmishing with the enemy. They were on the flank, and everywhere, after our beleaguered troops. We were forced to halt and form line of battle, once or more a square, to prevent capture. The march was necessarily slow on account of the wagon and artillery trains, which moved at a snail's pace through the mud, drawn by famished animals, which had had but little food for days. While soldiers may live for a time on enthusiasm, mules and horses must have corn or oats. As for ourselves, we were without food, save a little parched corn, when we could stop long enough to parch it; otherwise we took it raw, shelling it from the cob and eating it as we marched. The small ration issued to us at Deep Creek had only been sufficient for one square meal. Many of the men were overcome with fatigue, hunger and want of sleep, some actually going to sleep walking along, stumbling and falling in the road. No food was to be had in the country along the road upon which we were marching, as the people had been stripped of everything in the way of food by those who had preceded us. It was unsafe to venture far from the command on account of the enemy's cavalry now on all the roads, and many of our men were made prisoners by going away from the line of march in search of food. We halted for rest but once during the night of Wednesday, the 5th, then only for a few minutes, in line of battle, for the enemy was close upon us.
It was the general expression that if all of our marchings, sufferings, hardships, privations and sacrifices for all of the preceding years of the war were summed up, shaken together and pressed down, they would not equal those we were now undergoing on this tramp.
At daylight on Thursday, April 6, a point was reached near Sailor's Creek, a small tributary of the Appomattox, a short distance from High Bridge, and probably ten miles from Farmville. The marching of our depleted and exhausted forces for the past two days had been conducted during the day by throwing out skirmishers on both flanks, and calling them in at dark, our rear now being cared for by the troops of General Ewell. The skirmishers in front and on the flank became actively engaged at sunrise, the balls from the enemy's sharpshooters whistling over and among the men of the regiment. Here I saw for the first and last time General Henry A. Wise, a tall, slender, gray-haired man, straight as an arrow, apparently vigorous for a man of his years. We were now to fight our last engagement—the battle of Sailor's Creek.
The skirmishing now grew more animated, we expecting every moment to be attacked, but the enemy was merely attracting our attention and trying to hold us where we were until his infantry columns could come up. In the afternoon, probably 2:30 or a little later, a heavy force of the enemy's cavalry made a charge on a battalion of Confederate artillery in advance of us on the same road. To check this cavalry charge, we were hurried across Sailor's Creek, reaching the guns of Colonel Huger's battalion in time to see most of the artillerists, including Colonel Huger, taken away as prisoners. The enemy not being able to take these guns away, as we were now at their heels, they hurriedly chopped with an axe the spokes out of the wheels, disabling them for present use, then retreated, we following in line of battle and going forward through an open field, meeting no resistance, and halting on a piece of high ground. A squadron of Federal cavalry, spying General Pickett with his staff riding up in our rear, made a dash for him; about the same time he discovered the object of these bold riders, and galloped quickly to the lines of the brigade to our left, which was in a body of scattering timber. These reckless troopers pushed up after the General until close to our men, who fired upon them, emptying every saddle. This incident is given to show the reader how desperate was this prolonged game of death.
On the brow of the hill where our brigade halted on the road on which we had been marching, there was intersection with another road leading directly west. Here we hurriedly tore away an old worm fence, piling up the rails to make some protection against rifle balls. On the left rear of Pickett's and part of Bushrod Johnson's divisions on Sailor's Creek were Custis Lee's and Kershaw's 3000 men under General Ewell, with whom we had no connection, nor with Mahone's division and other troops ahead of us, leaving gaps through which the Federal cavalry passed, enabling them to get on our flanks and rear. The enemy's troops in this engagement—one army corps with three cavalry divisions—numbered 25,000 or more men, while the Confederates did not have 7500 all told. The fighting was desperate. Along our front and fully five hundred yards away we could see passing to our right heavy bodies of the enemy, evidently bent upon getting ahead of us. Moreover, this must have been manifest to our commanding officers, who permitted us to remain idle for several hours and until the enemy made full preparations to attack us. That somebody blundered, there is no doubt, as any enlisted man in the ranks could clearly see. We should have moved on. The attack came between 3 and 4 o'clock P.M. by an assault on Munford's dismounted cavalry in a skirt of woods to our right. This attack, as were others on our right front, was repulsed.
General Terry, our brigade commander, had given the order to move to the right, when he discovered another advance upon us, this time in heavy force. We were ordered to remain where we were and not to fire until the enemy were close enough to see the whites of their eyes, then fire and charge with the bayonet. We were behind the rails, close to the ground. The enemy, armed with repeating rifles, when within seventy-five yards or so opened upon us, filling the air with balls, and coming at us. Every man who raised his head above the rails gave his life for the venture. Captain Harris, the Adjutant General of the brigade, raised his head to look and fell back dead; a sandy haired man of my regiment at my elbow met the same fate. He was from Orange County and never knew what hit him. Then came a lull in the firing in front, and I heard a noise behind us; looking around, I saw a column of Federal cavalry close behind us, one of whom had boldly dashed up behind our regiment, seized the colors, and with drawn saber compelled Torbett, the color bearer, to surrender the same. Such was the character and bravery of the men we had to fight. Some one just then cried, "Fire!" and a portion of our regiment delivered its fire into the faces of the enemy in front. In a moment began an indiscriminate fight with clubbed muskets, flagstaffs, pistols and sabers. In a few moments all was over. We had met the enemy and we were theirs. This final struggle was most tragic. We were now marched out and surrounded by a cordon of cavalry.
Ewell's, Kershaw's and Custis Lee's battle on the left was still raging, but to terminate, as had ours, in their capture, together with the greater part of their commands, which had made a brave and gallant fight, but like ourselves were the victims of gross blunders on the part of someone in authority on the field, as well as overwhelmed by superior numbers. This battle ended my activities in the army. There remains only to describe my experience as a prisoner of war, which I will do later on.
The Federal losses in this battle were 166 killed, 1014 wounded. The Confederate losses, 268 killed, 2032 wounded, together with some 6000 prisoners claimed by the enemy. A portion of the division escaped with General Pickett and reached Appomattox.
I am unable to give the number of the killed, wounded and captured of our division, brigade or regiment. I do not, however, believe the 7th Virginia in this battle numbered two hundred, the brigade five hundred, the division not exceeding two thousand. Company D had two officers and sixteen men in this battle, having no loss in killed or wounded. Suffice it to say that with our small number we could not have been driven from our position by parallel battle line.
Four years before this company left Pearisburg, Virginia, with 102 men, the majority of whom were as promising and gallant young men as Virginia produced. During the time of service twenty recruits were added, making 122 in all, and now here we were with eighteen left. The reader is left to ask where were the 104. Let the crippled and mangled survivors who had been discharged, the graves of the noble dead scattered all over Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania, make answer. Can anyone wonder that we eighteen were drawn together that day by a bond of suffering and blighted hope, closer than ever before?
Here are the names of the men of Company D present in this last tragic struggle, to-wit: Captain R. H. Bane, Lieutenant Thomas S. Taylor; the men, Fry, Yager, Shannon, Bolton, Darr, Eaton, Gordon, Henderson, J. J. Hurt, C. Minnich, G. A. Minnich, Suthern, Stafford, Wiley, Meadows and the writer.
Strange were the scenes among the captives at Sailor's Creek: some cried, some prayed, others were angry; some cursed, abusing the one who blundered, leading us into the trap to be captured, while a few were cheerful, saying all is not yet lost, but it was apparent to the writer that we had fired our last gun. The flag we had followed to victory on so many fields was now furled forever, and strong men wept!
The sun was fast sinking; the men lay down upon the ground and were soon asleep, many not waking until the sun was high in the heavens the next day. Gloom was depicted on every countenance, and sorrow was in every face. These men had seen their comrades go down day by day, by which they were impressed that if the war continued it was only a question of time when they too would bite the dust. They, however, had this consolation regarding their fallen comrades: that they had gone down in the conscientious belief in the justness of their cause, in the hope of victory, and had not lived to see their flag furled in defeat, and were saved the humiliation of tasting the bitter cup of submission, of which we were to drink to its very dregs. Maybe these after all were the lucky men—who knows? The gallantry and devotion of our soldiers in the unequal struggle proved how thorough were their convictions of the righteousness of their cause. Their devotion to that cause and their kindness and humanity to those whom the fate of war placed in their power, proved them worthy sons of noble ancestry. These men viewed the attempt at coercion on the part of the Northern people as aggression, and their action in defense of their country, homes and firesides, as an inherent, inalienable right—a defense of constitutional liberty.
Immediately upon our capture, the Federal soldiers stripped many of our men of all their good hats, boots and small trinkets. Colonel Flowerree, who had a splendid new hat and boots, was deprived of both, and in lieu thereof was given a worn out, dingy old cap and rough shoes. I think they took these things as souvenirs—war trophies—they did not need them, for they were well supplied.
We were without food and had been practically so since the preceding Monday. Our captors themselves were poorly supplied, but our humane, brave and generous foes divided their scanty supply with us. All of the men captured in the battle of the day before, about six thousand, the Federals then claimed, were congregated with us in the field in which we were placed.
Near noon on Friday, April 7, the march was taken up for prison at Point Lookout, a distance of about 150 miles, though at that time we did not know our destination. The Federal soldiers were still taking from our men hats and other articles that pleased their fancy. I noted in my description of the battle of Dreury's Bluff that an Irish sergeant of the 1st Virginia regiment had picked up a fine hat on the battlefield which he had given to me because it would not fit his head, but did mine. I kept this hat until the opening of the campaign in March, 1865, when I put it on, believing this would be our last campaign. When captured at Sailor's Creek I was wearing this hat, and on observing the Federal soldiers capturing hats from our men, I kept as far away from them as I could until we began the march on the 7th, when, crossing a pond, I soused my hat in the muddy water, which made it then appear as worthless, but it was safe in my possession. I wore it to prison, then cleaned off the mud and wore it home. This hat, a blanket and a canteen were the only Federal trophies of the war I carried home.
Late in the evening of April 7, while on the march, we met a drove of beef cattle being driven forward for use of the Federal army. We were halted while a number of these beeves were slaughtered, dressed, cut up into small parcels and handed us where we stood in the road, and we marched on without opportunity to cook the beef, which we devoured blood raw, without salt. This probably may shock the reader, but it was the best that could be done.
On the night march of the 7th from Burkeville I could have escaped, but I reasoned that if I did I would most likely be recaptured, and if I was not I would probably starve, as there was no food in the country, so I determined to risk our captors to give us food.
Next morning we were near Nottoway and passed that day through Petersburg, halting on Thursday, the 13th, near 10 o'clock A.M., at the Federal commissary, nearly a mile beyond the city, where a bountiful supply of food was given us—the first we had received since March 29. Several men were too sick to eat, I of the number, enfeebled as we were from our long continued marching and from dysentery, resulting from eating raw, warm beef, without salt. Resuming the march late in the evening, City Point was reached at dark, where we were huddled together, forced to stand all night in mud several inches deep, in a drizzling rain, without rest or sleep, not even a place to sit down, unless in the mud and water. Such is war.
Next day, April 14, we were placed aboard a steamer, that evening dropping down the James River. Next morning, Saturday the 15th, found our vessel anchored off Point Lookout. Here we first heard of Mr. Lincoln's assassination the preceding night, which at first we were not disposed to credit, but were soon convinced that some fearful catastrophe had taken place, as the flags on the shipping were at half mast. As soon as we were landed we became satisfied that the report of Mr. Lincoln's death was true, the Federal soldiers informing us that any signs of exultation would result in the opening of the batteries on us. We saw that the guns were pointed at the prison. They, however, mistook the spirit and feelings of our men, who, though stung by defeat, yet brave and chivalrous foes, they could in no wise justify, excuse or palliate so cold-blooded a murder, much less rejoice at its commission. They regretted greatly the death of Mr. Lincoln, and spoke of him in the tenderest terms, saying had he lived he would have been kind to our people.
As we entered the prison walls, every man was searched and everything of value (which was little) taken from him. The quarters consisted of small tents, large enough for about five men, into which were crowded about eight to ten, divided into companies in charge of our own sergeants.
Around the prison was a high plank fence with a platform at the top, on which the guards made their beats. The water was bad—brackish, discoloring our teeth. The number of Confederates in this prison was more than 23,000 men, covering about twenty-two acres of land—more than 1,000 to the acre. The number of deaths among the prisoners reported was, from April to July, over 6,800. Among these was Josephus Suthern, of Company D, 7th regiment. I found in this prison Sumner, Crawford, Dudley and Mullins, of Company D, who, with those captured at Sailor's Creek, to wit: Fry, Yager, Shannon, Bolton, Darr, Eaton, Gordon, Henderson, Jim Hurt, Meadows, C. Minnich, George A. Minnich, Suthern, Stafford, Wiley and the writer, making the number twenty in prison. When we met under these new conditions, strange sensations were experienced, as the reader may well suppose.
The only place we were allowed to go outside of the prison, and that only in the daytime, was on the Chesapeake bayside. Our rations consisted of eight ounces of loaf bread per day, a thin piece of bacon or salt pork boiled and cut so thin that it was almost transparent, and a pint cup of bean soup, in which we occasionally found a bean. As a result we were always hungry—went to bed hungry, dreamed of being hungry, and got up ready for breakfast with the same feeling. I went to prison weighing one hundred and sixty-five pounds, not sick a day after I got there, and came out weighing one hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Carrying out the ratio, if I had stayed there six months I would have weighed nothing. We were constantly in danger of being wounded or losing our lives by the reckless firing of the negro guards into the prison at some one claimed by them to be violating the prison rules. We had nothing to read except now and then when we found some man with a Bible or Testament. Some of the men were ingenious workmen, making rings from gutta percha buttons and selling them to the guards.
Near the middle of June orders came for the discharge of the prisoners, upon taking the oath of fidelity to the United States. The men were to be taken out in alphabetical order and transported away as rapidly as could be done. As soon as it was announced that men's names beginning with the letter A would repair to headquarters, then it seemed to all appearances that half the prisoners had names beginning with the letter A. Many a poor fellow, in his anxiety to get away, went out under an assumed name. The letter J was called on Wednesday, June 28, when the numbers in the prison had been greatly reduced, though only the ninth letter of the alphabet had been passed.
Repairing to headquarters, thirty-two fell into line under the American flag unfolded over their heads and had the oath administered to them; the officers taking a personal description of each man, furnishing him the oath and certificate of discharge in writing, when he was passed outside the prison wall. Here follows an exact copy of the oath taken by me and certificate of discharge from prison: