"So that, from point to point, now have you heardThe fundamental reasons of this war;Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,And more thirsts after."--SHAKESPEARE.
"So that, from point to point, now have you heardThe fundamental reasons of this war;Whose great decision hath much blood let forth,And more thirsts after."--SHAKESPEARE.
The doctor brought me a small pocket memorandum-book, thinking that I would require many notes.
"Now," said he, "where shall we begin? You remember October fifty-nine?"
"Yes."
"What date?"
"Eighteenth; the papers contained an account of John Brown's seizure of Harper's Ferry."
"And you know nothing of the termination of the Brown episode?"
"Nothing."
I took brief notes as he unfolded the history of the war.
In the course of his story he spoke of the National Democratic Convention which was held in Charleston. I remembered the building of which he spoke--the South Carolina Institute Hall--and interrupted him to tell him so."
"Maybe your home is in Charleston."
"I don't think so, Doctor; I remember being in Charleston, but I don't remember my home."
He brought out a map and told me the dates of all the important actions and the names of the officers who had commanded or fought in them in '61 and '62, both in Virginia and the West.
"So we have come down to date, Doctor?" I said.
"Yes; but I think that now I ought to go back and tell you something about your own command."
"Well, sir."
"There was more fighting while these Richmond movements were in progress. Where is Fredericksburg? Here," looking at the map.
"Well."
"A Yankee army was there under McDowell, the man who commanded at the battle of Manassas. We had a small army facing McDowell. You were in that army; it was under General Anderson--Tredegar Anderson we call him, to distinguish him from other Andersons; he is president of the Tredegar Iron Works, here in Richmond. Well, you were facing McDowell. Now, look here at the map. McClellan stretched his right wing as far as Mechanicsville--here, almost north of Richmond; and you were between McClellan and McDowell. So Anderson had to get out. Don't you remember the hot march?"
"Not at all; I don't think I was there."
"I thought I'd catch you napping. I think that when you recover your memory it will be from some little thing that strikes you in an unguarded moment. Your mind, when consciously active, fortifies itself against your forgotten past, and it may be in a moment of weakness that things will return to you; I shouldn't wonder if a dream proves to be the beginning. However, some men have such great strength of will that they can do almost anything. If ever you get the smallest clew, you ought then and there to determine that you will never let it go. Your friends may find you any day, but it is strange they have not yet done it They surely must be classing you among the killed."
A Lesson In HistoryMap of Chesapeake Bay and Environs
"Do you think that my friends could help me by telling me the past? Would my memory return if I should find them?"
"No; they could give you no help whatever until you should first find one thing as a starting-point. Find but one little thing, and then they can show you how everything else is to be associated with that. Without their help you would have a hard time in collecting things--putting them together; they would be separate and distinct in your mind; if you remember but one isolated circumstance, it would be next to impossible to reconstruct. Well, let's go on and finish; we are nearly at the end, or at the beginning, for you. Where was I?
"Anderson retreated from Fredericksburg. When was that?"
"The twenty-fourth of May or twenty-fifth--say the night of the twenty-fourth."
"Well, sir."
"We had a brigade here, at Hanover Court-House--Branch's brigade. While you were retreating, and when you were very near Hanover, McClellan threw a column on Branch, and used him very severely. You were not in the fight exactly, but were in hearing of it, and saw some of Branch's men after the fight. That is how we know what brigade you belong to, although it will not claim you. You know that you are from South Carolina, and your buttons prove it; and your diary shows that you were near Branch's brigade while it was in the fight; and the only South Carolina brigade in the whole of Lee's army that had any connection with Branch, is Gregg's. Do you see?"
"I see," said I, "what is the date of that battle?"
"May 27th; your diary tells you that."
"Yes, sir."
"You continued to retreat to Richmond. So did Branch. The division you are in is A.P. Hill's. It is called the Light division. Branch's brigade is in it."
"Yes, sir; now let me see if I can call the organization of the army down to the company."
"Go ahead."
"Lee's army--"
"Yes; Army of Northern Virginia."
"What is General Lee's full name?"
"Robert E.--Robert Edward Lee, of Virginia; son of Light-Horse Harry Lee of Revolution times."
"Thank you, sir; Lee's army--A.P. Hill's division--Gregg's brigade--what is General Gregg's name?"
"Maxcy."
"Gregg's brigade--First South Carolina, Colonel Hamilton--"
"How did you know that?"
"Bellot told me; what is Colonel Hamilton's name?"
"D.H.--Daniel, I believe."
"Company H, Captain Haskell--"
"William Thompson Haskell."
"Thank you, sir; any use to write the lieutenants?"
"No."
"Well, Doctor, that brings us to date."
"Now read what you have written," he said.
I read my notes aloud, expanding the abbreviations I had made. My interest and absorption had been so intense that I could easily have called over in chronological order the principal events he had just narrated.
"Now," asked Dr. Frost, "do you believe that you can fill in the details from what you can remember of what I said?"
"Yes, sir," said I; "try me."
He asked some questions, and I replied to them.
My memory astonished him. "I must say, Jones, that you have a phenomenally good and a miraculously bad memory. You'll do," he said.
His account of the fight of the ironclads had interested me.
"What has become of theMerrimac?" I asked him.
"We had to destroy her. When Yorktown was evacuated, Norfolk had to follow suit. The Federal fleet is now in James River, some halfway down below Richmond. A blockade has been declared by Lincoln against all the ports of the South. We are exceedingly weak on the water."
"And so your follies fight against yourself.Fear, and be slain; no worse can come; to fight--And fight and die, is death destroying death;Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath."--SHAKESPEARE.
"And so your follies fight against yourself.Fear, and be slain; no worse can come; to fight--And fight and die, is death destroying death;Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath."--SHAKESPEARE.
On June 7,1862, I reported for duty to Captain Haskell. Dr. Frost had offered to send me over, but I preferred to go alone, and, as my strength seemed good, I made my way afoot, and with all my possessions in my pockets.
The Captain was ready for me. My name was recorded on the roll of Company H, Orderly-sergeant George Mackay writing Jones, B., in its alphabetical position.
A soldier's outfit was given to me at once, a requisition having been made before my coming. I joined the mess of the Bellots. Besides the brothers Bellot, the mess had other men with whom I formed gradually some of the ties of friendship; they were Sergeant Josey, Corporal Veitch, Privates Bail, Bee, Bell, Benton, and Box, in this alphabetical succession of names my own name being no real exception, although Captain Haskell had insisted upon the name written in the diary.
And now my duties at once began. I must relearn a soldier's drill in the manual and in everything. The company drilled four hours a day, and the regiment had one hour's battalion drill, besides dress-parade; there was roll-call in the company morning and night.
Nominally a raw recruit, I was handed over to Sergeant John Wilson, who put me singly through the exercises without arms for about four hours on my first day's duty, which was the third day of my enlistment, or perhaps I should say re-enlistment. The sergeant seemed greatly pleased with my progress, and told me that he should at once promote me to be the right guide of his awkward squad.
On the next day, therefore, I found myself drilling with three other recruits who had been members of the company for a week or more. That night Orderly-sergeant Mackay, who seemed to have received me into his good graces, told me that Wilson had said that that new man Jones beat everything that he had seen before; that learning to drill was to Jones "as easy as fallin' off a log." I remembered Dr. Frost's prediction.
The third day I drilled with the awkward squad again; but in the afternoon my gun was put into my hands, and for an extra half-hour I was exercised in the manual of arms. But my first attempts proved very unfortunate. Sergeant Wilson scolded, stormed, and almost swore at me. He placed my gun at thecarry, and called repeated attention to the exact description of the position, contained in the language of Hardee: "The piece in the right hand, the barrel nearly vertical, and resting in the hollow of the shoulder; the guard to the front, the arm hanging nearly at its full length near the body; the thumb and forefinger embracing the guard, the remaining fingers closed together, and grasping the swell of the stock just under the cock, which rests on the little finger." I simply could not execute theshoulder, orcarry, with any precision, although the positions ofsupport, right-shoulder-shift, present,and all the rest, gave me no trouble after they were reached; reaching them, from theshoulderwas the great trouble.
Wilson ended by ordering me off and reporting me to the Captain.
Captain Haskell sent for me. He said kindly, "Jones, Sergeant Wilson gives a bad report of you."
"I do the best I can, Captain."
"The sergeant seems to think that you are obstinate on some peculiar point that he did not make me fully understand. He gives you great praise for learning the facings and the steps, but says you will not learn the manual."
"I don't understand my awkwardness, Captain. There is something wrong about it."
"You find the manual difficult?"
"Not only difficult, but absurd," said I; "it makes me nervous."
"And the facings and steps were not difficult?"
"Not at all; they seemed easy and natural."
"Take your gun and come with me," said the Captain; "I think I have a clew to the situation."
Behind the Captain's simple quarters was an open space. He made me take position. He also took position, with a rifle at his side.
"Now, look," said he; "see this position, which I assume to be theshouldernatural to you."
His gun was at his left side, the barrel to the front, the palm of his left hand under the butt.
"Now," said he, "this is theshoulderof the heavy infantry manual. I think you were drilled once in a company which had thisshoulder. It may not have been in your recent regiment that you were so drilled, for thisshoulderobtained in all the militia companies of Carolina before the war. Many regiments still hold to it. Follow my motions now--Support--ARMS!"
The Captain's right hand grasped the piece at the small of the stock; his left arm was thrown across his breast, the cock resting on the forearm; his right hand fell quickly to his side.
I imitated him. I felt no nervousness, and told him so.
"I thought so," said he; "now, just remember that all the other positions in the manual are unchanged. It is only theshoulder, orcarry, as we sometimes call it, that has been changed. You will like the new drill."
He began to put me through the exercises, and although I had difficulty, yet I had some success.
"Now report to Sergeant Wilson again," said the Captain.
I told the sergeant that I thought I could now do better; that I had been confused by the light infantrycarry, never having seen drill except from the heavy infantryshoulder. Wilson kept me at work for almost an hour, and expressed satisfaction with my progress. Under his training I was soon able to drill with the company.
Louis Bellot asked me, one night, if I should not like to see Richmond. He had got permission to go into town on the next day. The Captain readily granted me leave of absence for twenty-four hours, and Bellot and I spent the day in rambling over the town. We saw the State House, and the Confederate Congress in session, and wandered down to the river and took a long look at the Libby Prison.
The First had been in bivouac behind the main lines of Lee's left, but now the regiment took position in the front, the lines having been extended still farther to the left. A battery at our right--some distance away--would throw a few shells over at the Yankees, and their guns would reply; beyond this almost daily artillery practice, nothing unusual occurred.
One morning, about ten o'clock, Captain Haskell ordered me to get my arms and follow him. He at once set out toward the front, Corporal Veitch being with him. The Captain was unarmed, except for his sword. He led us through our pickets and straight on toward the river. The slope of the hill was covered with sedge, and there were clumps of pine bushes which hid us from any casual view from either flank; and as for the river swamp in our front, unless a man had been on its hither edge, we were perfectly screened. I observed that, as we approached the swamp, the Captain advanced more stealthily, keeping in the thickest and tallest of the bushes. Veitch and I followed in his footsteps, bending over and slipping along from bush to bush in imitation of our leader. The river bottom, which we reached very shortly, was covered with a dense forest of large trees and undergrowth. Soon we came to water, into which the Captain waded at once, Veitch behind him and I following Veitch. Captain Haskell had not said a word to me concerning the purpose of our movements, nor do I now know what he intended, if it was not merely to learn the position of the Yankee pickets.
We went on, the water at last reaching to my waist. Now the Captain signalled us to stop. He went forward some ten yards and stood behind a tree. He looked long in his front, bending his body this way and that; then he beckoned to us to come. The undergrowth here was less thick, the trees larger. I could see nothing, in any direction, except trees and muddy water. The Captain went on again for a few paces, and stopped with a jerk. After a little he beckoned to us again. Veitch and I waded slowly on. Before we reached Captain Haskell, he motioned to us to get behind trees.
From my tree I looked out, first in one direction and then in another. There was nothing--nothing except water and woods. But the Captain was still peering from behind his tree, and I could now see that his whole attention was fixed on something. Veitch, also, at my right, was silent and alert and rigid, so that I felt, rather than saw, that there was something in front of us, and I kept my eyes intent upon a narrow aisle just beyond me. All at once a man in dark-blue dress passed across the opening; I knew instantly that he was a Yankee, although I had never seen one in my life, and instinctively felt the hammer of my rifle, but he was gone. Now, looking more closely, I could see glimpses of other blue men behind trees or in the bushes; I saw three of them. They were about sixty yards from us; I supposed they were part of their picket-line. I had a peculiar itching to take aim at one of them, and consulted the Captain with my eyes, but he frowned.
Doubtless, they had not seen us. They were on the farther side of the Chickahominy, with a flowing stream and a wide pool stretching in their front, and were not very watchful. We remained stiff in our places for four or five minutes; then the Captain moved slowly backward and gave us a sign to follow.
This little adventure gave me great pleasure, inasmuch as it made me feel that the Captain was favourable to me.
On the evening of the 25th of June we were ordered to cook three days' rations. The pronunciation of this word puzzled me no little. Everybody said rash-ons, while I, though I had never before had occasion to use the word, had thought of it as rãtions. I think I called it rãtions once or twice before I got straight. I remembered Dr. Frost's advice to hold fast any slightest clew, and felt that possibly this word might, in the future, prove a beginning.
The troops knew that the order meant a march, perhaps a battle. For a day or two past an indefinite rumour of some movement on the part of Jackson's command had circulated among the men. Nobody seemed to know where Jackson was; this, in itself, probably gave occasion for the talk. From what I could hear, it seemed to be thought generally that Jackson was marching on Washington, but some of the most serious of the men believed exactly the contrary; they believed that Jackson was very near to Lee's army.
The night of the 25th was exceedingly warm. After all was ready for the march, I lay on my blanket and tried vainly to sleep. Joe Bellot was lying not more than three feet from me, and I knew that he, too, was awake, though he did not speak or move. Busy, and sometimes confused, thoughts went through my mind. I doubted not that I should soon see actual war, and I was far from certain that I could stand it. I had never fired a shot at a man; no man had ever fired at me. I fully appreciated the fact of the difference between other men and me; perhaps I exaggerated my peculiarity. I had heard and had read that most men in battle are able from motives of pride to do their duty; but I was certainly not like most men. I was greatly troubled. The other men had homes to fight for, and that they would fight well I did not doubt at all; but I was called on to fight for an idea alone--for the abstraction called State rights. Yet I, too, surely had a home in an unknown somewhere, and these men were fighting for my home as well as theirs; if I could not fight for a home of my own, I could fight for the homes of my friends. My home, too, was a Southern home, vague, it is true, but as real as theirs, and Southern homes were in danger from the invaders. Imustfight for Southern homes--formyhome; but could I stand up with my comrades in the peril of battle? Few men are cowards, but was I not one of a few? perhaps unique even?
Of pride I had enough--I knew that. I knew that if I could but retain my presence of mind I could support a timid physical nature by the resources of reason in favour of my dignity; but, then, what is courage if it is not presence of mind in the midst of danger? If my mind fail, I shall have no courage: this is to think in a circle. I felt that I should prefer death to cowardice--the thought gave me momentary comfort.
But do not all cowards feel just that way before the trial comes? A coward must be the most wretched of men--not a man, an outcast from men.
And then, to kill men--was that preferable to being killed? I doubted it and--perhaps it is strange to say it--the doubt comforted me. To be killed was no worse than to kill.
Then I thought of General Lee; what force could it be that sustainedhimat this moment? If not now, at least shortly, he would give orders which must result in the death of thousands; it was enough to craze a general. How could he, reputed so good, give such orders? Could any success atone for so much disaster? What could be in the mind of General Lee to make him consent to such sacrifice? It must be that he feels forced; he cannot do it willingly. Would it not be preferable to give up the contest--to yield everything, rather than plunge the people of two nations into despair and horror over so many wasted lives? For so many stricken homes? For widows, orphans, poverty, ruin? What is it that sustains General Lee? It is, it must be, that he is a mere soldier and simply obeys orders. Orders from whom? President Davis. Then President Davis is responsible for all this? On him falls the burden? No. What then? The country.
And what is this thing that we call the country? Land? People? What is land? I have no land. I have no people, so far as I know. But, supposing that I have people and land--what is the country for which we fight? Will the enemy take our people, and take our land, if we do not beat them back? Yes, they will reduce our people to subjection. I shall become a dependant upon them. I shall be constrained in my liberties; part of my labour will go to them against my will. My property, if I have any, will be taken from me in some way--perhaps confiscated, if not wholly, at least in a measure, by laws of the conquerors. I shall not be free.
But am I now free? If we drive back the enemy, shall I be free? Yes, I shall be free, rightly free, free to aid the country, and to got aid from the country, I shall be part of the country and can enjoy my will, because I will to be part of my country and to help build up her greatness and sustain and improve her institutions.
Institutions? What is an institution? We say government is an institution. What is a government? Is it a body of men? No. What is it, then? Something formed by the people for their supposed good, a growth, a development--a development of what? Is it material? No, it is moral; it issoul--then I thought I could see what is meant by the country and by her institutions. The country is the spirit of the nation--and it is deathless. It is not doomed to subjection; take the land--enslave the people--and yet will that spirit live and act and have a body. Let our enemies prevail over our armies; let them destroy; yet shall all that is good in our institution be preserved even by our enemies; for a true idea is imperishable and nothing can decay but the false.
Then why fight? Because the true must always war against the false. The false and the true are enemies. But why kill the body in order to spread, or even to maintain, the truth? Will the truth be better or stronger by that?
Perhaps--yet no. War is evil and not good, and it is only by good that evil can be overcome. But if our enemies come upon us, must we not fight? The country wishes peace. Our enemies bring war. Must we submit? We cannot submit. Submission to disgrace is repugnant to the spirit of the nation; death is better than submission. But killing, is it not crime? Is crime better than submission? No; submission is better than crime But is not submission also a crime? At least it is an infringement of the law of the nation's spirit. Then crime must be opposed by crime? To avoid the crime of submission we must commit the crime of killing? It seems so--but why? But why? Ah! yes; I think I see; it is because the spirit of the nation is not equal to the spirit of the world. The world-idea forbids killing and forbids submission, and demands life and freedom for all; the spirit of the nation is not so unselfish; the spirit of the nation exalts so-called patriotism; the world-spirit raises high the principle of philanthropy universal. The country has not developed the world-idea, and will not, except feebly; but she will at last, and will be loyal to the spirit of the world. Then, unless I am sustained by a greater power, I cannot go contrary to the spirit of the South. I must kill and must be killed.
But can I stand the day of battle? Have I not argued myself into a less readiness to kill? Will these thoughts or fancies--coming to me I know not whence, and bringing to me a mental disturbance incomprehensible and unique--comfort me in the hour of danger? Will not my conscience force me to be a coward? Yet cowardice is worse than death.
I could not sleep; I was farther from sleep than ever. I rose, and walked through long lines of sleeping men--men who on the morrow might be still more soundly sleeping.
Captain Haskell was standing alone, leaning against the parapet. I approached. He spoke kindly, "Jones, you should be asleep."
"Captain," I said; "I have tried for hours to sleep, but cannot."
"Let us sit down," said he; "and we will talk it over by ourselves."
His tone was unofficial. The Captain, reserved in his conduct toward the men, seldom spoke to one of them except concerning duties, yet he was very sympathetic in personal matters, and in private talk was more courteous and kind toward a private than toward an equal. I understood well enough that it was through sympathy that he had invited me to unburden.
"Captain," I said, "I fear."
"May I ask what it is that you fear?"
"I fear that I am a coward."
"Pardon me for doubting. Why should you suppose so?"
"I have never been tried, and I dread the test."
"But," said he; "you must have forgotten. You were in a close place when you were hurt. No coward would have been where you were, if the truth has been told."
"That was not I; I am now another man."
"Allow me again to ask what it is that you seem to dread."
"Proving a coward," I replied.
"You fear that you will fear?" said he.
"That is exactly it."
"Then, my friend, what you fear is not danger, but fear."
"I fear that danger will make me fear."
"I imagine, sir, that danger makes anybody fear--at least anybody who has something more than the mere fearlessness of the brute that cannot realize danger."
"Do you fear, too, Captain?"
The Captain hesitated, and I was abashed at my boldness. I knew that his silence was rebuke.
"I will tell you how I feel, Jones, since you permit me to speak of myself," he said at last; "I feel that life is valuable, and not to be thrown away lightly. I want to live and not die; neither do I like the thought of being maimed for life. Death and wounds are very distasteful to me. I feel that my body is averse to exposing itself to pain; I fear pain; I fear death, but I do not fear fear. I do not think the fear of death is unmanly, for it is human. Those who do not fear death do not love life. Please tell me if you love life."
"I do not know, Captain; I suppose I do."
"Do you fear death?"
"What I fear now is cowardice. I suppose that if I were indifferent to death I should have no fear of being afraid."
"I am sure that you kept your presence of mind the other day, in the swamp," said he.
"I don't think I had great fear."
"Yet you were in danger there."
"Very little, I think, Captain."
"No, sir; you were in danger. At any moment a bullet might have ended your life."
"I did not realize the situation, then."
"Well, I must confess that you had the advantage of me, then," said he.
"What? You, Captain? You felt that you were in danger?"
"Yes, Jones; every moment I knew our danger."
"But you did not fear."
"May I ask if you do not regard fear as the feeling caused by a knowledge of danger?"
"I know, Captain,--I don't know how I know it,--but I know that a man may fear and yet do his duty; but there are other men, and I am afraid that I am one of them, who fear and who fail in duty."
"I congratulate you, sir; I wish all our men would fear to fail in duty," said he; "we should have an invincible army in such case. An army consisting, without exception, of such men, could not be broken. It is those who flee, those who fail in duty, that cause disorganization. The touch of the elbow is good for the weak, I think, sir; but for the man who will do his duty such dependence should not be taught. Good men, instructed to depend on comrades will be demoralized when comrades forsake them. Our method of battle ought to be changed. Our ranks should be more open. Many reasons might be urged for that change, but the one we are now considering is enough. The close line makes good men depend on weak men; when the weak fail, the strong feel a loss which is not really a loss but rather an advantage, if they could but see it so. Every man in the army ought to be taught to do his whole duty regardless of what others do. Those who cannot be so taught ought not to fight, sir; there are other duties more suited to them."
"And I fear that my case is just such a one," I said.
"There is fear and fear," said he; "how would you like for me to test you now?"
"To test me?"
"Yes; I can make you a proposition that will test your courage." His voice had become stern.
I hesitated. What was he going to do? I could not imagine. But I felt that to reject his offer would be to accept fully the position into which my fears were working to thrust me.
"Do it, Captain," said I; "make it. I want to be relieved of this suspense."
"No matter what danger you run? Is danger better than suspense concerning danger?"
I reflected again. At last I brought up all my nerve and replied, "Yes, Captain, danger is better than fear."
"Why did you hesitate? Was it through fear?"
"Yes," said I; "but not entirely through fear; I doubted that I had the right to incur danger uselessly."
"And how did you settle that?"
"I settle that by trusting to you, Captain."
He laughed; then he said: "The test that I shall give you may depress you, but I am sure that you are going to be as good a soldier as Company H can boast of having. Lieutenant Rhett, only yesterday, remarked that you were the best-drilled man in the company, and showed astonishment that a raw recruit, in less than two weeks, should gain such a standing. I thought it advisable to say to him that your education had included some military training, and he was satisfied." The Captain had dropped his official manner. "It is clear to me, Jones, that you are more nearly a veteran than any of us. I know that you have been in danger and have been wounded, and your uniform, which you were wearing then, showed signs of the very hardest service. I have little doubt, sir, that you have already seen battle more than once."
"But, Captain, all that may be true and yet do me no good at all. I am a different man."
"Since you allow me to enter into your confidence,--which I appreciate,--I beg to say that your fears are not unnatural; I think every man in the company has them. And I dare say, as a friend, that you feel fear more sensitively because you live in the subjective; you feel thrown back on yourself. Confess that you are exclusive."
"I am forced to be so, Captain."
"The men would welcome your companionship, sir."
"Yes, sir; but it is as you say: I feel thrown back on myself."
"And I think--though, of course I would not pretend to say it positively--that is why your fears are not unnatural, though peculiar; I fancy that you heighten them by your self-concentration. The world and objects in it divert other men, while your attention is upon your own feelings. Pardon me for saying that you think of little except yourself. This new old experience of battle and peril you apply without dilution to your soul, and you wonder what the effect will be. The other men think of other men, and of home, and of a thousand things. You will be all right in battle. I predict that the excitement of battle will be good for you, sir; it will force you out of yourself."
"I have tried lately to take more interest in the world of other men and other things," I said.
"Yes; I was glad to see you playing marbles to-day. Shall I give you that test?"
"Yes, sir; if you please."
"I think, however, that you have already given proof that you do not need it," said he.
"How so, Captain?"
"Why, we've been talking here for ten minutes since I proposed to test you, and you have shown no suspense whatever in regard to it. Have you lost interest in it?"
"Not at all, Captain; I have only been waiting your good time."
"And therein you have shown fortitude, which may differ from courage, but I do not think it does. I am confident you will at once reject my proposition. I don't know that I ought to make it; but, having begun, I'll finish. What I propose is this: I will assign you some special duty that will keep you out of battle--such as guarding the baggage, or other duty in the rear."
I was silent. An instant more, and I felt hurt.
"Why do you hesitate?"
"Because I did not think--" I stopped in time.
"I know, I know," said he, hastily; "and you must pardon me; but did you not urge me on?"
"I confess it, Captain; and you have done me good."
"Of course, Jones, you know that I did not expect you to accept my offer, which, after all, was merely imaginary. Now, can you not see that what you fear is men's opinions rather than danger? You are not intimidated at the prospect of battle."
"I fear that I shall be," said I.
"And yet, when I propose to keep you out of battle, your indignation seems no less natural to yourself than it does to me."
"Is not that in keeping with what I have said about my fears?"
"Oblige me by explaining."
"I fear to show you my fear. Do I not refuse your offer for the purpose of concealing my fear?"
"And to conceal your imaginary fears, you accept the possibility--the strong possibility--of death," said he, gravely.
"Yes," I replied; "I do now, while death seems far, but what I shall do when it is near is not sure."
"You are very stubborn," said the Captain, in a stern voice, assuming again the relation of an officer.
"I do not mean it that way, Captain."
"You have determined to consider yourself a coward, or at least to cherish fear; and no suggestion I can make seems to touch you."
"I wish I could banish fear," said I.
"Well, sir, determine to do it. Instead of exerting your will to make yourself miserable, use it for a better purpose."
"How can a man will? How can he know that his resolution will not weaken in the time of trial?"
"It is by willing to do what comes next that a man can again will and will more. Can you not determine that you will do what you are ordered to do? Doubtless we shall march, to-morrow; have you not decided that you will march with us?"
"I had not thought of so simple a thing. Of course, Captain, I expect to march."
"And if the march brings us upon the battlefield, do you not know that you will march to the battlefield?"
"I expect to go into battle, of course, Captain. If I did not, I should have no fear of myself."
"Have as great fear of yourself as you wish. Do you intend to run away when we get into battle?"
"I have no such intention; but when the time comes, I may not be able to have any intention at all."
"At what point in the action do you expect to weaken?"
"How can I have any expectation at all? I am simply untried, and fear the test."
"Youcandetermine that you will act the man," said he. Then, kindly: "I have no fears that you will do otherwise, but"--and here his voice again became stern--"the determination will rid you of your present fears. Exert your will, and this nightmare will go."
"Can a man will to do an unknown thing in the future?"
"Youcan. You can drive away your present fear of yourself, at the very least."
"How can I do it, Captain?"
"I shall give you one more test."
"Do anything you wish, Captain; only don't propose anything that would confirm my fear."
"Look at me--now. I am going to count three--understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"When I say 'three,' you will determine to continue in your present state of mind--"
"No, no, Captain; I can't do that!"
"Why, you've been doing nothing else for the last hour, man! But allow me to finish. You are going to determine to remain as you are, or you will determine to conquer your fears. Now, reflect before I begin."
There was a pause.
"Ready!" said the Captain; "hold your teeth together. When I say three, you act--and act for life or death--ONE--TWO--"
If he ever said three, I did not hear it; at the word "two" all my fears were gone.
"Well, my friend, how is it now?" he asked gently, even hesitatingly.
"Captain," said; "I am your grateful servant. I shall do my duty."
"I knew, sir, that your will was only sleeping; you must excuse me for employing a disagreeable device in order to arouse it. If I may make a suggestion, I would now beg, while you are in the vein, that you will encourage henceforth, the companionship of the men."
"It will be a pleasure to do so, hereafter, Captain."
"And I am delighted with this little episode, sir," said he; "I am sincerely glad that the thought of confiding in me presented itself to your mind, since the result seems so wholesome."
"Good night, Captain," said I.
But he did not let me leave without thus having reasserted his character as my commander.
"Go back and get all the sleep you can; you will have need for all your physical strength to-morrow--and after."
I was almost happy.
"If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,Thou'lt not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it."--SHAKESPEARE.
"If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work,Thou'lt not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it."--SHAKESPEARE.
It is said that a word may change a life. Actually? No, not of itself; the life which is changed must be ready for the word, else we were creatures dominated by our surroundings.
I had been a fragment,--a sort of moral flotsam cast up by an unknown sea,--and I had found a rude harbour in Company H. If I touched a larger world, it was only through the medium of the company in its relations to that world. I had formed some attachments,--ties which have lasted through life thus far, and will always last,--but these attachments were immediate only, and, so far as I felt, were almost baseless; for not directly could I see and feel what was felt by the men I loved. Outside the narrow bounds of the company my world was all abstract. I fought for that world, for it appealed to my reason; but it was with effort that I called before my mind that world, which was a very present help to every other man. The one great fact was war; the world was an ideal world rather than a reality. And I frequently felt that, although the ideal after all is the only reality, yet that reality to me must be lacking in the varying quality of light, and the delicate degrees of sweetness and truth which home and friends and all the material good of earth were said to assume for charming their possessors. The day brought me into contact with men; the night left me alone with myself. In my presence men spoke of homes far away, of mothers, of sisters, of wives and children. I could see how deep was the interest which moved them to speak, and, in a measure, they had my sympathy; yet such interest was mystery rather than fact, theoretical rather than practical. I could fill these pages with pathetic and humorous sayings heard in the camps, for my memory peculiarly exerted itself to retain--or rather, I should say, spontaneously retained--what I saw and heard; saw and heard with the least emotion, perhaps, ever experienced by a soldier. Absorbed in reflections on what I heard, and in fancies of a world of which I knew so little, it is not to be doubted that I constructed ideals far beyond the humdrum reality of home life, impracticable ideals that tended only to separate me more from other men. Their world was not my world; this I knew full well, and I sometimes thought they knew it; for while no rude treatment marked their intercourse with me, yet few sought me as a friend. My weak attempts to become companionable had failed and had left me more morose. But for the Captain and for Joe Bellot, I should have been hopeless.
Such had been my feelings before I had willed; now, in a degree, everything was changed; indifference, at least, was gone, and although I was yet subject to the strange experience which ruled my mind and hindered it, yet I knew that I had large power over myself, and I hoped that I should always determine to live the life of a healthy human being, that I should be able to accept the relationships which, through Company H, bound me to all men and all things, and that my interest henceforth would be diversified--touching the world and what is in it rather than myself alone. But this was mere hope; the only certain change was in the banishment of my former indifference.
The morning of Thursday, the 26th of June, passed away, and we yet held our place in the line. At two o'clock the long roll was heard in every regiment. Our knapsacks had been piled, to be stored in Richmond.
"Fall in, Company H! Fall in, men! Fall in promptly!"shouted Orderly-sergeant Mackay.
By fours we went to rear and left, then northward at a rapid stride. Some of the men tried to jest, and failed.
At three o'clock we were crossing Meadow Bridge; we could see before us and behind us long lines of infantry--Lee's left wing in motion.
Beyond the bridge the column filed right; A.P. Hill came riding back along the line of the Light Division.
Suddenly, from over the hills a mile and more away, comes the roar of cannon. We leave the road and march through fields and meadows; the passing of the troops ahead has cleared the way; we go through gaps in rail fences.
And now we hear the crash of small arms, and smoke is rising from our left oblique. We are yet under the hill. We halt and wait. The noise of battle grows. Sunset comes--we move. The next company on our right is passing through a gap in a fence. A shell strikes the topmost rail at the left and hurls it clear over their heads. Then I see men pale, and I know that my own face is white.
Shells fly over us. We lie down on the slope of a hill which rises to our left, and darkness grows, and the noises cease. No breaking of ranks for rest or for water; the long night through we lie on our arms.
Morning comes; we have no water; the men eat their rations dry. At sunrise the march is again begun, through fields and woods and down country roads; we go southeast.
The Yankees have gone. At nine o'clock we halt; a field. Company C, the right of the regiment; is thrown forward as skirmishers.
Again we march; again we halt, the brigade in line of battle. An orderly comes to Captain Haskell.
"Company H!ATTENTION!"
Every man is in his place--alert.
"Forward--MARCH!"
"By the right flank--MARCH!"
"HALT!--FRONT!"
"Company--as skirmishers--on the right file--take intervals--double-quick--MARCH!"
I did not have very far to go. The company was deployed on the left of Company C. Then we went forward in line for half a mile or more, through woods and fields, the brigade following in line of battle.
About eleven o'clock we had before us an extensive piece of open land--uncultivated, level, and dry. In the edge of the woods we had halted, so that we might not get too far ahead of the brigade. From this position we saw--some six hundred yards at our left oblique--a group of horsemen ride out into the field, seemingly upon a road, or line, that would intersect our line of advance. Our men were at once in place. The distance was too great to tell the uniforms of the party of horsemen; but, of course, they could be only Yankees.
Captain Haskell ordered Dave Bellot to step out of the line. The horsemen had halted; they were a small party, not more than fifteen or twenty. Captain Haskell ordered Bellot to take good aim at the most eligible one of the group, and fire.
Bellot knelt on one knee, raised his sight, put his rifle to his shoulder, and lowered it again. "Captain," said he, "I am afraid to fire; they may be our men."
The Captain made no reply; he seemed to hesitate; then he put his handkerchief on the point of his sword and walked forward. A horseman advanced to meet him. Captain Haskell returned to Company H, and said, "They are General Jackson and his staff."
Again we went forward. Prom the brow of a hill we could see tents--a camp, a Yankee camp--on the next hill, and we could see a few men running away from it. We reached the camp. It had been abandoned hurriedly. Our men did not keep their lines perfectly; they were curious to see what was in the tents. Suddenly the cracking of rifles was heard, and the singing of bullets, and the voice of Captain Haskell commanding, "Lie down!"
Each man found what shelter was nearest. I was behind a tent. The Yankee skirmishers were just beyond a little valley, behind trees on the opposite hill, about two hundred yards from us. I could see them looking out from behind the trees and firing. I took good aim at one and pulled the trigger; his bullet came back at me; I loaded and fired; I saw him no more, but I could see the smoke shoot out from the side of the tree and hear his bullet sing. I thought that I ought to have hit him; I saw him again, and fired, and missed. Then I carefully considered the distance, and concluded that it was greater than I had first thought. I raised the sliding sight to three hundred yards, and fired again at the man, whom I could now see distinctly. A man dropped or leaped from the tree, and I saw him no more; neither did I see again the man behind the tree.
We had had losses. Veitch and Crawford had been shot fatally; other men slightly. The sun was shining hot upon us. The brigade was behind us, waiting for us to dislodge the skirmishers. Suddenly I heard Captain Haskell's voice ordering us forward at double-quick. We ran down the hill into the valley below; there we found a shallow creek with steep banks covered with briers. We beat down the briers with our guns, and scrambled through to the other side of the creek in time to see the Yankees run scattering through the woods and away. We reached their position and rested while the brigade found a crossing and formed again in our rear. I searched for a wounded man at the foot of a tree, but found none; yet I felt sure that I had fired over my man and had knocked another out from the tree above him.
We advanced again, and had a running fight for an hour or more. At length no Yankees were to be seen; doubtless they had completed the withdrawing of their outposts, and we were not to find them again until we should strike their main lines.
Now we advanced for a long distance; troops--no doubt Jackson's--could be seen at intervals marching rapidly on our left, marching forward and yet at a distance from our own line. We reached an elevated clearing, and halted. The brigade came up, and we returned to our position in the line of battle--on the left of the First. It was about three o'clock; to the right, far away, we could hear the pounding of artillery, while to the southeast, somewhere near the centre of Lee's lines, on the other side of the Chickahominy perhaps, the noise of battle rose and fell. Shells from our front came among us. A battery--Crenshaw's--galloped headlong into position on the right of the brigade, and began firing. The line of infantry hugged the ground.
Three hundred yards in front the surface sloped downward to a hollow; the slope and the hollow were covered with forest; what was on the hill beyond we could not see, but the Yankee batteries were there and at work. A caisson of Crenshaw's exploded. Troops were coming into line far to our right.
General Gregg ordered his brigade forward. We marched down the wooded slope, Crenshaw firing over our heads. We marched across the wooded hollow and began to ascend the slope of the opposite hill, still in the woods.
The advance through the trees had scattered the line; we halted and re-formed. The pattering of bullets amongst the leaves was distinct; shells shrieked over us; we lay down in line. Between the trunks of the trees we could see open ground in front; it was thick with men firing into us in the woods. Those in our front were Zouaves, with big, baggy, red breeches. We began to fire kneeling. Leaves fell from branches above us, and branches fell, cut down by artillery. Butler, of our company, lying at my right hand, gave a howl of pain; his head was bathed in blood. Lieutenant Rhett was dead. Rice, at my left, had found whiskey in the Yankee camp. He had drunk the whiskey. He raised himself, took long aim, and fired; lowered his gun, but not his body, gazing to see the effect, and yelled, "By God, I missed him!" McKenzie was shot. Lieutenant Barnwell was shot. The red-legged men were there and thicker. Our colour went down, and rose. We had gone into battle with two colours,--the blue regimental State flag, and the battle-flag of the Confederate infantry. Lieutenant-colonel Smith had fallen.
A lull came. I heard the shrill voice of Gregg:--
"Bri-ga-a-a-de--ATTENTION!"
"Fi-i-i-x--BAYONETS!"
"For-w-a-r-d--" and the next I knew men were dropping down all around me, and we were advancing. But only for a minute did we go forward. From front and left came a tempest of lead; again the colours--both--fell, and all the colour-guard. The colonel raised the colours. We staggered and fell back; the retreat through the woods became disorder.
On top of our hill I could see but few men whom I knew,--only six, but one of the six was Haskell. The enemy had not advanced, but shell and shot yet raked the hill. Crenshaw's battery was again in full action. We hunted our regiment and failed to find it. Some regiment--the Thirtieth North Carolina--was advancing on our right. Captain Haskell and his six men joined this regiment, placing themselves on its left. The Thirtieth went forward through the woods--reached the open--and charged.
The regiment charged boldly; forward straight it went, no man seeing whither, every man with his mouth stretched wide and his voice at its worst.
Suddenly, down to the ground fell every man; the line had found a sunken road, and the temptation was too great--down into the friendly road we fell, and lay with bodies flat and faces in the dust.
The officers waved their swords; they threatened the men; the men calmly looked at their officers.
A man on a great horse rode up and down the line urging, gesticulating. He got near to Haskell--
"Whoareyou?" shouted our Captain.
"Captain Blount--quartermaster fourth North Carolina."
"We will follow you!" shouted Haskell.
Blount rode on his great horse--he rode to the centre of the Thirtieth--he stooped; he seized the colour--he lifted the battle-flag high in the air--he turned his great horse--he rode up the hill.
Then those men lying in the sunken road sprang to their feet, and followed their flag fluttering in front, and made the world hideous with yells.
And the red flag went down--and Blount was dead--and the great horse was lying on his side and kicking the air--and the hill was gained.
The Thirtieth was disorganized by its advance. Another North Carolina regiment came from the right rear. Haskell and his six were yet unbroken; they joined the advancing regiment, keeping on its left, and charged with it for another position. Believe it or not, the same thing recurred; the regiment charged well; from the smoke in front death came out upon it fast; a sunken road was to be crossed, and was not crossed; down the men all went to save their lives.
And the officers waved their swords, and the men remained in the road.
Now the Captain called the six, and ran to the centre of the regiment; he snatched the flag and rushed forward up the slope--he looked not back, but forward.
The six were on the slope--the Captain was farthest forward--one of the six fell--in falling his face was turned back--he saw that the regiment was yet in the sunken road, and he shouted to his Captain and told him that the regiment did not follow.
The Captain came back, and said tenderly, "Ah! Jones? What did I tell you? Are you hurt badly? I will send for you."
Then the Captain and five turned away to the right, for the flag would not be taken back to the regiment lying down.
On an open hill between the two battling hosts I was lying. The bullets and shells came from front and rear. The blue men came on--and the others went back awhile. I fired at the blue men, and tried to load, but could not. I felt a great pain strike under my belt and was afraid to look, for I knew the part was mortal. But at length I exerted my will, and controlled my fear, and saw my trousers torn. My first wound had deadened my leg, but I felt no great pain--the leg was numb. The new blow was torture. I managed to take down my clothing, and saw a great blue-black spot on my groin. I was confused, and wondered where the bullet went, and perhaps became unconscious.
Darkness was coming, and Jones or Berwick, or whoever I was, yet lay on the hill. Now there were dead men and wounded men around me. Had a tide of war flowed over me while I slept? A voice feebly called for help, and I crawled to the voice, but could give no help except to cut a shoe from a crushed foot. The flashes of rifles could be seen,--the enemy's rifles,--they came nearer and nearer, and I felt doomed to capture.
Then from the rear a roar of voices, and in the gathering gloom a host of men swept over me, disorderly, but charging hard--- the last charge of Gaines's Mill.
"What troops are you?" I had strength to ask, and two replied:--
"Hood's brigade."
"The Hampton Legion."
Night had come. The great battle was won. Lights flashed and moved and disappeared over the hills and hollows of the field,--men with torches and lanterns; and names of regiments were shouted into the darkness by the searchers for wounded friends who replied, and for others who could not. At last I heard: "First South Carolina! First South Carolina!" and I gathered up my strength and cried, "Here!" Louis Bellot and two others came to me. They carried me tenderly away, but not far; still in the field of blood they laid me down on the hillside--and a night of horror passed slowly away.
The next morning, June 28th, they bore me on a stretcher back to the field hospital near Dr. Gaines's, just in rear of the battlefield. Our way was through scattered corpses. We passed by many Zouaves, lying stiff and stark; one I shall always call to mind: he was lying flat on his back, the soles of his feet firm on the ground, his knees drawn up to right angles above, and with his elbows planted on the grass, his fingers clinched the air. His open mouth grinned ghastly on us as we went by.
At the field hospital the dangerously wounded were so numerous that I was barely noticed; a brief examination; "flesh wound"--that was all. I had already found out that the bullet had passed entirely through the fleshy part of my thigh, and I had no fears; but the limb now gave me great pain, and I should have been glad to have it dressed. I was laid upon the ground under a tree and remained there until night, when I was put with others into an ambulance and taken to some station on some railroad--I have never known what station or what road. The journey was painful. I was in the upper story of the ambulance. We jolted over rough roads, halting frequently because the long train filled the road ahead. The men in the lower story were badly wounded, groaning, and begging for this or that. I did not know their voices; they were not of our company. But some time in the night I learned somehow--I suppose by his companion calling his name--that one of the men below me was named Virgil Harley. Harley? I thought--Virgil Harley? Why, I knew that name once! Surely I knew that name in South Carolina! And I would have spoken, but was made aware that Virgil Harley was wounded unto death. When we reached the railroad, I was taken out and lifted into a car, I asked about Virgil Harley. "He is dead," was the answer.
Then I felt more than ever alone because of this slightest opportunity, now lost forever. Virgil Harley might have been able to tell me of myself. He was dead. I had not even seen him. I had but heard his voice in groans that ended in the death-rattle.