"He was a man, take him all in all,I shall not see his like again"--SHAKESPEARE.
"He was a man, take him all in all,I shall not see his like again"--SHAKESPEARE.
The time came for A.P. Hill to follow on after Longstreet We broke camp on the 15th, and marched day after day through Culpeper; Chester Gap, Front Royal and Berryville. On the 25th of June we forded the Potomac for the last time, crossing below Shepherdstown at the ford by which we had advanced nine months before in our hurried march from Harper's Ferry to Sharpsburg. We passed once more through Sharpsburg, and advanced to a village called Funkstown, in the edge of Pennsylvania, where our division rested for three days.
On the 29th, Sergeant Rhodes and I went foraging. At some small farmhouses far off in the hills we found provisions to sell at cheap prices. Our Confederate money was received with less unwillingness than we might have expected. We got onions, cheese, and bread--rye-bread. Rhodes was carrying a tin bucket; he wanted milk. Coming back toward camp at sunset, we met in a lane two fine cows--a boy driving them home from pasture. We halted. Rhodes ordered the boy to milk the cows; the boy replied that he could not milk. "Well, I can," said Rhodes. I held the sergeant's gun, and he soon drew his bucket full. Meantime, I was talking with the boy.
"When did you see your brother last?" I asked.
"About two months ago," said he.
"Is he the only brother you have?"
"Yes, sir."
"How does he like the army?"
"He liked it at first; Father tried to keep him from going, but he couldn't."
"And he doesn't like it now?"
"No, sir; that he don't. He hated to go back, but he had to."
"Say, young man," said Rhodes; "have you got a brother in the Yankee army?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then I don't pay you a cent for this milk."
I thought that the boy was greatly surprised to know that Rhodes had intended to pay.
On the last day of the month we moved again; the morning of July 1st found us marching eastward on the Cashtown road. The heat was great, although the sun was not high. The march was rapid and unobstructed, as though A.P. Hill was soon to have work to do. Heth's division led the corps. We descended from a range of high hills, having in our front an extensive region dotted over with farmhouses and with fertile fields interspersed with groves. The march continued; steadily eastward went the corps.
At nine o'clock the spasmodic patter of rifles was heard in front. We were halted. Haskell's battalion filed to the right, deployed, and the column marched on, with the sharp-shooters moving as skirmishers parallel with the brigade.
The firing in front increased. The battalion flanked to the right and went forward in line to the top of a hill overlooking a large low plain to the south. We halted in position, occupying a most formidable defensive line. In our rear, half a mile, the division, and perhaps other divisions, went by into battle, and left us on the hill, protecting their flank and rear.
Cavalry were visible in our front. They moved over the plain in many small groups, but throughout the day did not venture within range of our rifles. A great engagement seemed in progress at our rear and left. We could see the smoke of burning houses and see shells burst in the air, and could hear the shouts of our men as they advanced from one position to another, driving the enemy.
A little before sunset Captain Haskell came to me and handed me a folded paper. "Find General Pender," he said, "and give him this note. I fear the battalion has been forgotten here, and I am asking for orders. Be back as quickly as you can."
My way was over the battlefield. I passed between houses yet burning. Dead and wounded lay intermingled, Federals and Confederates. In one place behind a stone fence there were many blue corpses. The ambulances and infirmary men were busy. In a road I saw side by side a Confederate and a Federal. The Confederate was on his back; his jacket was open; his shirt showed a great red splotch right on his breast. Death must have been instantaneous.
At the Seminary I found at last our line. It had been much farther forward, but had been withdrawn to the hill. General Pender was yet on his horse. I handed him the note. He read it, and said, without looking at me, "Tell the Captain to bring his men in."
I ran down the line to find Company H. In a few minutes I saw Lieutenant Barnwell and the men. Larkin of Company H, colour-bearer of the regiment, had fallen; Corporal Jones was dead; many men were wounded. The brigade had fought well; it had charged the enemy behind a stone fence and routed them, and had pursued them through the streets of the town and taken many prisoners. Butler and Williams had gone into a house foraging, and in the cellar had taken a whole company commanded by a lieutenant. Other tales there were to tell. Albert Youmans had gone entirely through the town, followed by straggling men, and had reached the top of Cemetery Hill, and had seen a confused mass of men in utter disorganization, and had waved his hat and shouted to the men behind him to come on; but Major Alston had already ordered the pursuit stopped. The flag of the First had waved in the streets of the town before that of any other regiment. The commander of the Federals, General Reynolds, had been killed. Archer's brigade of Heth's division had in the early hours of the battle advanced too far, and many of the brigade had been captured.
All this and more I heard in the few minutes which I dared to give. I hurried back to the battalion, running to make up lost time. It was not yet thoroughly dark as I made my way for the second time over the bloody field. I passed again between the Confederate and the Federal whom I had seen lying side by side. Our man was sitting in the road, and eating hardtack.
When I reached the battalion all ears were open for news. When I told about seeing the supposed dead man alive again and eating hardtack, Charley Wilson shouted, "And he got it out of that Yankee's haversack!"
For a while that night the battalion lay behind the brigade. At ten o'clock Captain Haskell called me. He was sitting alone. He made me sit by him.
"Jones," said he, "Company A will not move to-night, but the other companies will relieve the skirmishers at daybreak."
"I wish Company A could go, too," said I.
"Company A has done a little extra duty to-day; it will be held in reserve."
"But what extra duty has Company A done, Captain?"
"It has sent one man on special service," said he; "you may say that it was not a great duty; but it was something, and rules must be observed. Of course, if your company happened to be of average number and either of the others was very small, I should take Company A instead. But it does not so happen; so the work you have done to-day gives Company A a rest--if rest it can be called."
"But why not take the whole battalion?"
"Only two companies are needed. The losses of the brigade to-day have been so great that two companies can cover our front. Lee attacks again," he continued sadly; "he has fought but one defensive battle."
"But you must allow, Captain," said I, "that Chancellorsville was a great victory--and to-day's battle also."
"Chancellorsville was indeed a great victory," said he; "but the enemy is as strong as ever. I cannot suggest anything against Chancellorsville, except that I think that we should not have stopped on Sunday morning after taking the second line of intrenchments. General Lee heard of Sedgwick's movement just at the wrong time I dare say. Should he not have pressed Hooker into the river before giving attention to Sedgwick[8]?"
[8]Captain Haskell is wrong here. Hooker's new position was impregnable to any attack the Confederates were then able to make. Hooker himself, as well as his army, wished for the Confederates to attack. Lee's march against Sedgwick, at this juncture, was the right movement. See the Comte de Paris,in loc. [ED.]
"Then you believe in attacking," said I.
"True; I do under such circumstances. The trouble with us has been that we attack resisting troops, and when we defeat them we refuse to trouble them any more: we let them get away. Yet, as you say, Chancellorsville was a great victory; anything that would have sent Hooker's army back over the river, even without a battle, would have been success. But speaking from a military view, I dare say it was a false movement to divide our forces as we did there. We succeeded because our opponents allowed us to succeed. It was in Hooker's power on Saturday to crush either Jackson or McLaws. Yet, as you suggest, General Lee was compelled to take great risks; no matter what he should do, his position seemed well-nigh desperate, and he succeeded by the narrowest margin. Even on Sunday morning, before the action began, if General Lee had only known the exact condition below us at Fredericksburg, I dare say Hooker would in the end have claimed a victory, for General Lee would not have assaulted Hooker's works."
"But would he not have overcome Sedgwick?" I asked.
"Pardon me. After Hooker's defeat Lee could afford to march against Sedgwick, but not before. I think he would have retreated. We had enormous good fortune. It was as great as at the first Manassas, when Beauregard, finding himself flanked by McDowell, won the battle by the steady conduct of a few regiments who held the enemy until Johnston's men came up. Of course I am not making any comparison between Generals Lee and Beauregard. But Manassas and Chancellorsville are past, and observe, sir, what a loss we have had to-day. I dare say the enemy's loss is heavier, but he can stand losses here, and we cannot; another day or two like to-day, and we are ruined. To beat back a corps of the enemy for a mile or so until it occupies a stronger position than before, is not--you will agree with, me--the defensive warfare which, the Confederacy began. What can General Lee do to-morrow but attack? He will attack, and I trust we shall defeat Meade's army; but we cannot destroy it, and it will be filled up again long before we can get any reënforcement. Indeed, Jones, I do not see how we can be reënforced at all--so far from our base, and the enemy so powerful to prevent it."
"Cannot General Lee await an attack?"
"I fear that he cannot, Jones; the enemy would grow stronger every day, while we should become weaker. The enemy would not attack until we should begin to retreat; then they would embarrass our retreat and endeavour to bring us to battle."
"Then you would advise immediate retreat?"
"My friend, we must risk a battle. But even if we gain it, we shall be losers. The campaign was false from the start. Is it not absurd for a small army of a weak nation to invade a great nation in the face of more powerful armies? If we had arms which the Federals could not match, we should find it easy to conquer a peace on this field. But their equipment is superior to ours. The campaign is wrong. If inactivity could not have been tolerated, we should have reënforced General Bragg and regained our own country instead of running our heads against this wall up here. But, do you not agree with, me that inactivity would have been best? Hooker's army would not have stirred this summer until too late for any important campaign. The year would have closed with Virginia secure and with great recuperation to all our eastern states. Our army would have been swelled by the return of our wounded and sick, without any losses to offset our increase. As it is, our losses are going to be difficult if not impossible to make up. I fear that Lee's army will never be as strong hereafter as it is to-night."
"But would not a great victory here give us peace?"
"I fear not; we cannot gain such a victory as would do that. Look at the victories of this war. They have been claimed by both aides--many of them. The defeated recover very quickly. Except Fort Donelson, where has there been a great victory?"
"The Chickahominy," said I.
"Gaines's Mill was a victory; but we lost more men than the Federals, and McClellan escaped us."
"Second Manassas."
"Pope claimed a victory for the first day, and his army escaped on the second day. True, it was beaten, but it is over yonder now on that hill."
"Fredericksburg."
"Yes; that was a victory, and Burnside should not have been allowed to get away. Do you remember a story in the camp to the effect that Jackson was strongly in favour of a night attack upon the Federals huddled up on our side of the river?"
"Yes, Captain. I heard of it after I returned from the hospital. You know I was not in the battle."
"I remember. Well, the rumour was true. General Jackson wished to throw his corps upon the enemy the night after the battle; the men were to wear strips of white cloth, around their arms so that they might recognize each other."
"And you believe the attack would have succeeded?"
"Beyond all question, Jones. We should have driven the Federals into the river. We lost there our greatest opportunity."
"And you think we could have done the same thing to Hooker's army?"
"True--or nearly so; but we allowed Hooker as well as Burnside to get away. I have sometimes thought that General Lee is too merciful, and that he is restrained because we are killing our own people. If Burnside's men had been of a foreign nation, I think Lee might have listened more willingly to Jackson. The feeling may have been balanced in our favour at Sharpsburg. If McClellan had been killing Frenchmen, I dare say he would have had more fight in him on the 18th of September. After all that we read in the newspapers, Jones, about the vandalism practised in this war, yet this war is, I dare say, the least inhumane that ever was waged. I don't think our men hate the men on the other side."
"I don't," said I.
"Be that as it may; whether we are too merciful or too unfortunate as to opportunity, the fact remains that armies are not destroyed; they get away; when we gain a field, it is only the moral effect that remains with us. War is different from the old wars. The only thorough defeats are surrenders. It would take days for Lee's army to shoot down Meade's at long range, even if Meade should stand and do nothing. We may defeat Meade,--I don't see why we should not,--but in less than a week we should be compelled to fight him again, and we should be weaker and he would be stronger than before."
"I have often-wondered," said I, "how the ancients destroyed whole armies."
"Conditions allowed them to do it." said the captain. "In Caesar's wars, for instance, men fought hand to hand, physical strength and endurance were the qualities that prevailed. The men became exhausted backing away or slinging away at each other. In such a condition a regiment of cavalry is turned loose on a broad plain against a division unable to flee, and one horseman puts a company to death; all he has to do is to cut and thrust."
"A victory should at least enable us to hold our ground until we could get reënforcements," I said.
"True; but we should get one man and the enemy would get twenty."
"We could retire after victory," I said.
"Can you believe that General Lee would do that? I do not know that he is responsible for this offensive campaign, but we all know that he is quicker to fight than to retreat. It is astonishing to me that his reputation is that of a defensive general. I dare say his wonderful ability as an engineer accounts for it."
"If we should gain a victory here, would not England or France recognize us?"
"Would it not require a succession of great victories for that? Ever since Lincoln's proclamation there has been no sound hope of European recognition. There was one hope, but that was soon gone."
"What was it, Captain?"
"The hope that the Confederacy would meet Lincoln's order by emancipating the slaves gradually."
"Was that seriously thought of?"
"Yes; there was much discussion of it, but privately in the main. We do not know what took place in Congress, but it has leaked out that there was a strong party there in favour of it. Whether any vote was ever had I do not know; I dare say those in favour of the measure found they were not strong enough, and thought best not to press it."
"What effect would such a course have had?"
"I can say only what I think. I believe that England would have recognized us. The North, too, would have been disarmed, in a measure. In fact, the great bugaboo that brought on the war would have been laid at rest. The North would have been eager to conciliate the South, and it would have become possible to reconstruct the Union with clear definitions of the sovereignty of the States."
"I remember your telling me long ago that you would favour a gradual emancipation."
"Yes; our form of slavery is not bad, it is true, Jones; in fact, there is great justification for it. It is too universal, however. It does not give enough opportunity for a slave to develop, and to make a future for himself. Still, we have some grand men among the slaves. Many of them would suffer death for the interest of their masters' families. Then, too, we have in the South a type unknown in the rest of the world since feudalism: we have in Virginia, in South Carolina, in Louisiana, reproductions of the old nobility. The world is richer for such men. The general condition of the slaves is good. We know that the negro is an inferior race. We have done him no injustice by giving him a small share in a civilization which his kings could never know. He was a slave at home; he is less a slave here. He has been contented. Witness his docility, his kindness even, to our wives and children while his masters are at war, seemingly to perpetuate his bonds. Such conduct deserves recognition. I would say that a system of rewards should be planned by which a worthy negro, ambitious to become free, could by meritorious conduct achieve his freedom. But this act of Lincoln's is monstrous. It is good for nobody. A race of slaves, suddenly become free, is a race of infants with the physical force of men. What would become of them? Suppose the North should succeed. Suppose the Confederate armies disbanded, and the States back in the Union or held as territories. Has anybody the least idea that the whites of the South would tolerate the new dignity of their former slaves? The condition would be but the beginning of race hatred that would grow into active hostility, and would never end. The whites would band together and punish negro offences more severely than ever. The negroes could not combine. The result would be cruelty to the black man; his condition would be far worse than before. Even supposing that Northern armies should indefinitely occupy all our territory; even supposing that our own people should be driven out and our lands given to the slaves--what would become of them? We know their character. They look not one day ahead. There would be famine, riot, pestilence, anarchy. And the worst men of the race would hold the rest in terror. Immorality would be at a premium, sir. The race would lose what it had gained. But, on the other hand, put into practice a plan for gradual freedom based on good conduct; you would see whites and blacks living in peace. The negro would begin to improve, and the white people would help him. It would not be long before the ideal of the negro would be individual freedom, not race freedom, as it is the white man's ideal now. There would be great striving throughout the negro race, which would be affected thereby from first to last of them. Yes, I believe that if we had so done we should have been recognized. England does not believe in sudden emancipation. She provides for the freeing of the slaves throughout her dominions, but gradually carries her plans into effect, and she pays the owners. I sometimes think that American Revolution was a mistake for the Southern colonies, for South Carolina especially."
"A mistake, Captain? That is a new idea to me."
"We certainly had not the reason to rebel that Massachusetts had. Our best people--and we had many of them--were closely allied to the best of the English, more closely than to Massachusetts. Our trade with the mother country was profitable, and our products were favoured by bounties. We had no connection, with the French and Indian wars which had given rise to so much trouble between Great Britain and New England. But our people thought it would be base to desert the cause of Massachusetts. I dare say this thought was the main reason that caused South Carolina to throw in her lot with that of our Northern colonies. See what we get for it. We renounce our profitable commerce with England, and we help our sister colonies; just so soon as their profitable commerce with us is threatened by our withdrawal, they maintain it by putting us to death. It is their nature, sir. They live by trade. If they continue to increase in power, they will hold the West in commercial subjection--and the isles of the sea, if they can ever reach to them. Death has no such terrors to them as loss of trade."
"But could the Revolution have succeeded without the South?"
"Certainly not. The South really bore the brunt of the war. New England suffered very little. New York suffered; so did Pennsylvania and New Jersey, but nothing in comparison with South Carolina, which was in reality no more than a conquered province for years, and yet held faithful to the cause of the colonies. And it was the eventual success of the Southern arms that caused the surrender of Cornwallis. The North is very ungrateful to us."
"With Great Britain and America under one government, we should have been a very powerful nation," said I, musingly.
"And this war never would have been possible. Our slaves would have been freed wisely, and we should have been paid for them. England and America could have controlled the world in peace; but here we are, diligently engaged in killing one another."
"Captain, I think our men are in better spirits than ever before."
"That is very true, Jones. They are full of hope and courage. I have hope also, but I see no quick ending to this war."
"I don't believe this army can be defeated," said I.
"It cannot. It may suffer great losses, and be forced to retreat,--indeed, I think that consequence a natural inference from the situation,--but it cannot be badly defeated; it cannot be disorganized. It would take months to overcome it."
"Then you really believe that we shall retreat?"
"Yes; I believe we shall fight, and we shall fight hard, and have losses, but the enemy will be very cautious of attack, and those of us who are able to march shall see Virginia again."
"Those who are able to march? Could we leave our wounded here?"
"I was thinking only of the fallen. If ever the history of this war is truly written, the greatest honours of all will be paid to the common soldiers, men who, without a particle of interest in slaves, give their lives for independence--the independence of their States. Yet it is useless to grieve in anticipation."
"A soldier's death should not be a thing to grieve over," said I; "at least, so it seems to me. I think I should prefer death in battle to death by disease."
"True; and death must come, sooner or later, to all of us.
"'On two days it steads not to run from the grave,The appointed and the unappointed day;On the first, neither balm nor physician can save,Nor thee, on the second, the Universe slay.'"
"Who is that, Captain?"
"The Persian Omar Khayyam, followed by Emerson."
"How do you spell that Persian's name, Captain?"
"K-h-a-y-y-a-m."
"And you pronounce it Ki-yam?"
"That is the way I pronounced it; is it not correct?"
"I don't know. I never heard of him before, but the name seems not unfamiliar. Is he living?"
"Oh, no; dead centuries since. Were you hoping to find one of your old personal friends?"
"Don't laugh, Captain. Somehow the name seems to carry me back somewhere."
"Maybe you knew him in a previous existence."
"Don't laugh, Captain. It is not the words, but merely the name that strikes me. You don't believe the words yourself."
"I do and I do not. I believe them in a sense."
"In what sense, Captain?"
"In the sense in which the poet taught. The religion of the East is fatalism. A fatalist who endeavours to shun death is inconsistent."
"But you are not a fatalist."
"No, and yes. Another poet has said that divinity shapes the ends that we rough-hew; I should reverse this and say that life is blocked out in the large for us by powers over which we can have no control, but that within certain limits we do the shaping of our own lives."
"A new and better version," said I; "to-morrow some shaping will be done. What effect on the general result to nations and the world does one battle, more or fewer, have?"
"Some events are counterbalanced by others, seemingly, and the result is nothing; but every event is important to some life."
"Captain, Youmans says he got to the top of the hill over yonder, and that we could have occupied it but that our men were recalled."
"It would have made little difference," said he. "The enemy would only have intrenched farther off. I dare say they are digging at this moment."
Then he said, "Go back to your place, Jones, and never fail to do your full duty. I am serious, because war is serious. The more we have to do, the more must we nerve ourselves to do it. We must collect all our energies, and each man must do the work of two. Impress the men strongly with the necessity for courage and endurance."
The full moon was shining in high heaven. I bade the Captain good night.
On the morning of July 2d, Company A still lay behind the brigade, which was in line a little to the south of the Seminary. The sun shone hot. The skirmishers were busy in front. Artillery roared at our left and far to our right. At times shells came over us. A caisson near by exploded. In the afternoon a great battle was raging some two miles to our right. Longstreet's corps had gone in.
At four o'clock I saw some litter-bearers moving to the rear. On the litter was a body. The litter-bearers halted. A few men gathered around. Then the men of Company H began to stir. Some of them approached the litter. Who was it? I became anxious. The men came slowly back--one at a time--grim.
I asked who it was that had been killed.
"Captain Haskell," they said.
My tongue failed me, as my pen does now. What! Captain Haskell? Our Captain dead? Who had ever thought that he might be killed? I now knew that I had considered him like Washington--invulnerable. He had passed through so many dangers unhurt, had been exposed to so many deaths that had refused to demand him, had so freely offered his life, had been so calm and yet so valiant in battle, had been so worshipped by all the left wing of the regiment and by the battalion, had been so wise in council and so forceful in the field, had, in fine, been one of those we instinctively feel are heroes immortal! And now he was dead? It could not be! There must be some mistake!
But I looked, and I saw Lieutenant Barnwell in tears, and I saw Sergeant Mackay in tears, and I saw Rhodes in tears--and I broke down utterly.
"From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,The hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fixed sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other's watch."--SHAKESPEARE.
"From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night,The hum of either army stilly sounds,That the fixed sentinels almost receiveThe secret whispers of each other's watch."--SHAKESPEARE.
As the sun was setting on that doleful day, Company A was ordered forward to the skirmish-line. We deployed and marched down the hill in front of the Seminary. Cemetery Height was crowned with cannon and intrenched infantry. The wheat field on its slope was alive with skirmishers whose shots dropped amongst us as we advanced. Down our hill and into the hollow; there the fire increased and we lay flat on the ground. Our skirmish-line was some two or three hundred yards in front of us, in the wheat on the slope of the ascent. Twilight had come.
Just on my left a brigade advanced up the hill through the wheat; what for, nobody knew and nobody will ever know[9]. It was Ramseur's brigade of Rodes's division.
[9]Ramseur's was the extreme right brigade of Ewell's corps, which at the moment was making an attack upon Culp's Hill. [ED.]
Company A advanced and united to Company C's left. I was now the left guide of the battalion. I saw no pickets at my left. I thought it likely that the brigade advancing had taken the skirmishers into its ranks.
Ramseur's men continued to go forward up the hill through the wheat. We could yet see them, but indistinctly. They began firing and shouting; they charged the Federal army. What was expected of them? It seemed absurd; perhaps it was a feint. The flashes of many rifles could be seen. Suddenly the brigade came running back down the hill, helter-skelter, every man for himself. They passed us, and went back toward the main lines on Seminary Ridge.
It was my duty to connect our left with the right of the pickets of the next brigade. But I saw nobody. Ramseur had left no picket in these parts. His men had gone, all of them, except those who had remained and must remain in the wheat farther up the hill.
Where was the picket-line to which ours must connect? I made a circuit to my left, a hundred yards or more; no pickets. I returned and passed word down the line to the lieutenant in command of Company A that I wanted to see him on the left. He came, and I explained the trouble. The lieutenant did not know what to do. This gentleman was a valuable officer in the line, but was out of place in the battalion. He asked me what ought to be done. I replied that we must not fail to connect, else there would be a gap in the line, and how wide a gap nobody could tell. If I had known then what I know now, I should have told him to report the condition to Colonel Perrin, who was in command of the brigade, but I did otherwise; I told him that if he would remain on the left, I would hunt for the picket-line. He consented.
I first went to the left very far, and then to the rear and searched a long time, but found nobody. I returned to the left of Company A and proposed to go forward through the wheat and hunt for our pickets. The lieutenant approved.
The word was passed down the line that I was going to the front. I moved slowly up the hill through the wheat. There was a moon, over which bunches of cloud passed rapidly. While the moon would be hidden I went forward. When the cloud had passed, I stooped and looked. Here and there in the wheat lay dead skirmishers, and guns, and many signs of battle. The wheat had been trodden down.
Cautiously I moved on until I was a hundred yards in advance of the battalion. I saw no picket. Here the wheat was standing, in most places untrodden. I looked back down the hill; I could not see our own men. I went forward again for forty yards. Now at my right I saw a fence, or rather a line of bushes and briers which had grown up where a fence had been in years past. This fence-row stretched straight up the hill toward the cemetery. I went to it. It would serve my purpose thoroughly. In the shelter of this friendly row of bushes I crept slowly up the hill. I was now in front of Company A's right.
The moon shone out and then was hidden. I was two hundred yards in advance of the battalion. I laid my gun on the ground and crawled along the fence-row for fifty yards, at every instant pausing and looking. I reached a denser and taller clump of bushes, and raised myself to my full height. In front were black spots in the wheat--five paces apart--- a picket-line--whose?
The spots looked very black. Gray would look black in this wheat with the moonlight on it. I turned my belt-buckle behind my back, lest the metal should shine. The line of spots was directly in front of me, and on both sides of the fence-row. The line seemed to stretch across the front of the whole battalion. If that was our picket, why should there be another in rear of it? They must be Yankees.
I looked at them for two minutes. They were still as death. The line was perfect. If it was a Confederate line, there might be men nearer to me,--officers, or men going and returning in its rear,--but the line seemed straight and perfect. The spots did not seem tall enough for standing men. No doubt they were sitting in the wheat with their guns in their laps. I heard no word--not a sound except the noises coming from the crest of the hill beyond them, where was the Federal line of battle. I looked back. Seminary Ridge seemed very far. I crawled back to my gun, picked it up, rose, and looked again toward the cemetery. I could no longer see the spots. I walked back down the hill, moving off to my right in order to strike the left of Company A. The battalion had not budged.
I reported. The lieutenant was chagrined. I told him that I felt almost sure that the men I had seen were Yankees. What to do? We ought to have sent a man back to the brigade, but we did not. Why we did not, I do not know, unless it was that we felt it our duty to solve the difficulty ourselves. The left of the battalion was unprotected; this would not do. Something must be done.
I suggested that the left platoon of Company A extend intervals to ten paces and cover more ground. The lieutenant approved. The left platoon extended intervals to ten paces, moving silently from centre to left. This filled perhaps sixty yards of the unknown gap. Still no pickets could be seen. I made a semicircle far to my left and returned.
Captain Haskell was not there. He would have sent ten men to the left until something was found. He would have filled the interval, even had it required the whole battalion to stretch to twenty steps apart, at least until he could report to Colonel Perrin, or General Pender. Lieutenant Sharpe, in command of the battalion, was far to the right--perhaps four hundred yards from us. We should have sent word to him down the line, but we did not do it. The night was growing. How wide was the gap? Why did not the pickets on the other side of this gap search for us? If the enemy knew our condition, a brigade or more might creep through the gap; still the lieutenant did not propose anything.
At last I said that although the picket-line in front looked like a Yankee line, it was yet possible that it was ours, and that I thought I could get nearer to it than I had been before, and speak to the men without great danger. Truth is, that I had begun to fear sarcasm. What if, to-morrow morning, we should see a line of gray pickets in our front? Should I ever hear the last of it?
Again the lieutenant approved. He would have approved of anything. He was a brave officer. I verily believe that if I had proposed an advance of Company A up the hill, he would have approved, and would have led the advance.
The company stood still, and I started again. I reached the place where I had been before, and crawled on a few yards farther. Again the thought came that there would have been some communicating between that line and ours if that were Confederate. If they were our men, we had been in their rear for three hours. Impossible to suppose that nobody in that time should have come back to the rear. Clearly it was a Federal line, and I was in its front. Then it occurred to me that it was possible they had a man or two in the fence-row between me and their line. There could be no need for that, yet the idea made me shiver. At every yard of my progress I raised my head, and the black spots were larger--and not less black. They were very silent and very motionless--the sombre night-picture of skirmishers on extreme duty; whoever they were, they felt strongly the presence of the enemy.
Ten yards in front, and ten feet to the right, I saw a post--a gate-post, I supposed. There was no gate. This fence-row, along which I was crawling, indicated a fence rotted down or removed. There had once been a gate hanging to that post and closing against another post now concealed by the bushes of the fence-row. I would crawl to that post out there, and speak to the men in front. They would suppose that I was in the fence-row, and, if they fired, would shoot into the bushes, while I should be safe behind the post--such was my thought.
I reached the post. It was a hewn post of large size--post-oak, I thought. I lay down behind it; I raised my head and looked. The black spots were very near--perhaps thirty or forty yards in front. The line stretched on to my right. I could not now see toward the left--through the fence-row.
It was not necessary to speak very loud.
I asked, "Whose picket is that?"
My voice sounded strangely tremulous.
There was no answer.
If they were Confederates, I was in their rear, and there would be no sense in their refusal to reply; some one would have said, "Come up and see!" or something. There was no movement. I could see that the black spots had become large objects; the moon was shining.
I must ask again.
I remember that at that moment I thought of our Captain--dead that day.
I spoke again, "Gentlemen, is that the picket of Ramseur's brigade?"
No answer.
Again I spoke, "Gentlemen, is that Ramseur's North Carolina brigade?"
Not a word.
It now seemed folly for me to remain. Who were these men? Certainly Federals. I was in imminent danger of being captured. Two or three men might rush forward and seize me before I could get to my feet. Yet, would not a line of our men out here be silent? They would be very near the enemy and would be very silent. But they would send a man back to make me stop talking. They were Yankees; but why did they not say something? or do something? Perhaps they were in doubt about me. I was so near their lines they could hardly believe me a Confederate. I half decided to slip away at once.
But I wished some conclusion to the matter. I wanted to satisfy the lieutenant and myself also.
Again I spoke, "Will you please tell me what brigade that is?"
A voice replied, "Our brigade!"
This reply, in my opinion, was distinctly Confederate. I had heard it frequently. It was an old thing. Often, when waiting for troops to pass, you would ask, "What regiment is that?" and some-would-be wag would say, "Our regiment."
I rose to my feet behind the post, but dropped again as quickly. Before I had stood erect the thought came that possibly the Yankees also had this old by-word. Then another thought--had the Yankees selected one man to reply to me? Had all but one been ordered to preserve silence, and was this one an expert chosen to entrap me? A man perhaps who knew something of the sayings in the Southern army?
Now, in an effort to bring things to a pass, I shouted loud, "What army do you belong to?"
Another voice shouted loud, "What army do you belong to?"
I had emphasized the word "army." He had emphasized the word "you."
Perhaps they thought I might be one of their own men, sent out in front and trying to return; but if that were the case, why did they not bid me come in? If they thought me a Confederate, very likely they thought I was trying to desert, and feeling my way through fear of falling into the hands of the wrong people.
I replied at once, "I am a rebel."
What it was that influenced me to use the word I do not know, unless it was that I thought that if they were our men I was safe, being in their rear, and that if they were Yankees they would at once accept the challenge. I wanted to end the matter.
They accepted.
A dozen voices shouted, "We are for the Union!" and half a dozen rifles cracked.
They must have fired into the fence-row. I heard no bullet--but then, no bullet can be heard at such a nearness.
I kept my post--flat on my face. It would not be best for me to rise and run. Perhaps I could get off by doing so, but I could manage better. I would remain quiet until they should think I had gone. Then I would crawl away.
Two or three minutes passed. I was making up my mind to start. Suddenly a gruff voice spoke. It was near me. It was in the fence-row. A Yankee had crept toward me. He said, at an ordinary pitch, but very gruffly, "Whoareyou, anyhow?"
If he is yet alive, these lines may inform him that I was Jones. It was my time to be silent. I feared that he would continue to come, but the next instant I knew that he was in doubt as to how many I was, and I stuck fast.
I heard nothing more. No doubt he had given it up--had gone back and reported that the enemy had disappeared from the immediate front.
Five minutes more, and I had picked up my gun and was walking back to our line. I struck it in front of Company C, whose men had been warned that I was out, but who now had to be restrained from firing on me. They had heard the voices up the hill, and bullets had whistled over them, and they had thought me a prisoner, so when they saw a man coming toward them they were itching to shoot.
We remained all night as we were, with a gap in the skirmish-line at the left of Pender's division.