This is a series of articles of Civil War reminiscences that was published in the newspaper from 1875 - 1895

 

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Apple Blossoms.

 

            Only the day before we left the Rapidan the apple trees had come out in full bloom, and it was a sight to soften a soldier’s heart to behold them clothed in robes of peace and purity.  Every breath of wind brought the odor of the blossoms to our nostrils, and it was something to take us back home to the old apple tree growing beside the well-curb at the kitchen door.

            The enemy had fallen back before our ad-vance until they got the shelter of a forest-crowned ridge with a creek meandering along its front.  At the first gun from them our battery wheeled to the left, rushed for the high ground covered by a farmhouse orchard, and as we unlimbered and began firing long-fuse shell I discovered that the limbs of a grand old apple tree spread out over our heads until every man was sheltered.  How pure and delicate those blossoms looked!  How refreshing the odor exhaled!  The powder smoke blew back among them, but they seemed to shake it off, and, though our faces were soon begrimed, the odor of those white blossoms was still in our nostrils.

            Like the soft, lazy snowflake of a spring day, the blossoms came floating down among us, detached from the limbs by the concussion.  I even brushed them off the gun as I sighted it to send a shell with murderous intent.  Some one said the enemy was advancing.  I brushed the falling blossoms right and left to enable me to see.  Some one said that one of our men had been killed just behind me.  The blossoms pelted my cheek as I turned to look.

            Well, it was over in half an hour, with less than a hundred killed and wounded.  We sponged out our gun, limbered up, and then I turned to the poor fellow who would never answer roll-call again.  He had already been buried.  The ground about us was as white as if snow had fallen, and ten feet away lay our dead comrade – shrouded in the white apple blossoms – buried under the beautiful and delicate petals which the crash of war had shaken down. Wasn’t it a glorious shroud and a peaceful grave for a warrior!  A bullet fired by a sharpshooter who had crept up a ravine had entered his head and he had fallen on his back and lay with his eyes open wide and the blood welling out of his death wound.  And the blossoms had hidden his eyes and their awful stare – had veiled his face until we could not see its pallor – had fallen so thickly upon his broad breast that there was no trace of the bullet and its work!

            It was the soft, tender hands of Nature seek-ing for the moment to hide the murderous work of the war – to soften the hearts of men armed with every device to slay their fellowmen.  And the soft breeze carried the smoke away behind the farm-house, to be lost over the meadows, and in its place came again the odor of blossoms and the songs of red-breasted robins. Blossoms fell upon the dead as if they were laid in the shallow trenches to sleep forever more, and above them the robins called to each other and returned to their deserted nests.

-          New York World

 

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The Bishop’s Prayer.

 

            “Between Dalton and Atlanta, during the 125 days’ fight,” said Major Charles Vanderford, “I saw one of the finest exhibitions of priestly courage that I know of history ever having recorded.  We were in the ditches for the night.  Twilight had not yet fallen, and the batteries of the enemy were play-ing upon us from the other side of a fertile Georgia valley.  As I rode with another staff officer along the line of breastworks, I could see our hardy sol-diers nimbly betaking themselves to close cover, as the range of the approaching guns drew nearer the proper mark.

            “At the end of the entrenchment was a booth, roughly constructed with poles and covered with heavy boughs.  Beneath it were the officers of the command, and in their midst old Bishop A. L. P. Green was standing, praying for the success of the cause.  He had just returned from Nashville, and his words were filled with a new earnestness.

            “All at once a cannon ball struck the corner of the booth and completely demolished it.  The heavy poles fell over the men and several were painfully wounded.  A bough brushed my face, causing the blood to come.  Not a twig touched the Bishop, however, and he lost not one word from his prayer.  The men scarcely moved.  He prayed for our friends and our enemies who held us in contempt and scorn, and he prayed for the coming of God’s kingdom, even in the time of war.  I wanted the prayer to come to a close, for the Yankees were getting their range, and I did not know how soon the next ball would carry us all away, but the Bishop prayed on, heedless of the cannonading.

            “When he had finished the stars were be-ginning to shine.  The great guns were silent and the Yankee band began to play the ‘Star Spangled Banner.’  Our band responded with the ‘Mocking Bird.’  They repeated it; then our band played the ‘Star Spangled Banner’ itself, and so they continued exchanging courtesies until far after midnight.  The next morning was the signal for a renewed attack, and many a brave Southern boy lost his life that day.”                                  - Nashville American.

 

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McPherson – Tennessee.

By Capt. R. K. Shaw, Sixty-third Ohio.

 

Like a knight of the cavalier time

Rode McPherson, the leader sublime,

When the halo of battle was near;

The proud monarch of danger and fear,

And a hero of heroes was he

When he led, ‘twas his pride, Tennessee.

 

Like a king on his majesty’s throne

Rode McPherson, the peerless, alone,

When the sun in the heaven was high

At Atlanta in sultry July.

And a king of the battle was he

When he led in his pride, Tennessee.

 

When the guns of the skirmishers broke,

Ere their pealing the echoes awoke,

His black charger was mounted in haste

And his head to the enemy faced;

Swiftly flies where his master would be,

When he led to the fight, Tennessee.

 

From the Sixteenth, fast holding its ground,

To the Seventeenth he hurries around,

And his soul his high purpose divines

As he runs into the enemy’s lines –

But one chance! – and he takes it at sight,

To turn back and lead Tennessee’s fight.

 

‘Twas a glance, and a reining – a wheel,

and the black charger springs to the steel –

and soon riderless comes to the town;

The lines shudder – McPherson is down!

And “McPherson – Revenge!” is the word

From the lines of the Tennessee heard.

 

And “McPherason – Revenge!” is the way

That the soldiers remember that day.

They push forward, conquer the plain

Where McPherson, their idol, was slain;

They soon cover the ground where he laid

In the front of Ohio’s Brigade.

 

He still leads them, though dead, on the field,

With a deadlier purpose they wield

In his presence the weapons they hold,

Till the rebels far backward are rolled.,

And a hero in victory, he,

When he fell at thy head, Tennessee.

 

In the hearts of his soldiers he rests,

For they buried him deep in their breasts;

While a throbbing their bosoms shall give

Will the love of McPherson still live,

And a hero of heroes shall be,

As he was when he led Tennessee.

 

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A Plucky Soldier.

 

            “Speaking about pluck,” said Colonel Hig-gins, of Waverly, “there goes a fellow whom I saw do as nervy a thing as I witnessed while I was in the service.”

            “It was at Gettysburg,” remarked the Colonel, knocking the ashes from his cigar.  “You probably knew Dick Enderlin enlisted as a drum-mer-boy. He was in my company, and he beat it so hard that you couldn’t find drum-heads enough in the army to keep him supplied – and a short time before the Gettysburg fight he came to me for the sixth or seventh drum-head, and I just gave him a gun.  He kicked a little, but took it, and made pretty good use of it afterwards, too.

            “Toward the close of the first day’s fight at Gettysburg our regimental line was stretched along the crest of the ridge, adown the side of which was a field of wheat almost ripe enough for the reaper. Much of it had been cut that day, and more was destined to be cut on the morrow – cut by shot and shell and swept by the musketry of the two armies.  On the opposite side of the field, and but a frightful-ly short distance away, were the rebel lines. Twice that afternoon we had charged across that wheat field in effort to drive the enemy from their posi-tion, and twice had we been driven back, leaving many a dead and wounded man among the standing wheat. The wheat was so high that when lying down one could not be seen by the enemy, and for some time before the charge was ordered we had occupied the position described, keeping up a sharp fire on the enemy, and receiving as good as we sent in return.  I couldn’t help but be amused at Dick.  In order to save the men as much as possible, I direct-ed them to lie down to do their loading, and only rise to deliver their fire, but Dick insisted upon standing up all the time.  Three or four times I yelled at him to keep under cover or he would get hit, but, in a few moments, excitement would get the better of him and he would be on his feet again, loading and firing as rapidly as he could handle his piece.

            “When the sun had gone down and the shades of night had checked the firing considerably several of us were standing grouped together, looking out over the field of wheat, wondering what had been the result of the day’s work and what would be the result of the morrow, when we heard some wounded man, way over in the wheat field, groaning terribly.  Taking off my haversack, I hand-ed it to Enderlin, who was standing by, and remark-ed that I was going to that fellow.

            “This, as every one knew, was a pretty ticklish piece of business, for, although it was then night, the moon was shining, and at every rustle of the wheat that indicated the possibility of its being moved by a human being the Johnnies would send their musket and rifle balls through it in a way that made it very unhealthy for any person that might be concealed there.

            “Still I resolved to chance it, and getting down on my knees I began to worm my way through the wheat in the direction of the groans.  I had got but a few yards, however, when I felt some one grasp me by the leg, and I heard Dick’s voice:

            “’Look here, Major,’ he said, ‘you mustn’t go out there.  You might get killed, and we can’t spare you; let me go.’

            “’Why, I don’t believe you could get the fellow in, Dick,’ I replied; ‘he is probably hurt so bad that he will have to be carried, and I don’t be-lieve you could carry a man in that way and through that wheat.’

            “’Well, you just come back and let me try it,’ said Dick; ‘I’ll bet you that I bring him in.’  Saying which, Dick bolted ahead, worming his way through the wheat, as carefully and cautiously as possible, so as to avoid attracting attention, while I returned to the line and awaited results.

            “He was gone a long time, so long that I be-gan to grow uneasy, but finally he made his appear-ance, crawling on his stomach through the wheat, and on his back, with his arms clasped around his neck, was a poor fellow whose hip had been shat-tered by a musket ball.

            “’Where did you find him, Dick?’ I asked him, as we lifted the poor fellow off his back.

            “’He was within a couple of rods of the rebel lines,’ was Dick’s reply, as he arose to his feet and stretched himself after his long trip.

            “’Dick,’ said I, ‘you are a sergeant.  Of course I meant in embryo, for at that moment there wasn’t any vacancy, but there were plenty of them within twenty-four hours.”

 

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The Youngest Soldier of the War.

 

            There have been many claimants to the honor of being the youngest comrade in the Grand Army, but now the New York Press is enabled to definitely settle the vexed question.  Every state-ment can be proved by both documents and records.  The history is very interesting.

            James D. Campbell is a comrade of Win-chester Post, No. 197, of Brooklyn.  He was born July 8, 1851, and enlisted as a drummer Dec. 16, 1861, in Company B, One Hundred and Ninth Regiment Pennsylvania Volunteers, for a period of three years. He was at the time 10 years 5 months and 8 days of age.  He was large for his age and very apt, besides he could handle the drumsticks to perfection, and this made him a desirable recruit.  The regiment was attached to the Army of the Poto-mac, and young Campbell was with it in every en-gagement from South Mountain to Gettysburg.  For a time he acted as mounted orderly for Colonel Stainrock, who commanded the brigade up to the battle of Chancellorsville, where he was killed.

            After the battle of Gettysburg the Twelfth Army Corps, to which the regiment belonged, was consolidated with the Eleventh Army Corps, formerly the Twentieth Corps, which was transferred to the Army of the Cumberland before Atlanta, Ga.  After the famous battles here, under General Sherman, the corps marched to the sea with him, and young Campbell reached Savannah a few days after his term of service had expired.  He was thereupon honorably discharged.  During the entire march through Georgia he kept up with the regi-ment and regularly took his rations of sweet pota-toes, bacon and Confederate poultry.

            Having obtained a taste of a soldier’s life and liking it he endeavored to re-enlist as a private, but not being of age the mustering officer refused to muster him in.  This was one of the greatest disap-pointments of his life, as he had tired of the drumsticks and wanted to carry a musket, which he claimed to be as able to do as any man in the corps, but the officer was immovable, and he came home as he left – a drummer.  Although so young the re-cords of the regiment show that he kept up with it in all its marches and was in nearly every battle.  When many a strong man was about giving out the “kid” of a drummer was about as lively as a cricket.

            Since the war he has been a member of the Grand Army, having joined Lincoln Post, No. 3, in Washington, D.C.  In 1882 he removed to Brooklyn and was transferred to Winchester Post.  For many years Campbell has watched the controversy that has been going on as to the youngest soldier of the war. He has kept notes, and finding none to match him, now comes to the front as the youngest of the youngest.  The family Bible and also the town re-cords prove the age and the army record proves the service, all of which appears to settle the question.

 

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Farnsworth’s Heroic Charge.

 

            On the third day of the battle of Gettysburg General E. J. Farnsworth, of Illinois, was ordered by Gen. Kilpatrick to charge the right flank of the Confederate army. The enemy had posted a strong infantry force behind a stone wall, back of which was another fence.  Artillery had been placed so as to sweep the flanks of any advancing column.  Gen. Farnsworth saw that it would be sheer folly for cavalry to make an attack at that point and told his superior officer so.  Gen. Kilpatrick told him to go ahead and he promptly obeyed orders.  Placing him-self at the head of the First Vermont, First Virginia and part of the Eighteenth Pennsylvania he dashed forward up to the stone wall.  “Gen. Farnsworth,” says a New York correspondent who saw the charge, “leaped his horse over and was followed by the First Vermont, the enemy breaking before them and taking position behind the second fence.  The few rods between the two fences where our men crossed was a fearfully exposed place, the little force receiving the concentrated fire of three lines from front and both flanks. The witnesses of the movement stood in breathless silence, their blood running cold as the chargers gained the second fence.  Man after man was seen to fall, Gen. Farns-worth among the rest.  ‘He is killed!’ gasped many a one looking at that fatal spot.  But no – that tall form and slouched hat are his – he lives, and all breathe again. His horse had been killed. A soldier gives him his horse.  The General again mounts and dashes on.  The enemy here makes a more formidable stand, but is driven away, and the whole force go dashing reeling over the fence in a whirl-pool of shot and shell.  The constant roar of musketry and artillery on the main field gave the scene a peculiar grandeur.  It was fearfully grand.  The second fence crossed and new fires were open-ed upon this brave band.  To retreat at that point was certain death, and the only chance of safety was to advance, and advance they did for between one and two miles to the rear of the rebel army, in sight of the coveted train, but at what a cost!”  It took some of the men hours to get back to their com-mand; many never returned.  Gen. Farnsworth was among the missing, and for two days it was not known whether he was dead or a prisoner.  Then some of the Vermont boys in going over the field found his dead body near the second fence, which he had just crossed when he fell.  Five bullets struck him, and his death was probably instantaneous.

 

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A Brave Deed of Long Ago.

 

            There goes the bravest man in the United States army; at least I saw him do as brave a deed as any that ever was done, (said Capt. Mack in Amsden’s Bank, as he looked out on the street at a man going by).

            “There were a good many brave deeds done in the army. Who is your man, and what did he do?”

            “He is Tom Gilbert and was a private in my company.  Two men were packing ammunition in a wagon at Baton Rouge and some powder exploded in the wagon and killed one of them.  The wagon contained thirty-two twenty-pound shells loaded with powders.  The shells were packed points down, and the orifice in the rear end of each one was filled with oakum, which is to be pulled out and replaced by a fuse when put in the gun.  The explosion of powder set fire to the oakum and it was burning toward the powder when Gilbert saw the situation.  He first drew the injured man away from the wagon, and then, finding a pail of water convenient-ly near picked the shells up and dipped the burning ends in the water.  None of them exploded, or he would not have been here to go by the window today.”                                 - Detroit Free Press.

 

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One of the President’s Battles.

 

            The President visited the scene of Peach Tree Creek, near Atlanta.  This battle, though not very famous, was a fierce and bloody struggle. It was the first of the wild assaults by the Confeder-ates upon the superior forces of Sherman after Hood replaced Johnston.  The audacity of the stroke gave a show of temporary success.  Butterfield’s Divi-sion of Hooker’s Corps was in the Peach Tree Val-ley, resting and drinking coffee, when word came that a powerful Confederate force was rapidly ad-vancing.  There was no time for consultation. General Harrison was in command of a strong brigade, and instantly mounting his horse ordered the troops to advance and meet the enemy before they could pass the ridge in front.  He did just the right thing at the right time.  His men saved the crest, and came – a rare thing in war – in personal collision with the Confederates.  This was one of the half dozen occasions in the four years’ war that bayonets were actually crossed and death and wounds inflicted with them.  The Confederates were repulsed with great slaughter, and the engage-ment was called one of “Hood’s killings.”  This was the last battle in which General Hooker participated.  He left the army a few days later because he was not assigned to McPherson’s command.

            General Harrison was much complimented for the presence of mind and sagacity that he displayed in a most unexpected and trying moment.

-          Cincinnati Commercial.

 

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How He Was Saved.

 

            In the battle of Fair Oaks, June 1, 1862, Gen. O. O. Howard’s right arm was shot off.  In that connection the General recently told an inter-esting story:  “As I was making my way to the hos-pital,” he said, “weak from loss of blood and from pain, I saw a young man intoxicated.  He was so under the influence of whisky that he could hardly walk.  As I came near him, I stopped long enough to tell him it did not pay to drink.  It would ruin him, and he had better stop before the habit got control of him.

            “I passed on to the hospital, had my arm amputated, and was sent home to recover.  I saw nor heard nothing more of the drunken soldier until a short time ago, when a letter from an officer in Washington told me of his subsequent history.

            “Impressed by the fact that in my wounded condition I had taken enough interest in him to stop and give him advice, he had then and there resolved to quit drinking.  He kept his resolution, and when the war was settled down to a life of steady, honest, hard work.  He gradually rose, and the letter from Washington told me he had just died, a Judge on the Supreme Bench in the State of New Hampshire, one of the foremost men in that commonwealth.”

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A Faithful Steed.

 

            For many years after the Custer massacre, whenever the Seventh Cavalry was paraded, or there was any mounted formation, there was presented the pathetic sight of an old cavalry charger, saddled and equipped and led by a trooper on each side, the empty saddle telling the story of the old horse’s faithfulness.  He was the sole survivor found on the field of the Custer massacre.  He belonged to an officer in the regiment, and watched by his body, although wounded in a dozen places, for days and nights, and when the rescuers came there he stood, gaunt, starving, wounded, but faithful to the dead man.  The late Gen. Sturgis, who was then Colonel of the regiment, and who lost a splendid young son in the fight, issued an order that the horse should be cared for to the end of his days, as attached to the regiment, and that at all mounted formations he should be in line.  He lived to a good old age.                           – Inter Ocean.

 

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The Sutler’s Army Pies.

By H. C. Burns, Fourteenth Pennsylvania Cavalry

[Air:  “Auld Lang Syne.”]

 

Old comrades, your attention give,

A song I’ll sing to you;

The subject you have heard before,

And every word is true:

The largest end of each month’s pay,

From sixty-one to ‘five,

Was gobbled by the sutler man

In return for his army pies.

 

CHORUS.

The sutler of peach brandy fame,

Well known to all the boys,

Whose iron-clad dried apples,

Soled or pegged, he sold for pie.

 

Cheap jewelry, prize-package men,

Were all well known as beats,

For one might read a newspaper

Through envelopes or sheets;

But, oh, ye sutler, ‘tis of him

That wicked thoughts arise,

With those who suffered years of pain

From eating his army pies.

 

The hardtack was so all-fired tough

We broke them with a brick,

And for a change we’d buy a pie,

So galvanized and slick;

But, oh, when they were out of sight,

They generally took the prize,

As we et rails or rusty nails

As the sutler’s army pies.

 

Sheet-iron filled with sawdust

Would have answered just the same;

But let us hope, for half his lies

He’ll not be held to blame;

For time our wrath has blunted o’er,

With age we’ve grown more wise;

We trust that mercy may o’ertake

All the dealers in army pies.

 

There’s many freaks of army life

That, Phoenix-like, remain,

But none that give the boys at least

More pleasurable pain;

So let this subject we’ve discussed

Be given wheres and whys,

What will the future soldiers eat

Instead of army pies?

 

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How We Talked.

By James Franklin Fitts.

 

            The fact has very often been stated that the American soldier in our great war, both in blue and gray, was, generally speaking, a person of intelli-gence.  He knew what he was fighting for, or, more correctly stated, he knew what he was supposed to be fighting for.  Hence, aside from the necessary obedience of orders and subordination to discipline imposed by his position as a solider, he was independent in his views, disposed to be critical of his superior officers on such occasions, and was sometimes given to pointing out the mistakes of great generals and telling how campaigns that had been attempted could have been very much better conducted.

            This criticism was not – all of it assuredly was not – ignorant and weak.  General Sherman has told us in his book of personal memoirs of his visits to advanced posts, his free talk with the private sol-diers and of their very frequent shrewd guesses at contemplated future movements, and their sensible observations upon movements in progress.  This is readily accounted for by the intelligence of the soldier, by his habit of keen observation, by his facility of picking up information, and by his close reading of the current newspapers.  He kept himself well posted as to the general situation in this way, and was often quite as competent to criticize or advise as those who were in authority over him.

            The private soldiers had an effective way of “sizing up” his officers.  From Generals down to Lieutenants, he was never deceived nor misled by show or bluster. Deeds and not words were most convincing with him.  The Generals whom he approved were of the fighting kind.  He had a secret, often a decidedly expressed, contempt for the paper-collar and general-order style of com-manders, who were heard from everywhere but at the time of battle.

            I am not losing sight of my subject, but the suggestion of the relation of the private soldier to his officers reminds me at once of the immense advantage that the Union cause had over the Con-federate in the popularity of President Lincoln with the army.  From the first call to arms down to the day of the assassination, the President had the love and the confidence of the Union soldier.  His plain, simple character, his common-sense expressions, and his heartiness to thousands of the soldiers whom he met, both after great reviews and at the White House, as well as on his frequent visits to the hospitals, fixed him firmly in their affections as their friend.  There never was a time when he could appear before even a single regiment without re-ceiving a spontaneous outburst of cheers.  The sol-diers loved him; they talked of him around their campfires in a strain of affection and pride; there was not an incident occurring in those stirring days showing his tenderness to the soldier – and such incidents were plenty enough – but it quickly came to the field and was talked of among the soldiers. This quality of the Chief Executive of the United States of winning the armies to him, was of the greatest service to the cause.  No man can tell what it did not do for us. The merits and demerits of McClellan, of Burnside, Hooker, Meade, even Grant, were earnestly and sometimes fiercely debated about the campfires.  As to each there was always a strong minority of opposition, but when the question was mooted as to “Old Abe” there were no two opinions.  In the judgment of the soldiers, freely expressed, he was the man to have at the head of affairs; he was one whom they could understand and appreciate, and they gave him their perfect confidence.

            Now cast a glance at the other side.  We make the parallel in no invidious spirit; it is a part of history. When was it that the Confederate soldiers ever broke out with enthusiasm over their President?  Who ever spoke of him around their campfires with affection or admiration?  A man of great ability, no doubt, and thoroughly devoted to the cause of which he was the head; but he had no faculty of inspiring the rank and file with great regard for himself.  It may be said with perfect truth that he has been much better received at many places in the South since the close of the war than he ever was by the Confederate armies during the war.  He was never the soldier’s man.

            I have put at the head of this article, “How We Talked.”  The “we” comprehends much more than the private soldier. The discipline of the volunteers never reached that of the regulars – and it would have been a sorry thing for the service if it had.  Company and field officers were well known to the soldiers of their regiments at home, and often Colonels and Captains did not disdain to come out and stand round the fires with the men, smoking the universal brier-wood pipe, and listening to the talk that was hardly softened on account of their pre-sence.  In fact, the talk was sometimes made a little plainer when it was known that shoulder-stripes were within hearing.

            Fragments of such conversations are re-membered after twenty-five years. Here is one of them:

            “Most twenty miles marched today,” grum-bled a high private.  “What’s the use of such a long march on a hot, dusty day like this?”

            “To give General – a chance to show his authority, I suppose.”

            “Well, why don’t we fight?  Why not have a battle and put an end to all this toting around?”

            “Yes, why not?” observes a philosopher in blue.  “Why the dickens ain’t you in command, Jones?  You seem to know just what ought to be done.”

            A slight laugh follows, and Jones grumbles to himself.  After a pause another soldier takes up the burden of criticism.

            “Well, I don’t care; we’ve got a right to growl when we see things going the way they do.  What’s been the good of all our marching the last two weeks, I’d like to know.  We haven’t seen the enemy; our Generals haven’t meant we should.  What’s the good of it?”

            “You’re the hired man of the United States,” observes the philosopher in blue.  “You get thirteen dollars a month and ‘found’ for doing what the military big-bugs tell you to.  You’re a machine – don’t you understand it?  Want to run yourself, do you?”

            “O, pshaw! – guess we can talk if we want to.  Now, I say that anybody can see there’s nothing but foolishness in this campaign.  If we hadn’t moved so far away from the river, so that we could get our supplies regular, and without the guerrillas interfering; and if we’d moved two days sooner than we did; and if the cavalry was worth a cent for scouting; and if –“

            “O, dry up!  Always the big ‘if’ in the way.  Do you suppose you could better it?  Why, I suppose that if your uncle wore petticoats, he’d be your aunt – wouldn’t he?”

            Laughter and good humor follow such a sally as this; soon the “tattoo” sounds, and the soldiers go to their rest on the ground, dreaming of home, and gathering strength for a twenty-mile march on the morrow.                  – Chicago Ledger.

 

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The Turning Point of the War.

By D. C. Cameron.

           

            Major Chas. Hilton, of the Palmer House, Chicago, in the course of a conversation with an old soldier related this:  “I have often heard men ask what was the turning point of the war.  Major Thomas Newsham, who lives in this State, told sev-eral of us once that he had put the question to General Sherman one day, and that the old com-mander gave him this reply:  It was a short time after the battle of Corinth. Sherman had reported to Halleck, who was in command, and was there informed that Grant intended to resign.  Grant was under Halleck’s command. When Sherman heard of this he mounted his horse and rode to Grant’s head-quarters.  Grant was sore about the treatment he had received and told Sherman he would stand it no longer.  He handed Sherman a piece of paper on which was Grant’s resignation.  Sherman asked Grant if he would do him a favor, and Grant replied in a sorrowful way that he would if it lay in his power.  Sherman tore the resignation into fragments and said he wanted Grant to withhold his resigna-tion for two weeks.  Grant consented with hesita-tion.  When the two weeks were up Halleck had been retired and Grant was reinstated, for Sherman had removed him.  ‘That,’ said Old Tecumseh, ‘I consider was the turning point of the war.’”

 

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How Biddy Welch Raised the Wind.

By D. C. Cameron.

 

            A brother of mine served in the Seventeen-th Regulars during the siege of Petersburg tells the following:

            “A large, powerful, good-natured comrade by the name of Welch – a brother of Col. Welch, of the Sixteenth Michigan, who was killed at Chapin’s Farm – was dubbed Biddy Welch.  The boys were wont to play a little game of ‘draw’ at times.  When pay-day passed in the dim distance and greenbacks were flown they played for rations, valued upon a sliding scale of two hardtacks equal one spoonful of coffee; two spoonfuls of sugar equal one of coffee, etc.  Sugar graded at 25 cents; coffee, 50 cents; a square inch of plug tobacco, 25 cents.

            “We drew rations every ten days, and the boy who went broke at the game two days after the drawing, had to “spike for grub” the eight remain-ing days, or until another issue.

            “One day while playing in the trenches Biddy sat in hard luck – Biddy generally did sit in hard luck, and was short on rations; everything he had was up.  Number one raised the blind; number two called.  Biddy looked at the pot, and a shade came over his face – his rations were all up; looked again at his hand, and his face lightened; studied a moment, went down into his ‘starve-bag’ and brought to light an enormous cucumber pickle, held it reluctantly out, and queried:  ‘Boys, what’ll ye ‘low me on that?’  Instantly three pairs of eyes bulged in amazement.  Where did he get that?  How did he come by it?  Instantly three stomachs craved the unaccustomed luxury.  An ardent desire to possess the succulent anti-scorbutic arose under every blue blouse.  Go on it?  Why, that’s worth the last chip.  Everything was put up, cards drawn, hands showed down, and Biddy raked in a pot, a phenomenon for him to do. Many a comrade in the succeeding nights went feeling for that pickle, but Biddy always took it into the blanket with him.  Often was it thereafter produced as the dernier resort, and when it decayed and became no longer merchantable, his bank stock was gone.  But before the dissolution came many a good hand was laid down by an opponent upon production of that hoary pickle.”

 

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Kept His Word Like a Soldier.

 

            The Atlanta Constitution relates this inter-esting war reminiscence:  Lieut. C. A. Coryell, formerly of the One Hundred and Forty-first New York Volunteers, Twentieth Army Corps, was with Sherman on the famous march to the sea.  One bright Sunday in December, 1864, the Lieutenant was detailed to take charge of the picket line in front of Savannah, on the edge of a rice swamp.  There was a truce between the pickets, and every-thing wore a Sabbath-like stillness.

            Coryell had nothing to do, and was out of tobacco.  How to get a chew was the question.  Finally a handsome young officer from the Confed-erate side strolled out between the lines.  Coryell hailed him at once:

            “I say, Johnny, got any chewing tobacco over there?”

            “Yes, plenty of it – something good.”

            “Come over!” shouted the Federal.  “I want to buy some.  Got lots of Confederate money, but no tobacco.”

            “Can’t do it, “ replied the Confederate, “it’s against orders to leave my post.”

            “Well, then, come half way, and I’ll meet you.”

            “Sorry, Yank, but I can’t do that, either,” answered the Confederate.

            “Johnny!” yelled the desperate Federal, “if I come over to you I can get the tobacco and return safely to my lines?”

            “Come along, I’ll treat you right.”

            “How do you know that I will not be taken prisoner?”

            “You have the word of a gentleman and a Confederate officer.”

            Coryell thought a moment.  He wanted the tobacco, and the young officer had spoken in a manly way.

            The Federal decided to make the venture.  He laid aside his sword and belt and started across the high and narrow dike leading to the Confederate lines. On either side of the dike the water in the rice fields was ten feet deep.

            The lieutenant reached the opposite shore without any misgivings.  The Confederate produced some tobacco and a trade was made in no time.  Then the two fell into a pleasant conversation.

            Suddenly Coryell saw a signal flutter from a house some distance in the rear of the Confederate line.

            “What does that mean?” he asked, sharply.

            Just then an orderly dashed up on horse-back and with a dignified salute said to the Confed-erate officer:

            “Lieutenant, the General orders you to take the Yankee officer to headquarters.”

            Coryell was dumfounded.  Visions of An-dersonville, Castle Thunder and Libby Prison danced before his eyes. He thought of his loved ones at home and the disgrace attached to such a capture.

            He cursed the infernal tobacco that had placed him in such an unlucky position.  Then he looked at the Confederate Lieutenant and noted his honest eyes and his manly face.

            “Am I your prisoner?” asked Coryell.

            The Confederate extended his right hand.

            “I offered you my protection,” he said.  “Go to your lines.  I will follow you over the dike, and if my body can shield you from Confederate lead you shall reach your command in safety.  Goodbye and God bless you!”

            The Federal started on his return trip.  He dreaded the enemy’s fire and fully expected a chance shot would cripple him and cause him to fall into the water, where death would be a certainty.

            He was half way across when the first shot came.  There was another and another, until a whole brigade seemed to be firing at him.

            The fugitive walked rapidly onward until he reached the Federal lines and vaulted over the breastwork.  Then he looked back and saw his pro-tector standing on the dike.  The Confederate waved his hand, turned about, and marched back to his own side.  He had kept his promise like a true soldier.

 

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Soldier’s Tricks.

By James Franklin Fitts.

 

            Perhaps it might not be thought just the correct thing for one who in the old days wore shoulder-straps and had considerable authority over the soldier, to tell of the soldier’s escapades and tricks with a laugh.  But, as our great master, William Shakespeare, said, “One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,” human nature was pretty much the same in those days, whether the heart beat beneath a uniform coat or a blouse, and when there was nothing morally wrong done or at-tempted, the effort to lighten up the severities of orders and rules and regulations cannot be regarded as a serious offense.  When there was something funny about it, and the affair came to be talked over in the camps, it was really felt that the perpetrator had done something like a public service in furnish-ing material for a laugh.

            Two of these venial offenses that occur to me, I have jotted down in this sketch.

*  *  *

            Up the Red River two men of the One Hundred and Fourteenth New York were caught by the provost marshal of the corps, killing a calf. Among soldiers in the rebellion, where there were calves killed and eaten, this was always regarded as a proper and necessary thing to do.  Fresh meat ra-tions were irregular and uncertain, and soldiers could not be made to understand that the livestock in the Confederate meadows and barnyards must be respected by them.  The officer in command of the Nineteenth Corps was a regular, a strict disciplin-arian, and had a severe eye for these breaches of orders.  As he is still living, I will not name him, though I will express the hope that the mellowing influence of time and age have brought him to look back with more lenient eye upon much of the con-duct of the volunteers that then excited his ire.  His provost marshal was Captain I--, now long depart-ed, a brisk, active, zealous little fellow, full of the spirit of executing orders to the letter, and eager to enforce the prohibition against individual foraging.

            Catching these two soldiers in the very act of killing the calf, Captain I—put them both under guard, compelled them to shoulder their spoil and march with it to corps headquarters.  The time was just at the close of a long day’s march, night was coming on, and headquarters tents were up.

            The headquarters company at that time was from the One Hundred and Sixteenth New York, which had been brigaded with the regiment of the transgressors.  Between these regiments there was sincere attachment.  The headquarters company had built a large fire in the rear, and those not on guard were cooking up soup in a great kettle.

            “These two men,” said the Provost Marshal to the Captain, “are to carry the carcass of that calf around that fire all night, relieving each other each hour.  I charge you to see that it is done, and shall hold you responsible.”

            “Yes, sir,” said the Captain.  He gave the necessary orders to the sergeant of the guard, and the proceedings began.

            Captain I—was tired with the fatigues and vexations of the day, but his determination that his orders should be obeyed kept him wakeful.  At in-tervals through the night a voice was heard from the rear of his hut, and a colloquy like this would ensue:

            “Sergeant of the guard!”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Are those men carrying that calf?”

            “They are, sir.”

            Indeed, Captain I—could see a soldier mak-ing the circuit of the fire, in and out of the smoke, appearing to be heavy laden, while the guards faith-fully walked their beats, and other soldiers sat or lay around.

            In the morning Captain I—ordered the cul-prits to return to their regiment.  Sometime later it occurred to him to ask what had become of the calf.

            Nobody knew.  He had given no orders on that subject, and all the headquarters company were profoundly ignorant about it.

            The Provost Marshal suspected that he had been outwitted; but he never knew how badly.  The calf had been dressed, cut up, cooked, and divided among the soldiers, the two culprits taking their share away with them.  All night a bright watch had been kept for Captain I--, his habits being well known, and whenever his voice was heard in stern inquiry, a soldier would walk about the fire with the calf-skin, filled out with sticks, over his shoulder.  The two prisoners had enjoyed quite as much sleep as had the Provost Marshal.

            It was one of the headquarters company “who was there,” a sober-looking veteran who could never be suspected of such conduct, who gave me all the particulars of the occurrence last summer.

***

            A sergeant of my own company (who shall be otherwise nameless) was severely wounded at the battle of Cedar Creek, and for some months was under treatment at one of the Philadelphia general hospitals.  In the following spring he was not suffi-ciently recovered to be discharged, but was able to travel.  A letter came from home, telling of the severe sickness of his father.  The sergeant put in an application for a ten days’ furlough, which the sur-geon in charge approved and forwarded.  Three days passed and nothing was heard from the appli-cation.  The surgeon was a kind-hearted man, and our soldier felt perfectly free to go to him and state his case.

            “You’ll get your furlough within a week,” was the reply.  “They are a little slow at military headquarters.”

            “But my father may die in the meantime.”

            The surgeon was thoughtful.

            “I have no advice to give you, sergeant,” he replied; “but I may say that if you should be reported to me ‘absent without leave’ for the next few days I would be too busy to do anything about it till that furlough comes.”

            To that intelligent soldier a hint was quite as good as a kick.  He let the man in charge of his ward into the secret, and was reported as usual among the “present sick.”  How he evaded the guard-inspection on the trains I don’t know; he did, some way.  He passed the next ten days at home, enjoyed the visit immensely, and was promptly back at the Philadelphia hospital at the end of the time.

            Two days later his application for a fur-lough was returned, duly approved.

            And now, does the reader think that the ser-geant carried the order for the furlough into the office and returned it with thanks, saying that he had already enjoyed its benefit?

            Ah, no; he knew a trick worth two of that.  He went to the surgeon and gravely remarked that now, since he had received his furlough, there could be no objections to his taking it in the regular way.  And the kind-hearted surgeon laughed and said he saw no objection.  And I do not think that the United States of America are a bit worse off today because Sergeant A—made a ten-days’ furlough cover a twenty-days’ absence near the end of the war.                                           – Chicago Ledger.

 

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Bold Major Blank.

A Confederate Story.

 

            At the battle of Missionary Ridge, about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, General Bragg and his staff occupied a central position on the ridge.  The group was excited and nervous, the very horses seemed to partake of the spirit of the riders.  Pat Cleburne, on the right, had been pegging away at the Union army all day long, gallantly repelling every attack made on his line.  Bragg had needless-ly weakened his center by sending re-enforcements to Cleburne, and had still further minimized the strength of what he had left by imprudently deploy-ing them above and below the hill, instead of con-centrating his men at the top.

            An immense mass of Union troops had gathered behind the little strip of woods in front of Bragg’s position, and the nervousness and excite-ment of the Confederate General and his staff was doubtless occasioned by fears as to the direction they would take, now that it was too late to rectify their lines.  Major Blank, of General Bragg’s staff, was in an extremely happy mood, having taken a little more to drink than was necessary or advisable, and his hilarity somewhat shocked the nerves of those who did not have access to his means of sup-ply.  To quiet him and get rid of him at the time, General Bragg directed him to take a couple cour-iers and go to a position on the ridge, where there was a rude breastwork of logs, and reconnoiter.

            Major Blank called two of the General’s body-guard and rode to the point designated, and up to which the outer line of the Union skirmishers had penetrated.  “Dismount, couriers, and advance as skirmishers,” said Major Blank.  The couriers obey-ed and concealed themselves behind the logs.  One of them saw a skirmisher on the other side, and beckoned him to come over.  Thinking that the courier was his officer he did so, and was captured.  “That’s right, courier; call another one over,” said Major Blank, at the same time questioning the pri-soner.  Marvelous as it may seem, the courier prac-ticed the ruse a second time with success.

            Major Blank said to the courier:  “Take these prisoners to General Bragg; tell him I have met the advance of General Van Cleves’ Corps, and checked it.  Go to General Breckinridge and tell him to send me ten men with long-range guns, and I’ll whip the whole army.”  The courier was glad to get away from such a fire-eating officer, but he never got to General Bragg.  The men massed behind the piece of woods opened out in the mean-time, just as a person would unfold his arms, and, with a wild rush, made for the ridge, sweeping the center as completely as though a terrible tornado had struck it.  The courier dropped his prisoners and made for the corduroy road across the Chickamauga while Major Blank turned up in a demoralized con-dition some days later after the battle.

 

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He Pined for Home.

 

            An ex-Confederate, writing in a Washing-ton paper, gives an account of the execution of a Confederate soldier named Radcliffe, a conscript from Southwest Virginia, who had been assigned to the First Battalion of infantry.  He was a mountain-eer with a large family of children, and was always pining for home.  He was utterly worthless as a sol-dier.  After deserting and being brought back two or three times, he finally desperately wounded a guard who endeavored to balk still another attempt to de-sert.  He was captured, court-martialed, and sen-tenced to be shot, although the court for a long time hesitated to pass sentence, as some of the members believed the man to be half-witted.  Had not Radcliffe nearly killed the guard he would have only been confined, as he did not attempt to desert to the enemy, but to go home; but the assault deter-mined the minds of the court.  On being brought out for execution the poor devil blasphemed and howl-ed and struggled in a heartrending manner, and it was not until he saw that his prayers for mercy were useless that he braced up like a man, and, quietly kneeling upon his coffin, received in his bosom the fatal bullets.  I have ever thought, and think still, that the execution of this man was a stain on the court that tried him, under the circumstances.  He was a monomaniac on the subject of home.  His Captain deemed him irresponsible, and the majority of the officers of the battalion were of the same opinion.

 

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The Union Girl and the Confederate Flag.

By A. J. Cushing, Ninth Massachusetts.

 

            During the war it was the misfortune of a Union girl to live in a settlement of Southern sympathizers, in the State of Ohio.  Grace, as I will call her, must have been of tender years, as she was still a schoolgirl.  Among her schoolmates were a couple of girls whose political faith differed from her own, and who showed their true colors and adherence to the Southern cause by wearing aprons resembling the Confederate flag.

            Grace could not bear the sight of the flags, and declared the girls should not wear them.  Hav-ing a pugnacious disposition, she pitched into these fair representatives of rebellion, tore their aprons from off them and into shreds.  Public sentiment condemned this act.  Grace was looked upon as a disturber of the peace, guilty of breaking the laws of the land.  A warrant for her arrest was issued, and in due course of time she found herself in the custody of an officer awaiting trial before the Circuit Court at the county seat.  It was a clear case of assault, and the poor girl was likely to suffer the full penalty of the law with no prospect of being favored with its delay.

            The day of trial came, the prisoner was ar-raigned at the bar, the Judge took his seat, and the jury were prepared to listen to the testimony.  How far the trial had proceeded we know not, when the school course of justice suddenly met unexpected obstacles.  A Union regiment from West Virginia happened to be passing through town that day.  Hearing of the trial, soldiers visited the Court House, dismissed the case, adjourned the court, sent the girl home, and gave the Judge some sound ad-vice, which he saw fit to follow.        – Colfax, Wis.

 

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The Dead at Gettysburg.

 

            A writer in the Grand Army Journal fur-nishes the following as the number of dead buried at Gettysburg from each State.

Connecticut                          22

Delaware                                15

Indiana                                   80

Illinois                                      6

Maryland                               22

Minnesota                             53

Massachusetts                 159

New Jersey                            78

New Hampshire                    49

Michigan                           175

New York                           867

Maine                                 104

West Virginia                       11

Rhode Island                        14

Vermont                               61

Wisconsin                           73

Ohio                                   131

Pennsylvania                    535

United States Regulars    139

Unknown                           979

Total               3,575

 

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The Youngest Volunteer.

 

            I notice a statement in the press to the effect that C. H. Wynne, of Sioux City, Iowa, claims to be the youngest volunteer in the United States service during the late rebellion, having enlisted at Vermil-lion, Ill., at the age of 13 years 11 months and 7 days.  I can beat that.  I was born Jan. 10, 1848, and enlisted in Company I of the Forty-ninth Illinois Infantry, Colonel William R. Morrison command-ing, in October, 1861. The first day of November, 1861, I was 13 years 9 months and 21 days old.  I carried a musket for three years and some months, and was mustered out at Camp Butler, near Spring-field, Ill., in December, 1864, with that portion of the regiment which did not re-enlist.

                                    J. M. Young, Chicago, Ill.

 

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The Little Jersey Boy.

[It was after the battle of Seven Pines that we saw a young Jersey boy, with a pleasant face – pleasant even in death, for a soft and sweet expression was left upon the clay as the angel slowly bore the soul away.]

 

Yes, there it lay,

That tender form of matchless beauty;

Cold, pulseless clay,

From which the life was snatched in sternest duty.

 

A sweet young face

On which scarce sixteen summers’ suns had shone;

Rude scars deface,

And down with dead and dying it was borne.

 

Dim eyes, and blue –

O’er which stern Death had waved his wand

Of violet hue,

And like that flower, when nipped by frosts’ cold hand.

 

We wonder not

The thundering cannon howled its deep and deafening moans,

And fiery shot

With screaming mortars, blent their wild, terrific tones.

 

 

A mother knelt

In prayer’s meek attitude – she made appeal,

And what she felt

Mothers can tell – for only they can feel.

 

Her country’s call

Fell on her ear, a death-bell toiling deep;

She gave her all,

He proudly went – but went too soon to sleep.

 

She heard the tale,

She clasped her hands, she fell before her God:

And deadly pale,

She did not speak, but humbly kissed the rod.

 

Oh, battle red,

Thou’st called ten thousand mothers’ darlings to the grave;

Stiff, cold and dead,

This night they’re scattered over land and wave.

 

Poor Jersey boy!

Thou’re where there’s sweeter music than the noisy drum –

Where all is joy

And where earth’s million soldiers at His call must come.

Loyal Woman’s Scrap Book.

 

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Touching Story of a Deserter.

By Gen. Collen.

 

            During the winter of 1863-4 it was my for-tune to be President of one of the court-martials of the Army of Northern Virginia (Confederate).  One bleak December morning, while the snow covered the ground and the winds howled around our camp, I left my bivouac fire to attend the session of the court.  Winding for miles along uncertain paths, I at length arrived at the court ground, at Round Oak Church.  Day after day it had been our duty to try the gallant soldiers of that army, charged with vio-lation of military law; but never had I on any pre-vious occasion been greeted by such anxious spec-tators as on that morning awaited the opening of the ourt.  Case after case was disposed of, and at length the case of “The Confederate States vs. Edward Cooper” was called – charge, desertion.  A low murmur rose spontaneously from the battle-scarred spectators as a young artilleryman rose from the pri-soner’s bench, and in response to the question, “Guilty, or not guilty?” answered “Not guilty.”

            The Judge Advocate was proceeding to open the prosecution when the court, observing that the prisoner was unattended by counsel, interposed  and inquired of accused, “Who is your counsel?”  He replied, “I have no counsel.”  Supposing that it was his purpose to represent himself before the court, the Judge Advocate was instructed to pro-ceed.  Every charge and specification against the prisoner was sustained.  The prisoner was then told to introduce his witnesses.  He replied, “I have no witnesses.”  Astonished at the calmness with which he seemed to be submitting to what he regarded as inevitable fate, I said to him, “Have you no de-fense?  Is it possible that you abandoned your com-rades and deserted your colors in the presence of the enemy without any reason?”  He replied, “There was a reason, but it will not avail me before a mili-tary court.”  I said, “Perhaps you are mistaken; you are charged with the highest crime known to mili-tary law, and it is your duty to make known the causes that influenced your actions.”

            For the first time his manly form trembled, and his blue eyes swam in tears.  Approaching the President of the court, he presented a letter, saying, as he did so:  “There, General, is what did it.”  I opened the letter, and in a moment my eyes filled with tears.  It was passed from one to another of the court until all had seen it and those stern warriors who had passed with Stonewall Jackson through a hundred battles wept like little children.  Soon as I had sufficiently recovered by self-possession I read the letter as the defense of the prisoner.  It was in these words:

                DEAR EDWARD – Since your connection with the Confederate army I have been prouder of you than ever before. I would not have you do anything wrong for the world but before God, Edward, unless you come home we must die!  Last night I was aroused by little Eddie crying.  I called to him and said: “What is the matter, Eddie?”  He replied:  “Oh, mamma, I am so hungry.”  And Lucy, your darling Lucy.  She never complains.  But she grows thinner every day.  Before God, Edward, unless you come home we must die.

                                                                Your Mary.

            Turning to the prisoner Gen. Battle asked:

            “What did you do when you received that letter?”

            Cooper replied:  I made application for a furlough – it was rejected.  Again I made applica-tion, and it was rejected.  That night as I wandered about our camp thinking of my home, the wild eyes of Lucy looking up to me and the burning words of Mary sinking in my brain, I was no longer the Confederate soldier, but I was the father of Lucy and the husband of Mary.  If every gun in the battery had been fired upon me I would have passed those lines.  When I reached home Mary flung her arms around my neck and sobbed:

            “Oh, my Edward!  I am so glad you got your furlough.”

            She must have felt me shudder, for she turned as pale as death, and catching her breath at every word, she said:

            “Have you come without your furlough?  Go back, Edward, go back!  Let me and the children go down to the grave, but, for heaven’s sake, save the honor of our name!”

            “And here I am, gentlemen, not brought here by military power but in obedience to the com-mand of Mary, to abide the sentence of your court.”

            Every officer of that court-martial felt the force of the prisoner’s words. Before them stood in beautific vision, the eloquent pleader for a hus-band’s and father’s wrongs, but they had been trained by their great leader, Robert E. Lee, to tread the paths of duty, though the lightning’s flash scorched the ground beneath their feet, and each in his turn pronounced the verdict, guilty.  Fortunately for humanity, fortunately for the Confederacy, the proceedings of the court were reviewed by the com-manding general, and upon the records was written:

            “The finding of the court is approved.  The prisoner is pardoned and will report to his company.

                                    R. E. Lee, General.”

            During the second battle of Cold Harbor, when shot and shell were falling “like torrents from the mountain cloud,” my attention was directed to the fact that one of our batteries was being silenced by the concentrated fire of the enemy.

            When I reached the battery every gun but one had been dismantled, and by it stood a solitary Confederate soldier, with the blood streaming from his side. As he recognized me he elevated his voice above the roar of the battle and said:  “Colonel, I have one shell left.  Tell me, have I saved the honor of Mary and Lucy?”  I raised my hat and once more a Confederate shell went crashing through the ranks of the enemy and the young artillery man sank by the side of his gun to rise no more.

 

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Sherman’s Bummers.

 

            The story of the origin of the word bum-mer, as applied to Sherman’s armies as they march-ed – Howard on the right, Sherman in the center, and Slocum on the left – “from Atlanta to the sea,” told by G. W. Patten, in chapter IX., “History of the Preacher Regiment,” the Seventy-third Illinois Vol-unteers, is a subject of considerable interest to all who survived the war, and particularly so to many of those now old bummers still living on that great march.  To these latter a recital of it cannot fail to recall the old days when they followed their great leader, Comrade Patten tells the story thus:

            Along about 1855, a boy was picked up on the streets of New York City by the ladies engaged in the commendable and charitable work, at Five Points, of gathering together such waifs as had no home or friends.  These they placed in their charita-ble home or school, known as the Five Points School.  This boy was retained there until a home was found for him with a farmer in Tazewell County, Illinois.

            At the organization of Company B, Seven-ty-third Illinois, he was enlisted as a drummer in the company, as William D. Rodgers.  He was about fifteen or sixteen years old, and a very bright, active boy, who made friends of all with whom he came in contact.  He apparently came of Irish parents, and was possessed of an unusual degree of that quick wit for which that people are famous.  He soon became a great favorite with his company, for he was one of the most liberal-hearted and congenial members of the company.  He always spoke of himself as “Poor Bum,” and soon came to be known as “Bum Rodgers.”

            He often sang an Irish song, of which “Bummers beware! and snoozers take care!” was the closing line of each verse.  In answer to the question of the writer of this as to where he learned the song, he explained that, when a “bummer” in New York, they had among themselves as street gamins a sort of organization for mutual protection against the raids that were made upon them by the police and others who were wont to annoy them, and often disturb and break their rest at night in their usual haunts in empty boxes, barrels, hogs-heads, etc.  One of their number was always placed on guard to give the alarm at the approach of the enemy, and this song was used as a signal.  The last words of each verse, “Bummers, beware! and snoozers, take care!” would be followed by a gener-al stampede.

            From his frequent use of these words, he very soon came to be known in the regiment as “Company B’s bummer,” and ere long this name had attached itself to the other musicians of the company, then spread to the musicians of the other companies of the left wing and very soon to all musicians of the regiment.  By degrees it became customary to apply it to company cooks, hostlers, teamsters, hospital nurses and orderlies about head-quarters; and by the spring of 1864 it had become a common name for all persons who did not actually carry arms and do duty in the ranks.  This was true, not only in the Seventy-third but in other regiments of the brigade and division.

            From that time on, old comrades who were on the Atlanta campaign will remember how com-mon the name became, and how it was applied to every man who was away from his command, no matter for how short a time.  The pioneers were “bummers,” the man who fell out of the ranks on a march was a “bummer;” the foragers, above all others, were “bummers;” and Bum Rodgers was ad-mitted by all who knew him to be the “king bee” in the swarm of bumming foragers.  So when the army left Atlanta on its famous “march to the sea,” and the entire marching column became foragers, it was but natural that they should all become “bummers,” and with the training they had received by Bum Rodgers and his associates, were very successful; and no history of the great rebellion is complete in which “Sherman’s bummers” do not have a very prominent place.

 

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Before Donelson.

By Col. Alex Duke Bailie.

 

            Here is the simple story of an honest sol-dier, told in his journal, without thought of effect in publication:

            It was by accident that I was at Fort Donel-son.  My regiment left me at St. Louis attending a court-martial, which adjourned soon after, and then, with another member, I started for Fort Henry.

            We descended the Mississippi; at Cairo the only boats were government transports, and on the McGill we went, in company with the regiment which was to lead the assault at Fort Donelson – the Second Iowa.

            We glided slowly up the Ohio and passed the mouth of the Tennessee during the night.  In the early morning I found we had entered the Cumber-land.  It seemed a narrow river, winding amid wooded hills and banks covered with noble oaks. For a short time the shore showed nothing but woods, then a little log house appeared on the bank, a shed beside it for the cow and horse, in front of the door stood a little flag staff and from it waved the stars and stripes; the family, mother, little girl, two boys and father stood about and in the doorway cheering frantically, and “the boys” on the boat re-plied with heartiest goodwill. Many other houses we saw and passed in that “rebel part” of Kentucky, and nowhere else did we receive the least sign of welcome.

            Among the rough exterior of the campaign-ers, two officers of the Second Iowa were remarked for their neat appearance.  They were dubbed “the dandies,” their state-rooms were called “band-boxes,” and it was agreed by all that they were too handsome to be spoiled by scars.

            Two days after, one of these, Captain Sleighmaker, fell at the head of his company, hero-ically charging the rebel breastworks.  A little later, as I was galloping for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, carried by four soldiers in a blan-ket.  “We have them whipped,” the officer called out to me, and when I looked I found he was the other “dandy,” Major Chipman.  “Are you badly hurt?” I asked.  “No, not badly,” was the reply.  “Don’t stop for me,” and in spite of the severity of his wounds he refused to allow the surgeon to attend to him until the men of his command had been looked after.

            In the afternoon we overtook twenty steam-ers laden with troops and led by four gunboats.  When the next morning broke I found we had made fast to the western shore.  On either bank were high and wooded hills.  The gunboats lay anchored in the middle of the stream, all quiet and lazy.  Far down the river reached the troop-laden transports.  As the forces began to debark, the band of the Second came out on our upper deck and old “Star-Spangled” was echoed along the water.

            The place of landing was about three miles below Fort Donelson, and to avoid its cannon we had to make a circuit of several miles. We passed a little house and went up and spoke to the people who lived in it. They were sad and dispirited; there had been firing between the pickets the day before, and the balls had pattered about their home.  The woman wished she was forty miles away, and the man said he wouldn’t care if he were a hundred miles off.

            We reached the position assigned to us, and here we found the Fourteenth Iowa, to which my friend belonged, and with it I determined to stay until I could find my own regiment.

            Around us was a thick woods.  A deep glen ran in front, and beyond this, along the brow of the opposite hill, ran those earthworks of the rebels which we were to win.  It was less than half a mile across and occasionally a rifle-ball fell near us, but did no harm.  I looked at the hill through my glass, but could see nothing but the ridge of fresh turned earth.  Along the side of the hill were our sharpshooters watching the works.  I could see them crawling up behind trees and stumps, sometimes dragging themselves along the ground on their hands and knees.  Their shots were frequent and sounded as though a hunting party was at work shooting at birds instead of men.

            We soon became accustomed to it and took no notice.  The night before no fires had been al-lowed, as they would indicate our position to the enemy; but now fires were plenty, and around one of them three of four of us gathered to dine.

            As we sat down upon a log we heard distant sounds of cannon along the river.  “There go the gunboats; the fight has begun; they are shelling the rebs out,” said everybody.

            We had taken for granted all the time, and, indeed, up to the last minute, that the gunboats would dismantle the fort, and that all we should have to do would be to prevent the escape of rebs.  In this we were much mistaken.  The cannonade lasted an hour and then stopped. We hoped the fort was taken, but no such news came to gladden us.

            Evening came.  We sat beside the fire to eat supper; it consisted of hardtack, pork and coffee.  The pork was frozen, the water in the canteens solid ice, so we had to hold them over the fire to thaw out a drink.  No plates, knives and forks, or cups and saucers.  We cut the frozen pork with our pocket-knives, and one tin cup, from which each drank in turn, served for the coffee.

            It grew darker, the campfires burned bright-ly, and no threatening shot or shell had come from the fort. Our sharpshooters and sentinels were be-tween us and the rebels, and it was determined that we might sleep. The men stacked their arms and wrapped themselves in their blankets.  My own waterproof and buffalo skin were on board the steamer. We managed to find four blankets, two of them wet and frozen, and a buffalo skin. The snow was scraped away from the windward side of the fire, and the two frozen blankets were laid on the ground, a log was rolled up for a windbreak, and the buffalo skin spread over the blankets.  Hitherto my quarters had been in houses.  I had not even passed a night in a tent; this was my first outdoor experi-ence.  It fared ill with the trappings of military life that night; handsome great-coats were rolled up like horse-blankets, and my beautiful saber, the gift of friends – before that marred by no speck of rust – was tossed out into the snow, with pistols and glasses to keep it company.          

            Four of us lay on those frozen blankets, and very close and straight quarters we had of it. For a few minutes I kept awake; the rebels were but fif-teen minutes distant, and if they chose to make a night attack their shells might burst in among us at any moment.  The snowflakes began to fall faster and faster.  I slipped my head under the blankets and fell asleep.  Never did I sleep more soundly.

            Soon after midnight the sound of cannon-ading aroused us.  The snow was three inches deep upon our blankets, yet we were comfortable and surprised to find it lying there.  The ground, how-ever, had thawed beneath us, and when we rose the snow crept in among our blankets and wet them through.  Lying down, then, was out of the question; we bent down a couple of saplings and spread blankets over them, making a little tent sort of shelter.  Under this we crept, after piling plenty of wood on the fire.  The soldier’s invariable com-fort – his pipe – was at hand, was soon in use, and we chatted and smoked and dozed until daylight.

-          Chicago Ledger.

 

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A Pathetic Incident.

 

            A striking incident occurred at the Confed-erate reunion on the Chickamauga battlefield last July.  The speakers of the occasion being delayed, various gentlemen were called upon, among whom was Col. C. W. Heiskell, of the Nineteenth Tennes-see (Confederate) Regiment.  In the course of his remarks he said:  “This, my countrymen, was in the nature of things, bound to be a great fight.  It was the Southern blood against kindred blood.  The Northwest was settled largely from the Southern States, and in many instances kinsman was pitted against kinsman.” Gen. Wilder, who commanded a Federal brigade on that field of Chickamauga, and who arrived hours after Col. H. had concluded, in the course of his speech repeated the identical thought.  This story is told of that battle. In the con-flict a Confederate captured a Federal and they rushed into each other’s arms.  They were brothers.  As the Confederate reached his brother and told him to go to the rear, he called his attention to an old man in the Federal ranks, and raised his gun, saying to his captured brother:  “Look; I will have to shoot the old fellow.”  “Stop,” was the reply.  “Look again.  Don’t you see that is father?”

 

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Wasn’t Particular Where He Ate.

 

            During the Peninsula campaign the Confed-erate  General Bankhead Magruder had ordered a meal for himself and staff.  A hungry reb – and who ever saw one who was not hungry? – came up to the farmhouse, espied the nicely filled table, and, with-out leave or license, sat down and began to annihi-late things. Just then the General and his friends walked in, escorted by the host.  All were surprised.

            “Halt!” said the fiery Magruder, in terms more explicit than polite, “do you know whose table that is you are eating at?”

            “No, sir,” said John Reb, with his mouth full. “Whose is it?”

            “General Magruder’s, sir, the commander of this department.”

            “All right, General,” with another big mouthful, “these war times I ain’t particular where I eat or who I eat with; sit down and make yourself at home.”

            The foraging private was unceremoniously fired out, but not before he had nearly gotten out-side of a pretty square meal.

 

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Soldiers as Lumbermen.

By Charles Curtz Hahn.

 

            At one time during the war the – Ohio In-fantry were stationed at Nashville and were put to work cutting timber.  A brother of the commander of the post had an “army contract” to build a bar-racks, and the boys were ordered to help him.  They did not much fancy working for a private individ-ual, and as a consequence the officers had consider-able trouble to get them to do anything.

            About three hundred men would be taken to the woods each morning, and if the officers were right lucky there would be a hundred and fifty when they reached the chopping grounds. The rest man-aged to slip away.

            The men then went to work in pairs.  Sel-ecting a tree which one man would fell in half an hour the two would manage to cut down by noon.  The rest of the day required to cut off the top.  The same rule was observed by those who did the sawing.  Two men would saw one tree in the fore-noon and one in the afternoon.  The logs were then floated down to a mill to be sawn into boards.

            At this mill a track was run down into the river, and the logs were hauled up the bank on a car drawn by the soldiers.  This they did by means of a long cable attached to the car.  A hundred or more men would take hold of the rope, and, with the of-ficers shouting as if driving so many cattle, pull the car from the water to the mill. 

            The work did not progress very rapidly.

            One day the Colonel himself came out to see why the boys were so slow.  They had been half a day in drawing up three small logs.  At length, with great difficulty, the car was landed at the mill.  It was nearly noon, but the Colonel gave orders that another load must be brought up before the boys could go to dinner.

            The car was let down with a rattle.  Three big logs were chained to it and the word was given to pull it up.  With a whoop and a yell the boys started off at a run, and did not stop until they had pulled that car off the track, over piles of logs and down the road to the camp, half a mile away.  It took about ten minutes to reach camp with a load the boys could not have drawn from the river to the mill in half a day.

            Then came another order that the car must be returned to the mill before the boys could eat their dinner and it took until night to get it back.

 

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Stand by the Flag.

By Comrade Redington.

 

Stand by the flag! The flag of freedom’s pride!

Stand by the flag your fathers fought to save!

Stand by the flag for which those heroes died!

Stand by the flag!  That it forever wave!

 

Stand by the flag!  The flag of hope to earth!

Stand by the flag!  It’s stripes with valor glow!

Stand by the flag!  Bright stars of priceless worth!

Stand by the flag!  All lands its vict’ries know.

 

Stand by the flag!  Tell Freedom’s greatest story!

Stand by the flag!  It proudly floats above!

Stand by the flag!  Maintain its grandest glory;

Stand by the flag!  The dear old flag we love!

 

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At Bermuda Hundred.

 

            We had been surprised, retreated, and again rallied on the 18^th of October, 1864, when the rebel forces under General Early, at Strassbourg, in the Shenandoah Valley, so suddenly and unceremon-iously called upon Sheridan’s retreat.  We had help-ed to pursue the retreating host down the valley toward Lynchburg, and, coming back to Winchester had seen the barns and haystacks on both sides of the pike ascend in black smoke to the heavens, leaving without subsistence the remorseless hordes of guerillas as well as the regular forces of the Con-federates, and finally had settled down in comfortable quarters northeast of the beautiful town of Winchester, Va., fondly hoping to winter there, dreaming of parties and dances among the gentry of the town and envious with those fair maidens we had assiduously courted acquaintance beforehand, when like a thunderclap from a cloudless sky came the order to pack knapsacks and get ready to move.

            Meanwhile the siege of Petersburg had been vigorously maintained, Grant stretching his lines further and further around the doomed city like the mighty arms of an octopus.  General Butler was engaged in the perilous and ponderous under-taking of digging the ever memorable Dutch Gap canal, and between his extreme left and Grant’s right, at Bermuda Hundred, was a gap until recent-ly but patrolled at intervals, the peculiar formation of its vales and hills and dense woods forming a natural protection against sudden attacks.  But it had been deemed expedient to extend the lines and close the gap; a formidable line of breastworks was thrown up.  It was our fortune of war to be ordered to occupy part of this territory, and from City Point we marched to Bermuda Hundred amid a driving snowstorm.  What was our dismay and disgust to find upon arriving that we were relieving a regiment of Uncle Sam’s colored troops, who had built comfortable huts under the shadow of the fortifica-tion?  But, oh, so dirty and so ill-smelling!  But the snow was still falling, the cold increasing, and night coming on; so, with wry faces, we took possession of the camp, leaving housekeeping to a more propitious day.

            On our right were the mighty batteries com-manding Fort Darling and protecting the tillers in the canal, huge, unwieldy, but powerful and menac-ing; on our left, the extreme right of the Army of the Potomac, while in front the woods were of such intense thickness that on more than one occasion single outposts lost themselves in those intricate wilds and fell into the hands of the enemy.  Con-stant vigilance was the watchword, ever alert to the wiles of the foe lurking amid the cedars and swamps; we even slept, often, behind protecting walls of earth and logs, with musket in arms.  Duty grew irksome, tedious, almost unbearable.  All the horrors of a Virginia winter were upon us, rain and sleet, wind and storm, with an occasional snow, kept us confined in our quarters behind and in the protecting embrace of the fortifications when not on duty.  This monotonous life sometimes was enliven-ed by the arrival of deserters, lank, lean butternuts, who would fly to the stars and stripes to be fed, clothed, and housed, in preference to slow starva-tion and exposure.  At other times a skirmish on the picket line, an exchange of shells from the district of Fort Darling and our two and three hundred pounders, made the earth heave and tremble.

            Once, though, toward the spring of ’65, the quiet of our camp was rudely disturbed by rumors of an approaching court-martial.  A sergeant and a private had been sent back to their command from some hospital, one charged with desertion, the other, the older, with accepting a bribe to aid the other to escape.  General Ferrera, in command of our division, promptly convened a court-martial, which, after due deliberation, condemned both the prisoners to be shot to death by musketry.

            The day of the execution dawned clear and frosty.  A plateau, shaded from the enemy’s view by a strip of timber, was selected as the stage of the drama enacted in such sad reality.  The prisoners had spent their last night on earth; this day’s sun would never rise again to greet their eyes.

            The entire command, with the exception of a double-line of pickets and guards, were drawn up in an open square, to witness the scene.  The Gener-al commanding occupied a place a place a little to the rear of one side of the square on a knoll afford-ing a complete view of the assembled thousands.

            In the center of the open space, side-by- side, were dug two graves, a rough pine coffin in front of each.  A vague rumor whispered along the line of silent, thoughtful spectators, yet gaining strength of belief as it traveled onward, carried the information that the condemned themselves had dug their graves at dawn – a report, though, the writer could never verify.

            At last the hour had come.  A small squad of bronzed and weather-beaten soldiers, under the command of a lieutenant, marched up and took position facing the graves, some twenty paces dis-tant.  Their muskets were loaded with lead and powder save one, not identified, for the file of men had not loaded their pieces themselves, and one contained but a blank cartridge.  To this day every one of the twelve forming the detail thinks and fondly cherishes the thought that it was his weapon which contained the harmless powder.  But now every eye is strained toward the right.  Slowly, with measured step, the men so soon to be executed ap-proach the square.  Heavily guarded and accompan-ied by a chaplain and the father of one, the young-er, they take their places behind the band, to pass through the ordeal of marching all around that dreaded square from their coffins until again they behold their open, yawning graves, while the band, with muffled drums and hollow sounding, play the dead march.  Note them as they come along, one, manhood’s finest picture, eyes not one whit abashed but looking all around, smiling and whistling, steps along as if on his way to some gay frolic; the other, a boy yet, scarce above 17, with downcast, weeping eyes, with lines of deepest suffering in his frank, youthful face, moves as if his limbs were of lead, toilingly lifts up one foot and then the other, thinking of the mother at home, the sister, the bro-ther and the old farm, and afresh the fountains of sorrow open and pour out drops of bitter, yearning tears.  Close behind the boy walks the sorrowing father, the wind playing with his snow-white hair and beard. He had come from the far off New England home to try to save his boy’s life. All his tears, his entreaties had been in vain.  An example had to be set, desertion from the ranks had occurred too frequently of late and it must be checked.  Even a personal appeal to President Lincoln failed to avert the doom to which his child, the boy soldier, was hastening. Some circumstances had occurred aggravating his crime and the findings of the court-martial were approved, though with his great heart bleeding, by the only one who could pardon here on earth.

            Feeble and tottering with the greatest sor-row in his heart that could befall to man, the aged parent walked behind his boy to the place of execution, which also was to be his place of burial.  Many an eye along the line dimmed with the tear of sympathy, many a heart, that never quailed in the thickest of the fray, now went out in sorrow for the unhappy father, himself but a step from the grave.  And when the old man in a paroxysm of his grief fell on his knees before the General, who sat erect and seemingly unmoved upon his horse; when the feeble arms clasped the General’s leg (he could reach up no higher), and with all the pent up sorrow rushing forth in a last appeal for mercy, then it was that an audible wail rung along the line of sturdy, hardened men, accustomed to all the horrors of war.

            Anxious faces turned ever and anon to the road leading to the river, but no succor came, no fluttering handkerchief stayed the impending trage-dy, and General Ferrera at last gave the signal to proceed.

            Blindfolded the two unhappy soldiers were sitting on their coffins, ready to lie down to the long sleep that knows no waking in this world.  The chaplain had uttered a last prayer, the father taken the last leave of his son; opposite the detail of men that had been called to Attention!  Ready!  Aim!  Fire!

            The cruel duty was performed.

            Two immortal souls had gone to the great Commander, to implore His mercy, to await His sentence.

            When the fatal volley was fired, the boy soldier fell heavily back into his coffin, while his companion, older, more hardened, tenaciously swayed back and forth, as if loath to succumb, then falling, struck he the hard plank of his last home with a sickening thud.

            After examining the bodies the surgeon pronounced them dead, and they were interred with-out ceremony, without salute, without military honors.  Only the heart-broken father sent up a last prayer to the throne of the Almighty, and, swooning, was led from the scene of martial execu-tion.

            The line of regiments and battalions broke and marched back to their quarters.  The routine of camp life was resumed and the circumstance soon forgotten, save by a few, more tender and feelingly, who could never forget the tragedy enacted at camp near Bermuda Hundred in the spring of 1865.

               - Sergt. Gerhardt, in National Tribune.

 

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            When Sherman took Savannah a prominent citizen begged protection for some valuable pictures and family plates. The conqueror said all right.  Then, in a burst of frank confidence, produced by this generous response to his fears, the citizen revealed to General Sherman that he had buried in his backyard a large quantity of priceless Madeira of the oldest and rarest vintages, and estimated to be worth over $40,000 before the war.  The General responded at once:  “That is medicine, and confis-cated to the hospital.”  What the hospital did not need he distributed among the troops.  But much fighting and marching had produced in the boys an appetite more vigorous than that which recognizes the bouquet of 1815 Madeira at club or dinner table, and they willingly exchanged a bottle of Madeira for a gill of whisky.

 

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A Bowie-Knife Incident.

 

            While the fight was raging about Miser’s farmhouse, at the battle of Pea Ridge, on Friday morning, a Union soldier belonging to the Twenty-fifth Missouri Regiment and a member of a rebel Mississippi company became separated from their commands, and found each other climbing the same fence.  The rebel had one of those long knives made from a file which the South so extensively paraded but so rarely used, and the Missourian had one also, having picked it up on the field.

            The rebel challenged his enemy to a fair open combat with the knife, intending to bully him, no doubt, but the challenge was promptly accepted.  The two removed their coats, rolled up their sleeves, and began.  The Mississippian had more skill, but his opponent more strength, and cones-quently the latter could not strike his enemy, while he received several cuts on the head and breast.  The blood began trickling rapidly down the Union-ist’s face and running into his eyes, almost blinding him.  The Union man became desperate, for he saw the secessionist was unhurt.  He made a feint; the rebel leaned forward to arrest the blow, but employ-ing too much energy, he could not recover himself at once.  The Missourian perceived his advantage, and knew he could not lose it. In five seconds more it would be too late.  His enemy glared at him like a wild beast, and was on the eve of striking again.  Another feint; another dodge on the rebel’s part, and then the heavy blade of the Missourian hurtled through the air, and fell with tremendous force upon the Mississippian’s neck.  The blood spurted from the throat, and the head fell over, almost entirely severed from the body.  Ghastly sight – too ghastly even for the doer of the deed!  He fainted at the spectacle, weakened by the loss of his own blood, and was soon after butchered by a Seminole who saw him sink to the earth. 

 - Book of Anecdotes of Rebellion.

 

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Clever Dogs, but Both Sucked Eggs.

 

            During General Birney’s raid through Flor-ida, a bright little girl was found alone in one of the houses, her parents having ‘skedadled.’   She was rather non-committal, for she did not know whether the troops were Union or rebel.  Two fine dogs made their appearance, while a conversation was being held with the child, and she informed one of her questioners that their names were Gillmore and Beauregard.  “Which is the best dog?” asked a by-stander.  “I don’t know,” said she, “they’re both mighty smart dogs; but they’ll either of ‘em suck eggs if you don’t watch ‘em.”  The troops left with-out ascertaining whether the family, of which the girl was a hopeful scion, was Union or a rebel.

 

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Our Army Teamster.

 

            We had just crossed Findley Creek, and Bill Maple’s mules were unable to pull his wagon out of the mud.  Bill had dismounted, and was indulging in some fine specimens of profanity, when Chaplain Eberhart and his wife passed by.  To say the chap-lain was shocked at Bill’s profanity would be put-ting it mild – he was horrified, and addressed Bill, whom he had not before met, thus:

            “My friend, do you know who died for sinners?”

            “Oh,” replied Bill, “d—n your ecnundrums; don’t you see I’m stuck in the mud?”

 

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Two Soldiers at Gettysburg.

 

The armies they had ceased to fight,

The night was still and dark,

And many thousands on the field

Were lying stiff and stark.

The stretcher men had come along

And gathered all they could,

A hundred surgeons worked that night

Behind the clump of wood.

 

They flashed the lanterns in my face,

And, as they hurried by,

The sergeant looked and said, “He’s dead,”

And I made no reply.

The bullet had gone through my breast –

No wonder I was still;

But once will I be nearer death

Than when upon that hill.

 

A gray-clad picket came along

Upon his midnight beat;

He came so near me that I tried

To move and touch his feet.

At once he bent and felt my breast

Where life still fought at bay;

No one who loved me could have done

More than this man of gray.

 

O’er me, all chilled with blood and dew,

His blanket soft he spread;

A crimson sheaf of wheat he brought

A pillow for my head.

Then knelt beside me for an hour

And bathed my lips and brow;

But for the man who was my foe

I’d not be living now.

 

Then, as the coming daylight shone,

He bent his lips to say,

“God spare you, brother, though you wear

the blue and I the gray!”

 

The sounds of war are silent now,

We call no man our foe;

But soldier hearts cannot forget

The scenes of long ago.

Dear are the ones who stood with us

To struggle or to die;

No one can oftener breathe their names

Or love them more than I.

 

But from my life I’d give a year

That gray-glad man to see;

To clasp in love the foeman’s hand

Who saved my life to me.

- Minneapolis Tribune.

 

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Libby Prison.

 

             Libby Prison, Richmond, was one of the few notable buildings of the civil war that escaped destruction.  Spared as an ancient landmark of the old Southern city, it has at length become a national relic, and the interest that centered about it in the early ’60’s has been recently revived to a very remarkable degree.

            The structure was a typical Southern ware-house.  Through all its term of service as a prison pen of the worst description it retained its identity unchanged.  It was an isolated three-story building facing the James River, or rather the canal skirting the left bank of that stream, had numerous windows, and presented little of a war-like aspect, with its sign of “Libby & Son, Chip Chandlers and Grocers;” yet in 1864 its dreary walls echoed with the despairing groans of nearly 1,000 captives condemned to an imprisonment only equaled in its sufferings by the horrors of Andersonville.

            The prison had nine compartments, none plastered, seven of which, 43 x 102 feet, held the captives.  The ground floor was employed as an of-fice, kitchen and hospital, the remaining stories be-ing occupied by the prisoners.  Very few of the windows were glazed, and the remainder were closed up with boards or canvas to shut out the full sweep of the cold wintry winds, rendering the place dark and cheerless.  In summer the ventilation was so poor that the air reeked with pestilence. Nine scantily furnished stoves did the cooking.  The ra-tions, at their average best, consisted of three-quarters of a pound of bread, two ounces of beans, four ounces of meat, and sometimes a little butter, vinegar and salt.  After the prisoners had endured a long and terrible confinement, this food was re-duced to a point where a double portion of the corn bread made of unsifted meal constituted a feast, and an extra fragment of filthy blanket was regarded as a luxurious couch.  Many a veteran recalls the hunt for relics of ham bloated with the pestilential atmosphere of the prison, dry crusts of bread scattered on the shelves, the remnants of half-rotten vegetables, and even the dregs of tea and coffee.  Extra bread was charged for at the rate of $1 per loaf, Confederate money, potatoes $32 a bushel, and butter $8 a pound.  Men were shot for looking out of the windows, invalids were not sent to the hospital until it was too late to save them, soldiers having trades were forced to work in the city under guard, medicine was given grudgingly, the peas were full of worms, the meal ground with husks, and for trivial offenses the captives were imprison-ed in the dark cells under the prison, which were damp, green and slimy, while hogs, dogs, and rats half-devoured the dead bodies also placed there to await burial.

            Amid this terrible condition of affairs, with some 10,000 men held at Libby, Belle Isle and other Richmond prisons, the death-rate ran as high as fifty soldiers a day.  Sunken eyes and wasted limbs were to be seen on every side, and through incredible sufferings the survivors subsisted on food that would have been rejected by beasts of prey.

            The most notable event of the years of pri-son life at Libby was the escape of a company of officers, who planned to leave the dreary den, cross the canal, seize a skiff, reach a place of safety, con-struct a raft and trust to reaching the Union navy.  A tunnel fifty-feet in length was dug by lifting out a fireplace, reaching the kitchen, and removing a floor in the hospital.  Even the piles supporting the cellar had to be cut through.  This tunnel was so narrow that the men laid flat while excavating, and the air was so poisonous that a candle would not burn in it.  The final escape is a matter of history.

            What the Libby Prison of twenty-five years ago was it is today.  Almost brick for brick it has been brought North, rebuilt, and many a battle-scar-red hero visits it to stand on the same floor, or against the same wall where, in the darkest hours of the nation’s woe, he all but died for the country he had sworn to defend.

 

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He Was Sentenced to Death.

 

            “I have one man under sentence of death for smuggling arms across the lines, and I hope Mr. Lincoln will approve it.”  This sentence was con-tained in a letter from Gen. Sherman to his brother, John Sherman, written from Memphis, Tenn., under date of Aug. 13, 1862, and published since the Gen-eral’s death.

            The man whose death sentence was referred to by Gen. Sherman is M. A. Miller, and ex-Captain of Engineers in the Confederate army, who lives on a farm in Henrico County, near Richmond, Va.  Capt. Miller has narrated the story of his wonderful escape from the doom that awaited him.  Says the Captain:

            “It was such a sudden thing the way in which I was first made aware of the seriousness of my position.  It was one afternoon late in July, 1862, while I was in a Federal prison in Memphis, Tenn., that a friend of mine, a Miss Gibson, who had been to call on me, whispered, ‘Lieutenant, you are under sentence of death and are to be shot at an early day.  Take my advice and get away from here before they put the bracelets on your wrists and shackles on your ankles, for then you will be totally disabled and can do nothing.’

            “Mr. Lincoln did approve the sentence of death, but I am still here, while he and Gen. Sher-man have gone to join Lee and Jackson and other good soldiers.  It is true, as stated by Gen. Sherman in his letter, that the mercenary spirit of his people enable us to buy anything we wanted for gold or cotton.  When Sherman first took possession of Memphis he issued an order declaring gold, medi-cines and salt contrabands, and as such prohibited their sale to the people.  But his orders were prac-tically ignored and we got anything we wanted.

            “For a month I was steadily supplying our soldiers with arms and met with no serious diffi-culty.  But one afternoon in July my good luck deserted me.  I was carrying over two boxes of offi-cers’ swords, and was in the middle of the river when a picket-boat ran up to me.  I at once knew that danger was ahead, and jumping on the gun-wales of the boat I tried to sink it.  But the skiff was too heavy and would not dip.  The officer in charge of the picket-boat arrested me, and the skiff man also, and took us, with the two boxes, to a gunboat nearby.

            “There the boxes were opened, and as soon as the nature of their contents was disclosed I was at once carried to the military prison in the Irving Block in the center of the city.”

            Miller describes his trial by court-martial, conviction and sentence to be shot the Friday fol-lowing the Monday of his conviction.  Of his escape the Captain says that he induced his guard, who was not aware of the gravity of his sentence, to let him to home to see a sick child.  While in the house he went upstairs, jumped out of a window, and fled through the lines.

 

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He Was Ahead.

 

            As we swung into line at the battle of Williamsburg, to advance on the Confederate sharp-shooters posted in a slashing, the regiment halted to dress.  I was within one man of extreme right in the front rank.  To the right of us was a narrow lane the Confederates were getting a gun into battery.

            “That’s for us,” said the man on the right.

            “Yes.”

            “Solid shot, probably.”

            “Guess so.”

            “It’ll hit me first.”

            “Of course.”

            “How much’ll you take to trade places?”

            “How much’ll you give?”

            “Five dollars.”

            “Couldn’t think of it.”

            “Ten.”

            “Not enough.”

            “Will you take twenty?”

            “No.”

            “Well, I’ll give you $25 cash down and my note ---“

            At that moment the gun was discharged and the missile went screaming twenty feet above our heads, and my comrades finished:

            “For not one durned cent!  Thankee, Johnny reb – I’m $50 ahead on this.”

                                                        - Free Press.

 

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Howe, the Little Drummer Boy.

 

            In the spring of 1864, President Lincoln placed Orion P. Howe, who was for a time the little drummer boy for the Fifty-fifth Illinois Volunteers, in the Naval School at Newport.  This act was in consideration of the little fellow’s bravery, as narrated by General Sherman, who wrote to the Secretary of War of him, saying that at the assault on Vicksburg he came to him at the front, crying out:  “Gen. Sherman, send some cartridges to Col. Malmborg, the men are nearly out.”  “What is the matter boy?”  “They shot me in the leg, sir; but I can go to the hospital.  Send the cartridges right away.”  Even where he stood, the shot fell thick, and I told him to go to the rear at once, I would attend to the cartridges, and off he limped.  Just be-fore he disappeared on the hill, he turned and called as loudly as he could, “Caliber 54.”  “I have not seen the boy since, and his Colonel (Malmborg) on inquiry, gives me his address as above, and says he is a bright, intelligent boy, with a fair preliminary education.  “What,” continues the General, “arrest-ed my attention then was – and what renewed my memory of the fact now – that one so young, carry-ing a musket ball through his leg, should have found his way to me on that fatal spot, and deliver-ed his message, not forgetting the very important part, even, of the caliber of his musket, 54, which you know is an unusual one.”

 

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Before Atlanta.

By J. A. Capen.

 

The Southerners raised their battle-flag

O’er proud Atlanta’s walls,

And dared the heroes of the West

To face their shells and balls.

For many miles, from place to place,

Our boys had made them flee,

Fast o’er the mountain highways,

From Eastern Tennessee.

 

At Vicksburg, and at Kenesaw,

Brave Sherman in command,

They met the fiery Southerners

In battle – hand to hand,

Then on, to take Atlanta, too –

“Gate City” of the South –

And thus complete the victory

Before the cannon’s mouth.

 

The cautious Johnston, now removed,

No longer in command,

While fighting Hood prepared to check

The valiant Union band. 

At Peach Tree Creek they formed in line,

Two hostile armies there;

Then whiz of ball and clash of steel

Resounded through the air.

 

Our Western men then charged the foe.

McPherson in the lead.

So grand to them he seemed to be

As he bestrode his stead.

The Southerners fought, ‘twas all in vain,

Our soldiers held the hill –

Two miles before the frowning fort,

Whose walls were calm and still.

 

But alas! the brave McPherson fell

Beside his gallant boys –

Who bore him tenderly away

Amid the fearful noise.

Thus one bright life was sacrificed

For his dear country’s sake,

And she who would have been his bride

Must a last sad parting take.

 

 

And brave old General Sherman said,

With moisture in his eyes:

“Of all my friends he was the best,”

and soothes him as he dies.

In him was seen a leader grand,

One worthy of his fame,

And men would bravely charge the foe

In brave McPherson’s name.

 

Who now was left to lead the men

In battling for the right?

Was no one there to take his place,

And win the coming fight?

Ah, yes!  Our loyal Logan’s there

To bravely lead the way –

With sword in hand, he dashes by,

And brings the foe to bay.

 

“Remember McPherson!  Avenge his death!”

our gallant hero shouted.

Seven long hours the fight went on,

And the haughty foe was routed;

But not before, in that hard fight

Across the hill and plain,

Both blue and gray lay still in death,

For thousands there were slain.

 

Noble heroes, no more shall war

Disturb your peaceful rest.

The “boys in blue” are going fast –

We miss them in the West.

Forever may their loyal deeds

Our gratitude command,

And thousands in all future time,

Will bless that patriot band.

 

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The Silent Vidette.

 

            In 1863, Suffolk, Va., was the extreme ad-vance post of the United States army in Southeast-ern Virginia.  It covered Norfolk, the mouth of the James, and Fortress Monroe.  The Confederates, in-trenched, lined the Blackwater River, a few miles from our front, and the pickets of both sides, but a short distance apart, were often hotly engaged.  But we suffered sadly and frequently from guerrillas or bushwhackers – men out of uniform, who sneaked in on our lines and cruelly shot down our sentinels on post, or fired from ambuscade on some passing scout.

            Our picket station on what was known as the Franklin Road, in the winter of ’63, was about four miles out from the post, and consisted of one company of cavalry and one of infantry.

            One moonlight night I posted guards and videttes, the latter being mounted men placed outside all the lines to give the alarm if the enemy advanced on us for a surprise.

            Out on the road beyond the deserted house, nearly a mile from the reserve, I left a young caval-ryman belonging to Company M, New York Mounted Rifles, with orders to fire and ride into the reserve on the approach of an enemy.  It was a lonesome place, shadowed by a grove of pines, and I told young Stoddard to keep a bright lookout, for I felt as if there was danger in the air.  He was a favorite of mine, for I had known him at home in Warren County, New York, where he had married a lovely girl but a year before the war broke out.

            After posting all the sentinels and videttes, I rode back to the post, dismounted, picketed my horse and went for a cup of coffee to take off the chill of the night air.

            I had just drained a tin cup of the hot bever-age, when far off from the southwest we heard the dull report of a gun.  It was but a single shot, and the instant I heard it I cried out:

            “That is from Stoddard’s post, but it was no carbine shot.  I hope the poor boy hasn’t come to harm.”

            Five to ten minutes went by, and then all hands were put on the alert as a horse came furious-ly down the road. In a few seconds, running right up to the picket fires, he was caught and I saw at the first glance that it was Stoddard’s horse.

            The saddle was empty, but the front of the saddle and the shoulders of the horse, covered with blood, told that the rider was either dead or badly hurt.

            Into the saddle, and with twenty men at my back, I rushed to his post as fast as our horses could carry us.

            There he lay in the clear moonlight, on his back near a clump of bushes, yet alive, but dying – his breast fairly riddled with buckshot.

            I raised him up and gave him a sip of liquor from my canteen, but it was of no use.

            “He crept upon me in the bushes – he was right under the head of my horse when he fired, and I had no chance!” gasped the dying man.  “Tell Emma I was bushwhacked at last.”

            It was all he could say – gasping this he died.

            “You shall be avenged, my poor boy!” I cried.  “There is frost on the ground and we’ll track your murderer!”

            We followed the track on the thick frosted ground for nearly two miles to an old horse shed near a house.  Under a pile of old straw we found a man in butternut clothes, with a double-barreled gun by his side.  The barrels were yet moist from a recent discharge.

            “Can you run?” I asked the fellow, who stood before us, dark and sullen.

            “Let me try,” he growled.

            “Go,” said I.

            The next instant, to my men – ten in num-ber – the order low and stern:

            “Ready!”

            Away bounded the guerrilla, running for life.  But ten seconds after his start followed the order:

            “Fire low and let him have it.”

            Ten sharp carbines rang loud on the night air as one report, and the murderer, with one fearful leap, ended race and life in the same breath.  Poor Stoddard was avenged.

 

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Brave Joseph W. Kay.

By an Old Veteran.

 

            Among the many little events which go to make up the history of the private soldier in the late war, the experience of Private Joseph W. Kay, of Company B, Tenth Regiment New York Volun-teers, furnishes some of rare interest.

            Among them was an episode which will be remembered by every survivor of the old Corcoran Legion.  When General Grant took the command of the united armies of the United States in 1864 he made his headquarters with the Army of the Poto-mac, and every available man, regiment or brigade was at once called to the front and set to work.

            The Corcoran Legion had been stationed at Suffolk, Va.  It had received a light experience in battle at the Blackwater, but Grant had sterner work for them to do, and in May, 1864, they were ordered to the front and reported promptly.  They were assigned to the Second Division of the Second Corps, Army of the Potomac, and their first real baptism of fire under the heroic Hancock was at Spottsylvania, where, supported by Carroll’s Bri-gade, they made a glorious though unsuccessful charge.

            At North Anna, on May 24, shortly before dark, the Sixty-ninth and One Hundred and Seventieth New York Volunteers of the Corcoran Legion were advanced in line of battle on the left, and soon engaged the enemy.  It became very hot, and shot and shell flew about promiscuously. But the Confederate line was the longest, so both flanks were turned, and the boys were gradually forced back.

            At this juncture Colonel Thomas A. Smyth, then commanding Carroll’s Brigade, to which the Sixty-ninth and One Hundred and Seventieth New York had been attached for the purpose of this movement, the latter having been for the second time in the campaign wounded at Spottsylvania May 13, turned to Private Kay, who was serving as mounted orderly, and said:

            “Boy, ride for that fence and halt those colors there!”

            No sooner said than done, and the colors were halted.  The boys of the Sixty-ninth – for such it proved to be – rallied around them, and in less time than it takes to tell it they were back again in the thickest of the fight.  This had the effect of steadying the entire line and a marked effect on the fortunes of the day.

            Such incidents as this were frequently known to turn the tide of battle at an opportune moment, and thousands of such incidents could be related where the private soldier did a whole man’s and a brave man’s duty when occasion required.  Private Kay was wounded and had a horse shot un-der him in one of the battles of the Wilderness, and at Cold Harbor he received wounds from which he has ever since suffered.

           

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Escaped the Rope.

 

            The State of Kentucky being an indepen-dent actor in the great war drama, was the scene of many of the boldest example of guerrilla depreda-tions (said Capt. Hackett, of Bowling Green).  The Union forces quartered in the State were frequently called upon to lend protection to defenseless homes which were at the mercy of those who took up arms not for principle, but rather pillage and robbery.  These scouting parties were made up of volunteers from different regiments.  I shall never forget some of my experiences.  Take for example in the fall of ’63, when I carelessly fell into the hands of a guer-rilla band, with a brave companion from an Indiana regiment, and we were in imminent danger of being strung up by the neck.

            “Why, those dare-devils actually had the rope about my companion’s neck, while I was un-der cover of two revolvers, and a fiendish devil was securing my allotment of hemp which, up to that time, was used to stay a demure-looking army mule – that class of patient soldiery about which so much has been written.  My companion and I had left our scouting party about 10 a.m., agreeing to meet them at a designated point beyond.  Before we reached the point we walked down into a gulch and lay flat upon the ground to drink from an inviting stream.  In this helpless position, with our weapons lying on the bank at least thirty feet away, we glanced up-ward to note the approach of a band of mounted guerrillas.  Before we had time to secure our arms or send an alarm to our party, which was in easy hailing distance, we were under cover, and in fewer minutes than I could relate the story preparations were going rapidly forward for a speedy impromptu execution.  It was one of those occasions which try men’s souls.  We dared not utter a shot, for our heads would have received a half-dozen bullets be-fore the echo of our wail had died away on the hills which lend a picturesque beauty to the Bowling Green country.  I glanced at my companion and saw the noose being adjusted about his neck. For once I was disposed to give one loud despairing cry for aid, but his look dissuaded me from that resolve.  He was as brave as a lion, but a deathly pallor had taken possession of his face.  His eyes were fixed intently on me with a cold, vacant stare, but in that look there was something that seemed to restrain me from yelling.  How many men are there who could have passed through all those horrible details without a shout.

            “At last arrangements had been completed for my companion’s execution, and he was being led away.  The restraints were now taken off me and I was ready to yell.  I glanced on either hand at my captors, who were holding me under cover.  One of them pressed the muzzle of his revolver against my cheek a little closer.  ‘Don’t make a sound, or I’ll blow ye up,’ said he.  His words had hardly died away before a sound of hurrying hoofs announced the approach of my commander.  Alarmed at our delay, and aware of the foe with which we had to deal, the commander of our little band started out to ascertain our whereabouts.  He followed our path and rescued us.

            “What did we do?  Why Bill – Oh, I forgot to tell you my companion’s name.  “Twas Bill Hancock – brave as a lion – whose courage and composure on that occasion, as in numerous others, saved his life, and perhaps those of other less brave men.  What did we do?  Why, I cried like a baby.  Bill, he just stood there looking at the rope, one end of which was entwined about his neck, with a cold, cynical stare, and he finally said:  ‘I believe I’ll take this rope home to Mariah.’”

 

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Horses in Battle.

 

            “The infantry service in the volunteer army made us a nation of good walkers,” said an old cavalryman, “and our cavalry service ought to have made us a nation of good riders, but for some reason it did not.  A good many men sit a horse very well,” he continued, “but where is the man who rides a horse as General Rousseau did?  Rousseau always had a fine horse, and both he and the horse took pride in the fact.  On parade or on the march or in battle Rousseau and his horse were al-ways conspicuous figures.

            “Rousseau’s natural dash when he was on horseback often carried him to the danger line.  I remember one occasion when my company was on picket on the Granny White pike, south of Nashville, Rousseau and his staff were outside the lines.  About 10 o’clock at night they came dashing up to the picket line, and when the word halt was given by the vedettes, the old battle horse which Rousseau was riding, and which he was so proud of, took it as a challenge, and went forward like the wind.  The vedettes fired, as in duty bound, and there was considerable commotion along the line.  After a time Rousseau rode back to explain.  He closed with the remark: ‘I don’t care for myself, but you know, boys, you might have hit the horse.’”

            “Colonel Lytle had a horse of that kind,” said an old Twelfth Ohio man, “and it played a rather dramatic part on the day that the Colonel was shot.  This was at Carnifex Ferry, when the Union troops were ordered to charge the entrenchments held by the Confederates.  There was a furious struggle, and in the midst of it Colonel Lytle was shot and fell from his horse, one of the finest ani-mals in the brigade.  The old war-horse had been started forward as though he still were guided by the man who had intended to charge through the rebel lines.  The horse dashed up to and over the rebel breastworks, and was shot after he had broken through the lines.”

            “At Stone River,” said a Tenth Illinois man, “one of our Illinois generals had a horse shot under him just at the turn of the battle, on the 2d of Janu-ary.  Several of the boys sprang forward to help him up; but, dazed and bruised as he was, he only said, ‘Catch me a horse.’  He repeated this time and again, and as there were several horses galloping around riderless, one was brought to him.  This horse had been careering over the battlefield, cir-cling here and there without aim, but the minute he felt a rider in the saddle he started at a gallop for the front, and the General’s command, seeing him make a bee-line in the right direction, started after him like a great flock of blackbirds.”

            “We had in our regiment,” said an old In-diana officer, “an old horse called the ‘Star-gazer,’ which was kept for the use of the officer of the day.  The field officers did not care to have their horses go into the hands of any captain or lieutenant who might be detailed to act as field officer of the day, and so an old scrub had been picked up and kept for use in this department.  It was my fate to be officer of the day at Lookout Mountain, and I was riding old ‘Star-gazer’ along on the ledge, when the Col-onel overtook me, riding his splendid war horse.  He challenged me for a race.  I gave ‘Star-gazer’ a touch, and went into camp a quarter of a mile ahead of the Colonel.  This led to the discovery that the horse which had been ridiculed could make better time than any other in the regiment.”

 

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How Jim Was Riddled.

 

            Jim Cannon was a plain son of Erin, who went to war with an Indiana regiment.  He accom-panied our scouting party out one day.  The boys of the Seventieth Indiana, Jim’s regiment, told us to watch him, for he was a fool, and liable to involve our little troop in a complication of troubles.

            “And the caution proved seasonable, though it was unheeded,” says Capt. Hackett.  “Jim Cannon crept away from our party while we were searching the copse that skirted a neighboring hill, and in less than thirty minutes we heard a shot fired, followed after a short interval by thirty or forty in rapid succession.  We hastened to the spot, and picked up poor Jim.  He was tattered.  We actually counted eleven bullet-holes in that fellow, and how do you suppose he explained it to us.  He crept upon a party of ten or twelve bushwhackers eating a lunch in the shelter of a ravine and thought he could capture the entire force.  So he opened fire, at the some time yelling out at the top of his voice:  ‘Sur-render, ye spalpeen rebels.’”

            “And he lived to tell you this story?” in-quired a listener to Capt. Hackett’s thrilling narra-tive.

            “Live!  Why he actually got well, and I learned recently that he now works in a Northern Indiana town.”

 

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A Historical Gun.

 

            There is a bit of interesting history connect-ed with the old gun and its carriage which stands in front of headquarters at Milwaukee, Wis.  All such guns which did service on either side in the late war, have a history, but some of that connected with this one is of special interest to Wisconsin.  The gun is an ordinary brass field piece and constituted part of a rebel battery which did its work of destruction in a number of battles and ended its career for the Confederacy at the terrible battle of Pittsburg Land-ing, April 7, 1862. The sun rose bright and clear on that morning and looked calmly down upon the scene of the previous day’s engagement, as if, in obedience to an unheard command, pouring out a requiem for the slain and casting a parting blessing upon the thousands of brave men upon whom it would rise no more, and whose life blood was to be shed on that day in the cause of justice, right and liberty.

            The battery occupied a commanding posi-tion.  The battle opened about 9 o’clock in the morning, the Confederate forces making the assault and meeting with a sharp repulse, but the battery was well manned and mowed great swaths through the columns of brave Union troops.  The Fourteenth Wisconsin regiment, temporarily attached to Smith’s brigade, Gen. Crittenden’s division of Gen. Buell’s command, occupied a position on the right of the brigade and held the main road leading from Pittsburg Landing to Corinth.  Gen. Grant ordered Col. Smith to take the battery.  Col. Smith ordered the Twenty-sixth Kentucky to capture it.  The regi-ment made a gallant charge and were repulsed with terrible slaughter in their ranks.  Gen. Grant and staff had ridden up in the rear of the Fourteenth Wisconsin and witnessed the charge.  Turning to Gen. Buell and pointing with his sword to the Four-teenth, he said:  “General, that regiment can take that battery.”

            The charge was made, the horses killed, and Lieutenant Staley spiked this gun, but re-en-forcements not being brought to the support of the regiment they were driven back with a loss of eighty-five men killed and disabled.  Colonel Wood and Lieutenant Colonel Messmore were both dis-abled and carried from the field.  Major Hancock took command of the regiment, rallied its broken lines, made a second charge, capturing the battery, driving a strong infantry of Texas troops who were supporting it from the field up the road toward Shiloh Church, and captured many prisoners.

            The Fourteenth were then ordered to hold the field, guard the road, and see that the enemy did not recapture the battery.  The enemy made but one more attempt to retake it.  This was at about 2 o’clock in the afternoon.  The attack was met by the Fourteenth and the enemy promptly repulsed.

            After the battle Gen. Halleck sent a member of his staff to learn what regiment had captured the battery, and the result was the presentation of this gun to the Fourteenth Wisconsin in recognition of its valor in capturing the battery.  The regiment afterward presented it to the State, whose property it now is.

            Years after the war when Gen. Grant visited the West and was coming up the Mississippi to his old home at Galena, a delegation from LaCrosse went down the river to escort him up.  While coming up the river the conversation drifted to the battle of Pittsburg Landing, and Gen. Washburn mentioned the capture of this gun, which was then at Madison.  Gen. Grant remembered the incident distinctly, and highly complimented the work of the regiment on that occasion.  He said:  “I personally witnessed the charge, and noted it carefully, for I felt when I made the suggestion that the regiment could capture the battery that they were just the men to do it.  It was a most gallant charge, and was the hottest place in the line of battle that day.”

 

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Handsome Charley Did It.

 

            If it had not been for Handsome Charley there might not have been any war between the North and the South.  How so?  A many and many a year ago, in a city by the sea, Handsome Charley went to what Hamlet called that undiscovered country from whose boerne no traveler returns, and had talked to Hamlet in very excellent blank verse only a few nights before.

            Who, then, was Handsome Charley?  He was for a great many years, in the gold old times, and in some respects, perhaps, the bad old times, generally spoken of as “befo’ the wah,” a resident of Charleston, South Carolina.  Charley used to say of himself:  “I am an Irishman by birth, an Ameri-can by adoption, talented by chance, and no cow-ard, be Jasus.”  So far from being a coward, Charley was as brave as a bulldog, and was a very great fighter when it was his cue to fight; but he always helped the weaker party, and in Charleston, where the people are noted for their warm-heartedness, there was not a warmer-hearted nor a more chari-table man than Handsome Charley.  But why was he called handsome?  Was he really a handsome man?  Oh, no; not at all.  Not by no means, as the Artful Dodger would have remarked. 

            In a trial for murder in Charleston, about forty years ago, Isaac B. Hayne was Attorney Gen-eral and Richard Yeadon, a lawyer of high standing and also editor of the Charleston Courier, repre-sented the prisoner.  Col. Hayne, besides being a great lawyer and a brave man, was remarkably handsome, while Yeadon was not gifted in form or feature.  Charley was a witness, and Yeadon examined him thus:

            Yeadon - What is your name?

            Charley - Charles Farley, better known as Handsome Charley.

            Yeadon – Why are you called Handsome Charley?

            Charley – I’ll answer that if you will tell me why you are called Limping Dick?

            Yeadon – Certainly.  My name is Richard and they call me Dick, and as I am a little lame the call me Limping Dick.

            Charley – That’s fair and square.  Now the rayson I’m called Handsome Charley is this:  If any man was to ask me who I think the handsomest, Dick Yeadon or meself, my answer would be that Mr. Hayne is the handsomest.

            South Carolina passed the ordinance of secession on Dec. 20, 1860.  At this time there was no garrison in Fort Sumter, which stands in the harbor between Sullivan Island and Morris Island, and is surrounded by water; but Anderson and his command were in Fort Moultrie, on Sullivan Island.  It was customary in those days to allow visitors to enter and inspect Fort Moultrie, and as war had not been declared although South Carolina had seceded, Anderson was placed in an awkward position, as there was always danger that the fort would be taken by surprise.  Handsome Charley made an offer to the Mayor of Charleston (Macbeth, I think), and also, if I remember aright, to Gov. Pickens, to attempt its capture; but, of course, the offer was re-fused, as there was strong hope that, principally through the influence of New York City, Congress would allow peaceable secession.  Anderson, how-ever, no doubt heard of Charley’s offer, and there-fore, on Christmas night, he moved his garrison over to Sumter.  This movement was regarded as a menace, and the South Carolinians unwisely deter-mined to attempt to capture Sumter.

            The attempt succeeded, for on April 12, 1861, Fort Sumter was attacked, and as it was set on fire by hot shot thrown by Ripley at Fort Moultrie, and as the powder magazine was in great danger, Anderson was obliged to surrender on April 13.  The fall of Sumter united the North, caused Lin-coln’s call for troops, and the war began in earnest.  Had it not been for Handsome Charley, Gen. An-derson might have remained in Fort Moultrie, and war might have been averted.

 

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Wanted to Find His Musket.

 

            In a few weeks an old soldier and veteran of the late war will start from Cincinnati upon a strange errand, but one that lies very near to his heart.  He is Capt. William F. Jones, and his present residence is Bloomingburg, Ohio. He has relatives in this city an they are about to aid him in carrying out the one wish of his life, and that is to go to the battlefield where he was captured during the war and hunt for his old rifle that in the last moment he threw into a stream of water.

            This might seem to be a very unreasonable and entirely useless desire on the part of the old sol-dier, but he is confident he will be able, after the lapse of over thirty years, to go back to the point where he threw his gun into the sluggish stream and find it again.  Capt. Jones enlisted in the Forty-second Ohio Volunteer Infantry, the regiment which President Garfield led out as its colonel, and of which he was colonel at the time of the capture of Capt. Jones and this associates.

            It was in 1861, when the regiment was in the Cumberlands, and just after a number of the brief but sharp encounters of the campaign, that the old soldier was out with several others on a scout-ing party in the Cumberland Gap.  They were sur-prised some distance from their lines by a company of the Confederates, and when it was seen that es-cape was impossible they determined they would not allow the Confederates to have the use of their weapons, at any rate.  Breaking the locks and other-wise rendering them unfit for use, they threw them upon the ground and waited doggedly for the cap-ture that they saw could not be avoided.

            Capt. Jones, more bitter than the rest, and determined that no Confederate should ever have any good from his rifle, beat the gun around a tree that stood near and hurled it into a small stream that wind through the low land of the gap.  He, with all the others of the little band, was captured and taken away from the place, and, as fortune had it, none of them ever returned to that spot where the guns were thrown away.

            Capt. Jones is now an old, gray-haired man, and, notwithstanding the fact that he rose from the ranks and carried better weapons than his old rifle, he is now taken with a strong desire to revisit the place where he was captured and search for the gun.  He says he is positive that he can find it, for where he threw it into the water the stream was very slug-gish and deep, and the bottom, as he knew, was covered with over two feet of mud.  It was at the bend of the stream, where there was small likeli-hood of a rise or swift current that would be able to carry the old weapon down the stream.  He also declares that he will be able to recognize the gun from its being bent and broken.  Whether there is any chance of finding the gun or not, the friends of Capt. Jones are going to afford him the opportunity of revisiting the old field and searching for the lost rifle, which, if found, will fulfill the last hope of the old soldier and cause him the greatest happiness that can possibly come to him.                                                                 – Cincinnati Enquirer.

 

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Beyond Doubt.

 

            It is said that Gen. Early’s fondness for fun was as strong as his fondness for fighting.  After the battle of Sharpsburg, Gen. Jackson, happening to ride in the rear of Early’s division, found the men scattered for miles along the road, some executing dance steps, some crying, others singing gay songs or psalm-tunes.

            Early had tried to reduce the ranks to their usual orderly condition, but had not succeeded.  Finally an orderly rode up and handed him a dis-patch from Gen. Jackson:

            Headquarters, Left Wing – Sir – Gen. Jack-son desires to know why he saw so many stragglers in rear of your division today.   A. S. PENDLETON.

            After reading this communication, the grim old soldier got a piece of paper and wrote the fol-lowing reply:

            Headquarters, Early’s Division – Captain – In answer to your note, I think it probable that the reason why Gen. Jackson saw so many of my strag-glers today is that he rode in rear of my division.  Respectfully,    J. A. EARLY.

            General Jackson, who fully appreciated the good points of the old soldier, concluded that the investigation had proceeded far enough, and let it drop.

 

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Libby Prison to Be Demolished.

 

            The old Libby prison, with which there are so many associations of desponding spirits and pinched stomachs, was some years ago taken down from its original site on the James River and rebuilt in all its grimness in Chicago.  It never was in itself a pretty building, and its associations do not help the fancy to invest it with any suggestions of beauty.  But Chicago wanted it, just as she wants everything that she thinks will draw, even if it be nothing more than attention.  The old prison did not prove the attraction that was expected.  The old sol-diers did not go around as numerously as was anti-cipated, to hunt up five to six feet strips of floor which once constituted their respective couches.  The charm, somehow, did not work to bring large crowds or much profit to the prison exposition management.  The ancient bastille was scarcely noticed during the great World’s Fair. So now the energetic but disappointed city proposes to let it go.  The land on which it stands is advertised for rent and it will probably soon be torn down and be re-placed by a building more handsome to look at and of more festive associations.

-          Denver (Colo.) Post.

 

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The Proper Thing.

 

            A Confederate guard in South Carolina during the war was questioned as to his knowledge of his duties.

            “You know your duty here, do you sentin-el?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Well, now, suppose they should open on you with shells and musketry, what would you do?”

            “Form a line, sir.”

            “What!  One man form a line?”

            “Yes, sir; form a bee-line for camp, sir.”

 

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Captured the Bank.

 

            Sidney Jones – sometimes called Colonel Jones – is a citizen of Chicago, but a native of Ken-tucky.  He it was who organized the first company ever raised in the State of Kentucky for the Federal army.  He was in command of a company of the State Guard, located at Ludlow, Ky., and when war was declared General Simon Bolivar Buckner called a meeting of the officers. He wanted them to declare themselves.  Just then the State Guard was in camp.  Well, the situation was talked over and Jones declared his intention of quitting the camp and coming out for the Union.  With him was another company commander and the Captain of the battery.  Colonel Jones had eighty-four men in camp.  After the conference he canvassed his men.  All but one agreed to accompany him, and before morning the objector joined the rest.  General Buckner told the three companies that they must leave their arms behind, but they did not.  The next morning they marched out of camp, and, outside of a few hisses and groans, they were unmolested.  They went and fought for the Union.

            Colonel Jones was well acquainted with General Steedman, who was the possessor of a heavy bass voice, and he knew that the General was very fully conversant with the game of faro.  On one occasion, in Nashville, Tenn., General Steed-man took possession of a faro bank.  While he was in charge another officer came up and asked him what he was doing.  “I’ve captured this bank,” said the General, sweeping his arm toward the layout.  “Well,” said the officer, “that is the first time I have known you to be on the right side of the bank.”

 

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Tough on the Confederates.

 

            Nearly every ex-Confederate preserves some scrap of Confederate paper money as a memento of the civil war, says the New York Sun, and most of them have stories to tell of the absurd shifts they were driven to in pursuing the necessar-ies of life with a depreciated currency.  Confederate money was never worth its face value, and by the spring of 1864 it exchanged in Richmond with United States coin at twenty-five to one.  A banish-ed Northerner who found himself in Richmond at that time paid twenty-five dollars a day at a moder-ately good hotel.  He lived to see Confederate money exchange with United States coin at forty and fifty to one during the siege of Petersburg, and, finally, upon the retreat, a few days before Lee’s surrender, he found, in a bit of woodland, a great pile of the worthless stuff neatly laid out on the ground and held down with a stone.  Some disgust-ed Confederate had left it there and there was no-body to pick it up.

            While Petersburg was under siege the price in Confederate money for anything not issued to the army in the quartermaster’s department was absurd.  A pair of boots cost two hundred dollars.  Tin plates were from ten to twenty dollars each. Whisky, doubtless made tax-free in the mountains of Virgin-ia, brought twenty-five dollars a quart.  Tobacco, corn meal and sorghum were about the only things issued as rations toward the last. Meat was at a fabulous price.  A few lucky officers had Christmas turkeys, not bought with Confederate money, but presents from friends in Petersburg.  If any man got hold of United States coin he either hoarded it or exchanged it for the Confederate notes.  No man paid it out for merchandise. Even the depreciated paper currency of the United States was vastly more valuable than the mean looking and despised Con-federate currency, a state of affairs eloquently pro-phetic of the end.

 

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Sutler’s Sardines Slipped.

 

            In 1864, during the cold, icy times, the first week in January, a soldier boy known as Gen. Van-dorn was called upon to take charge of a wagon that was to be loaded with timber at the wharf at Nashville, Tenn.   While the wagon was being load-ed some of the boys were called upon by our captain to help a sutler unload his goods from a boat.  This Gen. Vandorn was among the number, and as they carried out boxes he set one close to his wagon and threw his overcoat over it, not looking at the brand on the box, but supposed that it contained strawberries or peaches, then told the teamster to watch his coat, and went on to work.  Soon his wa-gon was loaded and he was called upon to go to it and pull out; so picking up his overcoat he placed it on the wagon and the box still staid under the coat. When he arrived at a safe distance he opened the box, and to his astonishment, instead of it contain-ing strawberries as he had supposed, it contained 144 little boxes of sardines.  As he could not eat sardines, his comrades helped him to rejoice over his sad mistake.                     – American Tribune.

 

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Ran Away to War.

 

            Edgar L. Wakeman, the Traveller’s famous correspondent, has had many hard struggles and won many victories in his life, but none better dis-play the indomitable perseverance of the man than the story of the way he joined the Union army at the time of the great rebellion.  He was a mere youth when the war broke out, but at once made up his mind to enlist.  His parents, however, were strongly opposed to this project of his and several times suc-ceeded in frustrating his plans.

            Young Wakeman’s final and successful at-tempt to become a soldier was made during the winter.  Demure and apparently contented conduct had thrown the watchers, whom the parents had in-terested in the matter at the Harvard depot and at various other railway stations, off their guard.  On a frightfully stormy winter’s day, while his father was occupied in some exciting legal contest certain to last long into the night, the boy found his compan-ions and begged them to make with him the third attempt to escape.  V. C. Lewis, who was some years his senior, accompanied him.  The regular evening express to Chicago, after giving its passen-gers opportunity to dine at Ayer’s Hotel, usually pulled out of the station to take on wood at the yards.

            Here, just before final departure was made, the lads sprang aboard the express train, and in three hour’s time were in Chicago.  This time, profiting by experience, they sought an obscure German hotel, Peter Pfund’s old “Washington,” near Randolph Street Bridge, and before 10 o’clock the next morning were enlisted as recruits for Bat-tery D, First Illinois Light Artillery.  V. C. Lewis passed muster readily, but the Wakeman boy was such a mite of a fellow that he was refused at sever-al recruiting booths in the Old Court House Square.  He was finally passed, however, and “no questions asked,” on payment of $25 to a discreet and patrio-tic mustering officer.

            “I found the little goose,” his father many times subsequently said with a mist of pride, sadness and merriment in for myself.  The stiff ar-tillery jacket collar reached to the top of his head, tipping his Kossuth hat completely over his face; while its bottom fell to his heels, and the sleeves were turned back to the elbows.  The trousers were large enough for four boys of his size, and the bottoms were pinned back above the knees.  In this grotesque outfit he was squatting in front of a smudge of a fire, vainly endeavoring to toast a bit of raw pork for his dinner.  I saw he had a decent uniform, told him to ‘go it’ this time, and came back home feeling as though I had lost about all I had on earth.”

 

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A Good Liar.

 

            There was a fellow in my company, said the Major, who was without doubt the worst liar in either army, and was never at a loss for a lie, even when the truth would have answered the purpose better.  He was an inveterate skulker, but managed to escape punishment through his ingenuity in devising excuses for his absence in times when his presence was necessary.  Not that he was a coward – no man was braver than he when he got into a fight – but he hated the trouble of going in, and greatly preferred getting under a tree, at some safe distance, and enjoying the spectacle presented by the contending forces.  One day in 1864, in the Val-ley, I notified him that the next time he failed to show up for a fight his case would be attended to by a court-martial.  He had about exhausted himself in the invention of excuses, and I didn’t think it was possible for him to make any showing that would give him a ghost of a chance.  Two or three days afterward we had a sharp brush with some cavalry, in which the regiment suffered quite severely from saber cuts.  When we came to sum up Jake had not been seen, and it was not until a week later that he came into camp mounted on a sorry-looking mule, with an old Negro leading the animal, and with one foot swathed in bloody bandages. “Don’t say a word, Captain,” he burst out before I could say any-thing, “till I tell you how it was. You see, I had borrowed this ‘ere mule an’ was coming to camp just when the rebels attacked, and when I started for the regiment one of these ornery cavalrymen just came down on me an’ cut my foot right in two.”  My anger was instantly turned to sympathy, and as instantly returned as he continued:  “He just cut clean through my shoe an’ down to the sole, an’ the old mule ran an’ took me to this old darky’s cabin, and as sure as I’m a sinner he just stuck that foot together, an’ it’s as good as ever, only just a leetle bit tender.”  Jake didn’t escape his court-martial, but he has that shoe to this day, and still exhibits it in proof of one of the most remarkable cures on record.                     – Rocky Mountain Herald.

 

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What Gen. Sherman Said About Grant.

 

            “After that terrible Sunday at Shiloh,” Gen. Sherman said, one day, to the writer, “I started out to find Grant and see how we were to get across the river.  It was pouring rain and pitch dark, there was considerable confusion, and the only thing just then possible, as it seemed to me, was to put the river be-tween us and the enemy and recuperate.  Full of only this idea, I ploughed around in the mud until at last I found him standing backed up against a wet tree, his hat well sloughed down and coat well pulled up around his ears, an old tin lantern in his hand, the rain pelting on us both and the inevitable cigar growing between his teeth, having retired, evidently for the night.  Some wise and sudden in-stinct impelled me to a more cautious and less impulsive proposition than at first intended, and I opened up with:

            “’Well, Grant, we’ve had the devil’s own day, haven’t we?’

            “’Yes,’ he said, with a short, sharp puff of the cigar; ‘lick ‘em tomorrow though.’” 

                                                - Washington Post.

 

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Not Made to Die.

 

            The following incident was recently told by a gray-haired Georgia planter when giving some of his recollections of the civil war.

            I was in the Third Georgia Cavalry, and passed through three battles without a wound, but was shot in the shoulder in a skirmish near Win-chester, and fell in a thicket not far from the road. My regiment passed out of sight.  I’m a little of a doctor and knew my hurt was only a flesh wound.  But I could not stand.  Near me lay a young fellow about my own size and age, with a pleasant face and blue eyes.  His leg was cut.  By the color of the blood that was pouring out, I saw it was a matter of only a minute with him whether he should live or die.  His face was gray already.  I shook him. He opened his eyes.

            “Tell my father,” he said, “that I -  that I –“

            I had an old father at home, too.  I couldn’t stand that kind of talk.  I pulled myself up, and hur-riedly with my knife cut off the leg of his trousers, and made a tourniquet with a handkerchief and bit of wood, and stopped the blood.  I declare, I never noticed till it was done that he wore the blue.

            There was a drizzle of rain falling, and it revived him.  Presently he opened his eyes and looked at me.

            “Hello, Johnny,” said he, “Tied me up?”

            “Hello, Yank,” I replied.  “Keep quiet!  Got any tobacco?”

            “Look in my pocket; you’ll find some.”

            Before morning we were both carried into hospital at Winchester.  But this little circumstance had made us sociable.  He was very low and weak for a fortnight or so, and I used to hang around his cot and fetch and carry for him.

            The Yankees took the town, and I was sent prisoner to Fort Johnson.  Before I went, Charley – his name was Charley – gave me a slip of paper with his father’s name and address in Washington city on it.  On the other side he wrote:

            “This is my good friend, father.  He’s done everything for me.  Take care of him for Charley’s sake.”

            “Try to see him,” he said.          

            It was six months before I was parolled and discharged.  I was almost in rags when I reached Washington, and hadn’t a cent to buy bread.  I re-membered the card, and found the house. It was a fine mansion on a beautiful street.  An old man came out as I stood on the steps, a stern, hard looking man, “Are you Mr. B-?” I asked.

            “I am.  What is your business with me?”

            “I hoped you would lend me money to take me home.  I am a released prisoner – a rebel.”

            “And what claim has a rebel on me?” he said sternly.

            I handed him the card.  He read it aloud.  “Take care of him for Charley’s sake.”

            Well, gentlemen, I slept in Charley’s bed that night, and sat in Charley’s place at the table, and the next day I went on my way with money in my pocket and in a suit of Charley’s clothes.  I had made some of the best friends of my life.

            Charley is gray-headed now, and when we meet we talk the war over.  The questions we fought for have had their day and passed, but we never shall forget that we were two lads lying wounded together for a cause that we each thought just.  The fight is over, but the friendship will last while memory lasts.

            There are some things that weren’t made by God to die.

 

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What Gen. Sherman Saw.

 

            “One of the most magnificent specimens of manhood I ever saw was a soldier who was con-stantly laughing at the poor fellows who became fatigued by long marches or who sank under seemingly trifling wounds.  His courage, health and strength seemed invincible.  One day a heavy pro-jectile from the enemy’s cannon – what we call a spent ball – came rolling along.  The temptation to put out one’s foot to stop such a ball was almost irresistible.  The soldier I have mentioned yielded to it.  With a merry smile he put out his foot and in an instant it was cut off and he sank to the ground a maimed, shattered cripple for life, weeping like a child at his awful misfortune.

            “I think the funniest incidents I observed during the civil war were some of those that occur-red among the colored people during my march from Atlanta to the sea. Many of the Negroes hailed the coming of the Yankees, bringing the freedom of the colored people with them as a certain indication of the immediate approach of the judgment day and the end of the world.  Consequently there was great religious excitement among the darkies, and by many of their preachers protracted or revival meet-ings were held.  The incidents that occurred at some of these meetings beggar description.  I remember on one occasion the preacher tried his utmost to in-duce one big buck to come to the ‘mourner’s’ bench, but without avail.  At length, losing all pa-tience, he exclaimed: ‘By de wholly apostle, the word ob de Lohd shall done smite dat man,’ and suiting the action to the word he felled the buck senseless to the ground by a tremendous blow on the head, delivered with a ponderous volume of the scriptures.”

 

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Too Hot For Him.

 

            During the Confederate war, one Jim was attached to Rosser’s Cavalry, in Stuart’s command.

            Jim was noted for his strong antipathy to shot and shell, and a peculiar way he had of avoid-ing too close communion with the same; but at last all his plans failed to keep him out of the “row,” and he, with his companions, under a lieutenant, was detailed to support a battery that composed a portion of the rear guard. The enemy kept pressing so close, in fact, as to endanger the retreating forces, and the troops covering the retreat had orders to keep the enemy in check for a given period at all hazards.

            Jim grew desperate under the galling fire.  He placed himself in every position that his genius could invent, but the “hiss” of the bullet haunted him still.  At last, in despair, he called to the com-manding officer, “Lieutenant, let’s fall back!”

            “I cannot do it, Jim!” replied the officer.

            “Well, I’ll be dratted if we don’t get cleaned out if we stay here!”

            “My orders, Jim, are to hold this place and support that battery of guns” – pointing to the artil-lery close by.  “If we fall back, the enemy will rush in and capture the guns.”

            Just as that instant a well-directed bullet impressed Jim with the fact that a change of base was necessary.  Jim found another apparently protected spot, and, as soon as he had recovered his mind, he sang out, “Oh, lieutenant, what do you think them cannons cost?”

            “I don’t know, Jim; I suppose one thousand dollars.”

            “Well,” said Jim, “Let’s start a collection and pay for the darned guns, and let the Yankees have ‘em!”

 

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Jo Johnston.

 

            At the close of the war there was an active demand for biographies of the men who had figured prominently in the great conflict.  Books were writ-ten in haste, rather in a controversial temper, the aim of the writers being to vindicate their heroes from attack.  Some fifteen years later the public called for accurate information about the events of the war, and the series of Century articles appeared in response to this demand.  These were neither history nor biography, but excellent material for both, being mainly accounts of eye-witnesses or participators.  A third class of war publications is now beginning to appear in the shape of impartial biographies and chronicles of campaigns, based in part on the written testimony of the actors in the scenes described.  One of these is the life of Gen. Jo Johnston, by Robert M. Hughes, which has just been published in New York.      

            Jo Johnston was only known to members of his own profession, when, at the age of 53, he was appointed Quartermaster General of the United States Army before the outbreak of the war.  The post was high, for in the event of the death of Gen. Scott the Quartermaster General would naturally as-sume command of the army.  It is curious to note that the three competitors for the appointment – Jo Johnston, Albert Sidney Johnston, and Robt. E. Lee – all became Generals in the Confederate Army.  At that time Jo Johnston, though a Virginian, was sup-posed to be loyal to the flag. He was led astray, like Lee, by erroneous views of state allegiance; but until Virginia seceded he was trusted like Scott and Thomas.  If Virginia had resisted the machinations of the intriguers who dragooned her into secession, or if Johnston could have been brought to take a sounder view of his duty, he would in all probabil-ity have taken the place which McClellan filled when Scott retired.

            His career as a Confederate General was one of singular and undeserved misfortune.  It was he who really won the battle of Bull Run, but Beau-regard got the credit for the victory.  His retreat in front of Sherman in Georgia was one of the most masterly retreats on record.  If he had been allowed to carry out his tactics, it is just possible that the retreat after Borodino might have been repeated.  But it was the ill luck of Johnston to serve under a chief who was not only incompetent, but was unaware of his incompetency, and obstinate.  He was removed just as he was going to have a chance of testing his experiment, and the army he had taken such pains to convert into a compact machine was handed over to Hood, who fulfilled his destiny by leading it to destruction.  It was too late to save the tottering Confederacy when Johnston was called upon to gather the fragments of beaten armies in the Carolinas in order to make head against Sherman.  The utmost he could do was to obtain the best possible terms of peace from the victor; that he did; it was not his fault they were not ratified.

            He is one of the Confederate Generals whom history will treat with respect.  Grant consid-ered that the South had no better soldier than he, and confessed that no Confederate General gave him more anxiety when he was in his front.  He was a man of solid judgment.  He never deluded himself with the belief that the South could win.  He knew from the first that the Union armies must be suc-cessful in the end.  He was never deluded by the vain boastings of Davis and his crew.  He saw, when none of his comrades realized the situation, that the project of a Southern Confederacy was an idle dream, and that when the awakening came slavery would go down, with the slaveholders’ castles in Spain.  But he held his peace, and did his duty in whatever post his superiors were pleased to place him.

 

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His Disability.

 

            The fortunes of war carried us close to Henry Jacob’s home and he promptly put in appli-cation for leave to go and see his family but the en-emy was advancing to attack us with three times our force and, every man counting, the permission was refused until after the engagement.  We had chosen our position near a spring, but this gave out early in the day, and the men were forced to that old expedient for allaying thirst – chewing a bullet.  That night Henry turned up at the house to which the wounded had been carried and demanded to see the surgeon.  That gentleman came hurrying out.   “Now, then, my man what is it?  Quick!”

            “Doctor, I want a certificate of disability.”

            “Why, what for?  You look strong and well.”

            “Yes, sir, but I got a bullet today.”

            “Where?” asked the doctor, eyeing him.  “Let me see the wound at once.”

            Henry drew a little back from the eager hands that were going over him, and stammered out, “Well, sir, I swallowed it!”  The surgeon’s comments gave him no leisure to hear the explan-ation that the ball slipped down his throat while he was chewing it, and dodging from a shell.

 

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Care for Their Veterans.

 

            Georgia’s Confederate pension system, un-der which disabled veterans received from $2 to $25 per month, according to the disability, is highly creditable to the state, but it should accept and maintain the home near this city in order to com-plete the good work.  It will be of interest to review the situation in other Southern states.  Virginia led in the movement, and established a Confederate home at Richmond for the support of which the state expends $10,000 a year.  Pensions to the amount of $5,000 annually are also paid.  Alabama has no home, but pays $215,000 a year in pensions.  Arkansas has a home at Little Rock built by private subscriptions, supported by state aid.  Florida has no home, but pays $30,000 a year to disabled Con-federates, who have resided in the state fifteen years.  Mississippi is without a home, but has made liberal provision for her indigent and disabled Con-federates.  Missouri pays no pensions, but a movement is on foot to raise $100,000 without state aid.  Maryland has a home costing $40,000 near Baltimore, aided by the state to the extent of $10,000 annually. Louisiana has a home near New Orleans, and the state grants it $10,000 a year. North Carolina not only pays pensions, but has appropriated $41,000 for a home.  South Carolina pays about $50,000 in pensions, but has no home.  Texas has a home established by subscription.  It costs $3,000 a year.  Tennessee has established a home at the old home of Andrew Jackson, “The Hermitage,” the state having given 475 acres of land and $10,000 for improvement in 1889.  The Legislature in 1891 appropriated $25,000 for a building and $5,000 a year for its support, and in addition $60,000 or so much thereof as may be nec-essary for expenditure annually in pensions, which range from $2.50 to $25 per month.  It is thought that $25,000 a year will cover the pension list.  Of all the Southern states, Kentucky alone has made no provision for her ex-Confederates. 

- Atlanta Constitution.

 

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Orchard Knob Bought by the Government.

 

            Orchard Knob, celebrated because from there, exposing himself to the Confederate guns, Gen. Grant directed the battle of Missionary Ridge, has been purchased by the United States Park Com-missioners.  Only a short time ago the site of Gen. Bragg’s headquarters at the time of the same battle was bought, and the commissioners are now nego-tiating for the summit of Lookout Mountain.  Thus the whole field of the most spectacular battle of the Civil War will become the property of the Govern-ment, and be known as the Chattanooga National Park.  This is a purchase that will commend itself to the Army of the Tennessee, to students of history, and to lovers of the beautiful in nature.  The whole valley of the Chattanooga is an amphitheater and today, as on the day of the battle, there is no better point of vantage than Orchard Knob.  It is a rough, steep hill at the head of the valley, a mile northwest of Missionary Ridge, with a wide view that takes in the valley, the ridge, and Lookout Mountain away to the south.  It is 100 feet high, and is covered with a scrubby growth of timber.  The taking of this little hill was the overture to the battle of Missionary Ridge.  From the top of it Gen. Grant sent signals and messages to Sherman, Hooker, Sheridan, and Wood, fighting at points miles apart.  At 3 o’clock in the afternoon of Nov. 25 he began to close the lines and advance on the breast works at the foot of the ridge.  Then with dismay we saw a charge that equaled in daring the famous one at Balaklava.  Sheridan’s men had been ordered to take every-thing before them.  Without awaiting further orders they started up the ridge between the fires of the enemy.  Grant turned and shouted angrily:

            “Thomas, who ordered those men up there?”

            “I did not,” answered “Old Pap,” as he anxiously watched the boys in blue go to almost certain death.

            A chief of staff was sent at once to Wood and Sheridan, and the hero of Winchester sent back word:

            “I didn’t order them up.  But when those boys get started all --- can’t stop them.”

            The whole command was ordered up to snatch them from the jaws of death, but by the time they got there at six different points Sheridan’s and Wood’s divisions broke over the crest and Bragg’s army was broken in two.  A great cheer echoed along the valley and back from Mount Lookout.  “Old Pap” brushed a tear from his eye and swallow-ed a sob, and Gen. Granger rode down to see the boys who had taken the ridge.  They lay there, eighty out of every hundred wounded, but jubilant.

            “Boys,” he said, “you were told to take the base of the ridge, and you took the top. If you ever get well we’re going to have every --- one of you court-martialed for disobeying orders.”

 

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Captain Chanler.

 

            An old, broken down man taken from an obscure house in Washington to a hospital the other day was Capt. Wm. Chanler, who at the beginning of the war was one of the senior captains of the navy, outranking Porter and others who afterwards became famous.  Chanler’s sympathies were with the South, but he stood by his colors for a time and captured five of the first vessels taken from the Confederate navy.  Subsequently he resigned, crossed over to the enemy’s territory, and was not heard of again until the termination of hostilities.

 

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A Memory of Bull Run.

 

            The following extraordinary letter was writ-ten by Horace Greeley to President Lincoln after the battle of Bull Run.  It will be remembered that before the battle Mr. Greeley kept a standing head-line in his paper urging the armies “Forward to Richmond – Forward to Richmond:”

            “New York, Monday, July 29, 1861 – mid-night, - Dear sir:  This is my seventh sleepless night – yours too, doubtless – yet I think I shall not die, because I have no right to die.  I must struggle to live, however bitterly.  But to business.  You are not considered a great man, and I am a hopelessly broken one.  You are now undergoing a terrible or-deal, and God has thrown the gravest responsibili-ties upon you.  Do not fear to meet them.  Can the Rebels be beaten after all that has occurred, and in view of the actual state of feeling caused by our late awful disaster?  If they can – and it is your business to ascertain and decide – write me that such is your judgment, so that I may know and do my duty.  And if they cannot be beaten – if our recent disaster is fatal – do not fear to sacrifice yourself to your country.  If the Rebels are not to be beaten – if that is your judgment in view of the light – then every drop of blood henceforth shed in this quarrel will be wantonly, wickedly shed and the guilt will rest heavily on the soul of every promoter of the crime.  I pray you to decide quickly and let me know my duty.

            If the Union is irrevocably gone, an armi-stice for thirty, sixty, ninety, one hundred and twen-ty days – better still for a year – ought at once be proposed, with a view to a peaceful adjustment.  The Congress should call a national convention to meet at the earliest day.  And there should be an im-mediate and mutual exchange or release of prison-ers and a disbandment of forces.  I do not consider myself at present a judge of anything but the public sentiment.  That seems to me everywhere gathering and deepening against a prosecution of the war.  The gloom in this city is funeral – for our dead at Bull Run were many, and they lie unburied yet. On every brow sits sullen, scorching, black despair.  It would be easy to have Mr. Crittendon move any proposition that ought to be adopted, or to have it come from any proper quarter.  The first point is to ascertain what is best that can be done – which is the measure of our duty – and do that thing at the earliest moment.

            This letter is written in the strictest confi-dence, and for your eye alone.  But you are at liber-ty to say to members of your Cabinet that you know I will second any move you may see fit to make.  But do nothing timidly nor by halves.  Send me word what to do. I will live till I can hear it at all events.  If it is best for the country and mankind that we make peace with the Rebels at once and on their own terms, do not shrink even from that.  But bear in mind the greatest truth:  “Whose would lose his life for my sake shall save it.”  Do the thing that is the highest right, and tell me how I am to second you.  Yours, in the depth of bitterness.

HORACE GREELEY.

 

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The Dead at Vicksburg.

 

            A newspaper correspondent of the time writes of the dead who had fallen in one of the most desperate of the Union assaults on Vicksburg:

            “They lay in all positions, some with mus-kets grasped as though still contending; others with the cartridges in the fingers just ready to put the deadly charge where it might meet the foe.  All fer-ocity had gone.

            “A remarkably sweet and youthful face was that of a Rebel boy.  Scarce 18, and as fair as a maiden, with quite small hands.  He had long hair of the pale golden hue that auburn changes to when much in the sun, and curling at the ends.  He had on a shirt of coarse white cotton, and brown trousers, well worn, while upon his feet were women’s shoes of about the size known as ‘fours.’  Too delicate was his frame for war, perhaps some mother’s idol.  His left side was torn by a shell, his left shoulder shattered.

            “Two men who had caught at a fig tree to assist them up a steep embankment lay dead at its foot; the branch at which they caught was still in their grasp.

            “In one trench lay two, grasping the same weapon, friend and foe.  On the faces of both was the calm that follows sleep.  In some places the dead were piled literally like sacks of grain.”

 

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An Incident at Harper’s Ferry.

 

            The boys in blue who ever got to that delectable place named above will probably recall the times he filled his canteen at the spring under the Odd Fellow’s Hall.  The writer of this squib often drank and was refreshed by its sparkling wa-ters.  If memory serves him right, after a lapse of nearly a quarter of a century, there were at the Ferry in the spring of ’62 the 28^th Pennsylvania, 10^th Maine, and 60^th New York Regiments infantry, and the 1^st Maine and 5^th New York Cavalry, and of these commands, more or less, the rank and file drank from this spring; but what caused the sudden outbreak of dysentery among the troops probably never was known to many of these who turned toes to the daisies in the hospital on the hillside.  Across the village street lived a baker by occupation, and at heart a “Johnny” of the rankest sort.  He poisoned the spring, and he did it well.  The writer was one of his victims, but Surgeon Day of the Maine Tenth didn’t tell this until after Antietam’s battle in Sept-ember, 1862, or that Johnny would have received his dues in full and a comfortable overcoat made of wood to boot.

 

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Jefferson and Grant.

 

            Joseph Jefferson tells an amusing story of his memory for names.  Some public characters re-member names wonderfully.  However modest the station in life, however, commonplace the circum-stances of the former meeting, however remote the date of it, immediately they meet anyone whose name they once knew they greet him by that name, to the satisfaction of the modest one, and to the ad-miration of all hearers.  Stories of such feats of memory on the part of great personage are familiar.  Mr. Jefferson does not pretend to rival them in this truthful narrative.

            He was going up in an elevator in a large building in New York.  A quiet, gentlemanly look-ing person, who stood next to him, bowed.  He re-turned the bow.  The quiet man called him by name and made some polite inquiry about his health and family.  Mr. Jefferson tried in vain to “place” him.  Finally he said:

            “Sir, your face is very familiar to me, but though I remember we have met I cannot call your name.  Would you mind telling me?”

            “My name is Ulysses S. Grant,” was the bland reply.

            “What did you do, Mr. Jefferson?” some one asked, when he told the story.

            “Do?  I left the elevator at the next floor for fear that I should ask him if he was in the war,” replied the actor grimly.

 

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The General.

 

The nursery regiment one day

Were marching up and down

With flying flags and beating drums,

The prettiest sight in town.

 

The little Willie on the steps

Was gazing at the band;

Why not among the warriors

I did not understand.

 

Until I asked the question straight,

When flashed his eyes of blue –

“I am the General,” he cried,

“Who must the troops review.”

 

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The Last Admonition.

 

            During the reunion of the blue and gray at Shiloh the following incident was related by Cap-tain Frank P. Gracey, an ex-Confederate who com-manded Cobb’s famous Kentucky battery at the bat-tle of Jackson, Miss., July 12, 1863.  He relates a touching scene at the death of Major Frank M. Long of the 41^st Illinois Infantry.  Major Long was mor-tally wounded in the terrible charge made by his command and taken prisoner.  He was taken to the headquarters of the Confederate hospital, where he died.  Before his death he learned that a relative of his belonged to Capt. Gracey’s company.  He sent for Capt. Gracey and said to him:  “I learned there is in your company a cousin of mine.  I want to see him; will you have him come to my bedside?”

            He did so and when he arrived the major said:  “I am about to die, but I wanted to see you before I die and to tell you that I am ashamed of you for deserting the flag and the Union of our fathers.  You have disgraced yourself in leaving the land that gave you birth, the land of freedom and of right. I feel I that I must soon die, but I wanted to tell you that I die in defense of my country and our flag that you are fighting against.  You were raised in free Illinois and should have never deserted your country and your flag.”

            Major Frank M. Long was the pride of his regiment, loved and honored by all who knew him and such patriotic words from the dying hero shows a true spirit and valiant soldier that he was and will be cherished by his comrades and friends through-out all time.                                  – E. T. Lee.

 

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Old Abe Knew.

 

            Mr. Lincoln was naturally very anxious to know who was really responsible for the calamitous surrender of Harper’s Ferry.  So he summoned Hal-leck.  The general did not know. “Very well,” said the President, “then I will ask General Shenck.”  That general merely knew he was not to blame.  The President sent for Milroy.  Milroy averred that he was not guilty.  Hooker was summoned.  Fight-ing Joe hoped it was clear to His Excellency that he had nothing to do with it.  “Perfectly clear,” said our Uncle Abraham, smiling.  So he assembled all the four generals in his room.  “Gentlemen,” said he, “Harper’s Ferry was surrendered and one of you, it seems, are responsible.  I am very anxious to discover the man who is.”  He walked up and down the room, while they still sat there.  Suddenly he stopped.  “I have it,” he said. “I know who is re-sponsible.”  The generals crowded about the Presi-dent, each a little suspicious.  “Who is it, who is it, Mr. President?”  “Gentlemen,” replied our uncle, with a twinkle in his eye, “General Lee is the man.”

 

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On the Field of Gettysburg.

By Ena Walton.

 

On the field of Gettysburg,

When the battle fierce was o’er,

A soldier of the Union

Lay weltering in his gore;

Around him, there, on either side,

His brother soldiers lay,

Groaning and moaning in their pain,

Waiting for the coming day.

 

The soldier dreamed of home and friends;

His angel wife, he thought, was near,

His little children gathered round,

And all were there his heart to cheer;

Their loving arms were round his neck,

Gave light into his weary heart,

As stars light up the eastern skies,

 

Just then the moon sailed from a cloud,

And shed o’er earth her silvery light;

The soldier woke, his wife was gone,

And his children, with their faces bright.

He raised his head and looked around –

With the dead he was there alone!

A low, deep sigh came on the air,

And the soldier’s work on earth was done.

 

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Capture of the Steamboat Fox.

By Wilbur H. Webber.

 

            The capture of New Orleans had taken the whole Confederacy by surprise.  For weeks after-ward it was all the talk, either in camp, in society, or in business.  The Yankees had gained a feather by doing a thing we did not think them capable of.  In the latter part of May, 1862, after the capture of New Orleans became stale, a few Confederate offi-cers, commissioned in the Confederate States Navy, and idling their time away in Mobile waiting for a vessel with which they could escape to sea, con-ceived a wild plan of capturing a steamboat from near the mouth of the Mississippi River.  The offi-cers mentioned were Captain Jefferson and Lieutenant Howell, the latter a brother-in-law to President Jefferson Davis.

            After visiting the different garrisons around Mobile they selected fourteen men who had some experience at sea.  A boat was soon found, not exactly the right thing, but which could be made to answer the purpose, and which could be worked with seven pairs of oars.  Muscle instead of steam must be used out of necessity, and it was probably the surest means of success, as Farragut’s Federal fleet not only blockaded the port of Mobile, but were continually moving around the Gulf.  Prepara-tions were made as well as means at hand would permit, and the time set for starting.

            It was the last of May that the Confederate States Cutter Lark left her moorings at Mobile on the perilous expedition.  After reaching Fort Morgan a halt was made, and all that human ingenuity could suggest was done to make the insig-nificant appearance a success.  On leaving Fort Morgan at night, the oars were muffled and every precaution taken to avoid noise, as the blockading fleet must be passed through.  It was decided to keep close to the coast in shallow water.  We passed several hours of anxiety, but with a steady, long pull at the oars, we soon turned into Mississippi Sound without attracting the notice of any of the Federal vessels.  We continued on, as much under cover of the islands as possible, until day, and then laid up until night again.  It was hard to conceal ourselves on some of the islands, for they were nothing but sand beds which were overflowed during storms or very high water.

            Fortune favored us, as not a boat was visi-ble during the day.  As the sun sank below the waters of the Gulf we pushed off shore, this time across in the rear of Cat Island down among the Chandeleurs. With all of our watchfulness we did not see a sign of the enemy, and we continued on in as straight a line as we could to Grand Bay, just to the eastward of the head of the passes of the Miss-issippi River.  Here a stop was made and a detail of two men, J. C. Cordray and Paul Trudeau, was made to go to Pilot Town, at the mouth of the southwest pass, and find out how matters stood.  Paul had been an old pilot until the war, when he enlisted in one of the first regiments going to the front.  He had been through the battle of Shiloh, where his regiment had been badly organized, and he took this opportunity to visit his family whom he left at Pilot Town.  This portion of Louisiana is so cut up by bayous that a person acquainted with them can go in any direction he chooses, although it takes years of experience to become so familiar with these channels.  The two men detailed took the light small boat, which had been towed at the stern for just such purposes, at night, and started for Pilot Town to see in what manner a steamboat was to be captured.  The Federal gunboats and war vessels were lying around the mouth of the river and up as far as the forts, and unless some information could be had the expedition was useless.  The only hope was in Paul’s finding some of his old acquaintances at the pilot station. Paul and Cordray pushed forward faithfully, and before day reached Pilot Town.  They approached as cautiously as possible and landed at the wharf of piling.  It was a town built on piles, no land of a substantial nature being near.  But one old pilot could Paul find with whom he was acquainted, and from him he found that his family had been taken to New Orleans by General Butler’s orders, because he was in the Confederate army.  It was a great disappointment to Paul not to meet his family, but from his old friend, the pilot, he found out the lantern signals to be displayed by a vessel coming out of the river.  They also found that the steamboat Fox came down every other day with fresh meat and vegetables as well as mail for the fleet, and tied up at the head of the passes for the night.  This was the sought for opportunity, and they returned with their report.

            After due consideration, it was determined that they should approach the wharf of the Fox as warily as possible.  Captain Jefferson and Lieuten-ant Howell, with a few men, were to take immedi-ate charge of the cabin, Paul and Cordray to take the pilot-house, another detail to take charge of the engines and fires, while still another was to take the guard by surprise.  The approach was managed so as to reach the vicinity of the Fox about nine o’clock at night, and so near did we get that the voices were quite audible on the night air.  By ten or eleven o’clock everything was quiet and most of the lights out.  By twelve the guard walked off the boat upon the wharf, which was upon the opposite side of the river, and sat down.  This seemed to be our opportunity, and Captain Jefferson gave the word to move on the boat, and each detail do their duty without noise or firing a shot.  So quietly did we advance that the natural ripple of the mighty river drowned all noise.  We reached the guard of the boat and clambered over it on deck, where each detail separated to do their share of the capture.  The watchman was surprised and captured without the least noise – in fact, everything seemed to work in our favor.

            Paul and Cordray entered the pilothouse and rang forward on the engines.  The call was soon answered by the new engineer.  The most conven-ient combustible substances were got into a shape to put into the furnace, without regard to value, and the fire was soon roaring. Our lantern signals were being hoisted as we swung into mid-channel, and the wheels revolved faster and faster as the boilers became heated.  Strange to say, not an attempt was made to stop us, or even ask any questions, and we were soon out in the Gulf heading for the Chandeleur Islands.  Under cover of the islands steam was shut off, and a consultation held as to what should be done with the prisoners.  After the decision was made, the prisoners, consisting of the officers and crew of the Fox, and a few passengers, were called forward, when Captain Jefferson addressed them in something like the following language:

            “Gentlemen, the fortunes of war have made you prisoners to the Confederate States Cutter Lark, and as the cutter is limited for accommodations, we will give you the choice of parole, with two boats to return to the fleet, or you will risk the guns of the blockading squadron as we run into Mobile, and probable confinement for an indefinite period.  We give you your choice, with twenty minutes’ time to decide the matter.”

            During the time all hands were busy mak-ing preparations for a continuous run into Mobile or have the boat sunk under us.  At the end of the twenty minutes, the prisoners, without exception, decided to give their parole and take the boats and return to the Mississippi River.  After their depar-ture we continued on among the islands until we reached Mississippi Sound, and then rounded for Mobile Bay, flying the United States flag.  The boilers of the Fox were kept in a continued strain by accumulated steam, so that we were ready as soon as we reached the Federal fleet to run our best.  We put on a bold face, entering the bay in mid-channel under all the steam we could raise, with the black smoke rolling out of our pipes, forming a cloud in the rear, and heading for Fort Morgan.  An attempt was made by a gunboat to have us stop, but we paid no attention to their signals.  The water fairly flew away from our sides from the terrible pressure, while the gunboats on either hand appeared to be waking up to some discovery. But they were too late; we rushed by them before they realized the situation, and were out of range, rounding the light-house, and under the guns of Fort Morgan.

            At our leisure we steamed on up to Mobile, and reported to General D. H. Maury, commanding our department, where, for a short time, we were the heroes of the hour.  A few weeks later Captain Jefferson sold our capture to the Department Quar-termaster for $300,000, Confederate paper.  The money was divided as is usual with the prize-money and for a few months we lived like American princes.

 

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Montana’s Drummer Boy.

 

            E. C. Waters, G.A.R. Commander of the Department of Montana was born in Mestersberg, Lewis County, N.Y., May 5, 1849.  Removed to Fond du Lac, Wis, with his parents in 1850, where he was educated, and from which place he enlisted in Company A, Eighth Wisconsin.

            At the close of the war he entered and graduated from Ripon College; was for ten years engaged in the tea business in New York City, traveling through the West; came to Montana in 1882, interested in the hotel and cattle business; was a member of the Territorial Council from Yel-lowstone and Dawson counties in 1886-7, and is now General Manager of the Yellowstone Park As-sociation, which owns and controls all the hotels in the National Park.

            Mr. Waters resides in Billings.  He was elected Commander of the Department of Montana, Feb. 22, 1887.

            He served with his regiment as drummer boy from White House Landing to the close of the war in Virginia, in the First Brigade, First Division, Ninth Corps.

            Commander Waters is married and has two children.  He was the delegate from his department to Portland, Me., and in the Council of Administra-tion at San Francisco last session.

 

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Captured and Surrendered.

 

            The Union boys when stationed for a time at one place formed some very pleasant acquain-tances, and on some occasions their hearts fell an easy prey to the fair female foragers.

            A notable case of this kind occurred at Big Black.  The forces at that place were there for sev-eral months. The people of the vicinity professed Union sentiments, or at any rate were very hospi-table and kind to the soldier boys, and not unnatural to suppose intimate social relations was the result.  One day a chaplain was asked to unite in marriage, two of the boys to two sisters living near the camp, named Ivy.  He declined to take so grave a step, and urged against it, stating that it would be contrary to the terms of their enlistment.  The boys, however, were persistent, and the chaplain finally told them if they would gain the consent of the commander of the post he would officiate.  The result was the following order from the Captain (Field) who was temporarily in command of the regiment:

BLACK RIVER, Miss., March 15, 1864.

To whom it may concern:

     I hereby cheerfully and freely give my consent for Mr. Henry C. West, Company G, One Hundred and Twenty-fourth Illinois Infantry, and Miss Caroline Ivy; also Mr. John C. Lovell, Company D, same regiment, and Miss Adaline Ivy, to become, respectively, man and wife, and for any one who has legal authority so to do, to marry them.

            Armed with this contract or document, West and Lovell sought the chaplain, who went with them to the humble home of the two girls, where the double marriage was solemnized in the presence of a few friends.  So far as known, the unions terminated happily.  Mrs. Lovell survived but a few months, dying at Vicksburg; Lovell died at home.

            West and wife, at last accounts, were both living.

 

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Up In an Army Balloon.

 

            The use of a balloon for purposes of recon-naissance, says a writer in the Grand Army Sentin-el, was resorted to by our army while in the Penin-sula. This balloon was handled by a detail from the Fourth Maine Regiment, composed of men I knew very well.  The one most conspicuous in this narra-tive we will call John, because John was his name.  While there was no particular qualification in John’s make-up that would make him a hero, still he is the hero of this tale.  One fine day when all the army was at rest, about waiting orders, they were aroused by the arrival of General Porter.  The General was very much in earnest, and very much in a hurry; could not wait for the head and manager of the flying ship, who was absent, but must take a trip into the upper atmosphere to reconnoiter the enemy’s lines.  To his request, which was a com-mand, there was no refusal.  The movements of the balloon during its flights were controlled by a rope reaching the ground and securely fastened to a stake.  All being ready, the General stepped in and was allowed to move slowly and surely toward the clouds.  Everything ran smoothly until the full extent of the line was reached, when snap went the rope and away went the General.  By some accident there had been a few drops of the acid used in generating gas spilled on the rope, making it worth-less; so when the strain came it parted.  Porter was frantic.  He was drifted toward the rebel lines, and in his excitement was as helpless as a child.  At this point my hero came to the front, with the requisite quality for saving the General from an inglorious flight over the enemy’s camp. John was blessed with an immense pair of lungs, and they were in splendid condition.  From a boy he had been noted for his ability to make a noise, and he also had a good, honest, generous share of mouth.  To these two gifts of nature, so lavishly bestowed, was General Porter indebted for his relief from his un-pleasant situation.  All signs and verbal instructions as to what he should do to get down were a failure, until John was called to open and fire away.  One shout was enough – “Pull that rope over your head!”  The General heard and obeyed.  Yes, and he pulled with a will; for he entirely collapsed the bal-loon, and down he came like a shot.  It was a fearful moment; all expected to see him dashed to atoms.  But he was reserved for another fate.  But fortune was with him; for the balloon came plump down onto a Sibley tent, and the General stepped forth from the wreck safe and sound, but rather badly shaken up.

 

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Lincoln and the Blockade.

 

            When in 1861, Thad Stevens saw President Lincoln’s proclamation declaring a blockade of all the rebel ports, wrote Ben:  Perley Poore, he went to Washington and told him that the blockade was a stultification of the former position of the Govern-ment in relation to the rebel States; that the ports, instead of being blockaded, should have been closed, and a sufficient number of armed revenue vessels sent out on the seas to prevent smuggling.  He pointed out to him the fact that by the act of blockade we recognized the rebel States as an inde-pendent belligerent, and should thenceforth be compelled to conduct the war, not as if we were suppressing a revolt in our own States, but in accordance with the law of nations.

            “Well,” said Mr. Lincoln, when he had heard his remarks, “that’s a fact.  I see the point now, but I don’t know anything about the law of nations, and I thought it was all right.”

            “As a lawyer, Mr. Lincoln,” Stevens remarked, “I should have supposed you would have seen the difficulty at once.”

            “Oh, well,” replied Mr. Lincoln, “I’m a good enough lawyer in a Western law court, I suppose, but we don’t practice the law of nations up there, and I supposed Seward knew all about it, and I left it to him.  But it’s done now, and can’t be helped, so we must get along as well as we can.”

            In this Mr. Lincoln was right.  The blunder had been committed and the rebel States were thenceforward an independent belligerent. Not an independent nation, of course, but an independent belligerent, to be dealt with in accordance with the law of nations.

 

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Waiting for the Bugle.

By Thomas Wentworth Higginson.

 

We wait for the bugle; the night dews are cold,

The limbs of the soldiers feel jaded and old,

The field of our bivouac is windy and bare,

There is lead in our joints, there is frost in our hair,

The future is veiled and its fortunes unknown

As we lie with hushed breath till the bugle is blown.

 

At the sound of that bugle each comrade shall spring

Like an arrow released from the strain of the string;

The courage, the impulse of youth shall come back

To banish the chill of the drear bivouac.

And sorrows and losses and cares fade away

When that life-giving signal proclaims the new day.

 

Though the bivouac of age may put ice in our veins,

And no fiber of steel in our sinew remains;

Though the comrades of yesterday’s march are not here,

And the sunlight seems pale and the branches are sear –

Though the sound of our cheering dies down to a moan,

We shall find our lost youth when the bugle is blown.

 

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How We Blundered.

By James Franklin Fitts.

 

            Perhaps it would read more truthfully thus:  “How the Generals blundered.”  The men who car-ried the muskets, wielded the sabers and worked the big guns, or at least the vast majority of them, who were brave, earnest and patient, made no mistakes.  Nor, as a rule, did the subordinate officers who were over them.  The gross blunders that prolonged the war and cost untold life, limb and treasure were committed by the men high in rank.  Sometimes they were errors in judgment, sometimes they arose from timidity and read of taking a great responsibil-ity; and too often they were the dreadful results of jealousy, anger, spite, for which the starred author should have been shot.  More than once, more than a dozen times, there was too much whisky at head-quarters.  However these deplorable results were caused, they wrought untold misery to the soldiers, and put back the end from year to year.

            Some writers have a certain hesitation in discussing these things.  I have not the least.

            The great war and all that went along with it have passed into history; a large part of its actors have passed away; and more are departing daily.  There is every reason why the truth should be told, so that it may be crystallized into history, and no reason why it should not be told.  The higher a man stood in rank and command, the more serious were his errors. Generals, like other public men, belong to their country, and whether they be living or dead, the common soldier, out of justice to himself, can-not afford to have those errors glossed over.

            When General Butler was relieved of com-mand at New Orleans in 1862, and came to New York, somebody asked him:

            “Do you think, General, that we shall ever get successfully through this war?”

            “Oh, yes,” replied Ben.  “I haven’t a doubt of it.”

            “But when – and how?”

            “Ah!  Those are very different questions.  We shall probably blunder through, but we shall get through.”

            Looking back now upon the events of a quarter of a century ago, it may well seem to us who participated in them, that, under Divine Provi-dence, we were permitted to “blunder through.”

            My meaning will be plain when I have pointed out a few things that did happen but should not have happened, and some of the things that might and would have happened, with a very slight change of circumstances, which the leaders had the power to make.

            In the fall of 1862 Gen. Sherman told Secretary of War Cameron at Louisville that three hundred thousand men would be required to put down the rebellion.  The information was received by the Government and the people with a gasp of amazement and anger. Sherman was voted insane, and sent to St. Louis to take charge of a recruiting station, where it was thought he could do no harm with his crazy notions.

            Now mark what would have happened had the Government then adopted that policy!  Vicks-burg and Port Hudson were not garrisoned and fortified by the Confederates till more than six months after this “crazy” idea had been put forth.  With even one hundred thousand more men called out before January, 1862, every point on the Miss-issippi could have been seized and held, two whole years of the war at the West would have been half won, and the lavish expenditure of blood and trea-sure on the Mississippi would have been saved.

            And before the end came, not three hundred thousand but more than one million Union soldiers were called to arms!

            Here was a blunder of the Government on a most magnificent scale.

            It may be said that the people were not ready for such large measures. That is true; and perhaps the responsibility for that grand blunder must be divided between the people and their ser-vants in power.

            And the might-have-beens of the war!  It makes us almost sick to review the principal ones of these lost opportunities.

            No three men were ever made more unlike by nature, each to the other, than George B. McClellan, George G. Meade, and Joseph Hooker.  They were all soldiers by education and training, all loyal and patriotic, and each no doubt intended to do his very best. Yet each missed an opportunity, and the two former missed two of them, to end the war in triumph; or at least to put it in a condition where it must have been speedily ended.

            Between the battle of Fair Oaks and the beginning of the Seven Days battle, it was so plain to the Confederates that Union army might march in and occupy Richmond that they trembled at the pro-spect.  I have seen an autograph letter from General Joe Johnston, written in 1863, in which he explicitly states this.  And the situation was well known to McClellan; but he doubted, hesitated – and the time passed.

            At Antietam it was plain to the men in the ranks at sunset that the enemy was whipped, and that a general advance with the reserve thrown in would drive the enemy into the Potomac, or compel their surrender.  All the Confederate writers agree upon this point. It was a golden opportunity which McClellan was never to have again.

            The situation at Gettysburg upon the repulse of Pickett’s Division was so plain that all saw it – all but the Commanding General.  There was a gap half a mile long in the hostile lines; the grand, final effort of the enemy had met with disas-trous repulse; it was the moment to throw every-thing forward in a charge that must have been successful.  Our army was weary, spent, cut up – true, but not so badly as the opposing one.  Confed-erate Generals grasped the situation and trembled for the consequences that would follow a counter-attack.  Union Generals saw it, and urged General Meade to advance everything.  He would not.  The prize was permitted to slip away.

            Again, a few days later, at Williamsport, on the Potomac, the shattered army of Northern Vir-ginia was compelled to wait days for the water to subside, that they might cross.  Another battle would have been required to overcome and rout the enemy; but there is not a reasonable doubt that such a result would have followed.  Again Meade hesi-tated, called a council of war – and finally permitted the enemy to slip away.

            No such opportunities ever came again to the Union cause.

            Both General McClellan and General Meade seem to have been oppressed with the weight of their responsibilities. They dared not take a small risk to secure a great gain.

            Suppose Hooker, at Chancellorsville, had continued his march a few hours longer, getting out of the woods, where he could use his immense army against the enemy’s inferior force; who shall say that he would not have ended the war in Virginia then and there?  What fatal hesitation and indecision made him halt there in the woods?  It is one of the mysteries of the war.

            Suppose that Lee had assaulted Cemetery Hill at the close of the first day’s fight? Suppose he had not assaulted it on the third day, but had flanked it, and compelled Meade to fight minus that strong position?

            Suppose our little Monitor had been delay-ed a day getting into the Hampton Roads?  Suppose the news had gone to Europe at that early stage of the war that the Confederate Merrimac had sunk and destroyed all our frigates and shipping in the Roads, ascended to Potomac, bombarded Washing-ton, and put the Government to flight?  All this came uncomfortably near happening.

            There was some good generalship, there was an immense amount of splendid fighting during the war; but it often looks to us as though we “blun-dered through.”                         - Chicago Ledger.

 

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Sheridan’s Ride – How Leonard Swett Came Near Preventing It.

 

            Hon. Leonard Swett, the distinguished Chi-cago lawyer, tells how he came very near prevent-ing that famous “Sheridan’s ride” in the Shenan-doah Valley. “On the morning of October 19, 1864, the day of the battle of Winchester,” relates Mr. Swett, “I was at Williard’s Hotel, in Washington.  The corridors were thronged with public men, both officers and civilians, and a friend was entertaining me by pointing out the most famous of them.  Sud-denly he pointed to a short, active man, saying, ‘That is Sheridan, the cavalry General.’  His name was not as famous then as it is now, but he was already so conspicuous a soldier that I watched him with interest, and was well pleased with the intro-duction with which my friend favored me.  This was the beginning of my acquaintance with General Sheridan, and it came near having calamitous re-sults for him.

            “After I left Sheridan I went to the White House to call on President Lincoln, whose law part-ner and intimate associate I had been in Illinois be-fore the war.  In the course of our conversation I mentioned to Mr. Lincoln that I had seen Sheridan at Willard’s that morning.

            “’That cannot be,’ said Mr. Lincoln, ‘he would not come to Washington without calling on me.’

            “’I certainly saw him,’ I replied, ‘and spoke with him.’

            “’That is strange,’ said Mr. Lincoln.  ‘I want to see him much – much, indeed – I must see him.’

            “I at once volunteered to go to Williard’s and bring Sheridan.  At the hotel they told me the General had just left for the depot.  I took a hack and drove after him at full speed in the hope of reaching him before the departure of the train.  But the train rolled out of the station just as I rode in.  I had missed Sheridan and was much disappointed, as was President Lincoln also when I reported to him.  But Sheridan rolled on toward Winchester, left the cars in time to hear the cannonading of the famous fight, and by his historic ride came onto the field in time to save the day.  The events of that day made Sheridan’s fame imperishable.  But had I found him at the hotel or overtaken him at the depot, he would have obeyed President Lincoln’s command, un-doubtedly, Winchester would have been an utter defeat for us – even Sheridan might have been disgraced.”

 

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A Narrow Escape.

By J. K. M.

 

            Some soldiers can say of their experience in the war, “I never got a scratch;” but I did get a scratch, and I never will forget it.  It was down near Dallas, Ga.  We were on picket, two at a post, and stretched along the line of an old hedgerow where there had once been a rail fence. It was about 10 o’clock in the forenoon.  I was accounted a pretty good shot, and so one of my comrades came to me and said I had an opportunity of proving my mark-manship if I wanted to, for he could see some rebels right in our front about half a mile distant.  We were partly concealed by the hedgerow in front, but looking through I plainly discovered a group of rebels, and as it was then the fashion to shoot rebels on sight, I sent a bullet in their midst.  There was some consternation visible, but whether anybody was hurt or not I don’t know.  About half an hour afterward I was terrified by the sting of a bullet on my cheek and the report of a gun not two hundred yards in front. When I recovered my composure and was able to gather in the situation, I found that a rebel had crawled up on us as near as he dared, and taking good aim at my head, had pulled the trigger.  It seems that the bullet struck a small sassafras, glancing the bullet, but carrying some bark and splinters into my cheek.  It was thus I got a scratch.  It was thought that my bullet had done some mis-chief on the other rebel and caused some exaspera-tion.  The rebel crawled back as he came, and for the time being I had no disposition to run after him.

- Seventy-eighth Illinois.

 

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Grant’s Estimate of Sheridan.

 

            General Sheldon, ex-Governor of New Mexico, relates that General Grant once said in his hearing, speaking of American army officers: “Gen-eral Sheridan was always where I expected him to be at any designated time.  He accomplished as much as or more than I expected him to accomplish. I tell you, gentlemen, Philip Henry Sheridan is the ablest military man now living, and if this country should become engaged in a war with any or sev-eral of the great powers of Europe during my term as President, I should give him command of the armies of the United States.”  “While I was Govern-or of New Mexico,” continued Governor Sheldon, “General Sheridan came out and paid our country there a little visit. I told him then what Grant had said.  He laughed, and replied: ‘Well, when a fellow is expected to be around anywhere he ought to be there.’”

 

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How a Bet Brought Aid to the Wounded Soldiers.

 

            An election wager which probably attract-ed more attention than any other in the history of the country, and which certainly led to the greatest results, was that made by Reul Gridley, of Austin, Nev., in 1862.  In the fall of that year Mr. Gridley, who was candidate for Mayor of Austin, on the Democratic ticket, bet that he would beat his Re-publican opponent.  The terms of the wager were that the defeated party should carry a sack of flour on his shoulder from Lower to Upper Austin.  Grid-ley was beaten at the polls, and on the day following the election set out on his trip, accom-panied by the newly elected Mayor, a brass band and a large crowd.  On arriving at the public square in Upper Austin a question arose as to what dispo-sition should be made of the sack of flour.  “Sell it for the benefit of the Western Sanitary Commis-sion,” said some one in the crowd.  The idea met with universal approval and Mr. Gridley was in-stalled as auctioneer on an improvised auction block.  Competition for the flour was very keen, and not until $250 had been bid was it knocked down.

            “Where shall I deliver it?” said Gridley.

            “Nowhere; sell it again,” shouted the pur-chaser.

            The idea took like wildfire, the sack of flour was again and again knocked down, and when evening came it was found that the astonishing sum of $8,000 had been collected.  It was during the “flush times” in Nevada, and the rivalry between the mining camps was very keen.  The news was sent by wire to Virginia City, and before morning a telegram was received, saying, “Send on your flour sack.”

            Gridley at once took the stage for Virginia City, and on the day of his arrival sold it for over $5,000, and still retained it in his possession.  The next day he proceeded to Gold Hill, but two miles distant, the now famous sack being carried on a wagon and escorted by a deputation from Gold Hill and Dayton.  When first offered for sale, a gentle-man stepped on the front and said:

            “The Yellow Jack Mine bids $1,000.”

            Other followed suit with various amounts and before night nearly $13,000 had been paid in for the sack.

            Citizens of Virginia City were, however, greatly nettled that such small places as Gold Hill and Dayton had outdone them in liberality, and a committee was appointed to remedy the defect.  Just after sunset a line of torches was seen ap-proaching Gold Hill, and Gridley and his wagon were escorted to the public square of Virginia City by several thousand of the citizens.  The square was packed and every one was there for business.  When the flour was put up a perfect pandemonium broke out; bids followed each other in rapid succession, and those in the throng who could not reach the auctioneer threw gold pieces by handfuls into the wagon.  When the auction was over, and the money counted, it was found that Virginia City had contri-buted more than four thousand dollars to the funds of the Sanitary Commission.

            The sack was afterwards sold in Carson City, San Francisco, and other Western points, and afterwards taken to the great sanitary fair in St. Louis.  There it was exhibited, and afterwards the flour was baked into small cakes and sold at a high price.  When a balance was finally struck it was found that Gridley’s bet had been the means of adding more than one hundred and fifty thousand dollars to the funds of the Western Sanitary Com-mission.

 

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Sheridan.

 

Outward, and over – away;

Hurry, good steed, nor delay;

Trembling, unpoised is the fray.

 

Foam-flecked, as waves out at sea,

Sinewy, pushing, and free –

Forward, the day waits for me!

 

Thus to his horse, as it flew,

Daring, and steady, and true –

Winchester saved for the blue.

 

*  *  *

Merely a hush in the night,

Simply a fading of light,

And a warrior gone from our sight.

 

Softly, and lightly, and low,

Blow ye again, bugles, blow,

For the soldier asleep with the foe!

 

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A Near View of Stonewall Jackson.

By James Franklin Fitts.

 

            Not many weeks ago I had the pleasure of “shaking hands across the bloody chasm” with an ex-Confederate who was in a position during the war to see and know much of it.  I refer to Captain Wilmer Brown, who served with Pelham’s Light Artillery in most of the battles in which the Army of Northern Virginia was engaged, and who was at least once wounded in its frays.  In 1859, at the age of fourteen, he became a cadet in the Virginia Military Institute, at Lexington, Va., and was at that institution when the war began.  He was among three hundred of these cadets who were promptly sent to Richmond, where they were made useful in drilling the new regiments that were pouring into the Confederate capital in those days.  Naturally, these cadets were rapidly commissioned and assign-ed to commands in these regiments.  They were all young, but they had education in the theory of war, and many of them rose to distinction and high com-mand in the armies of the Confederacy.

            Captain Brown’s military record was inter-esting to me; but not so interesting as his account of General “Stonewall” Jackson, who, before the war, was a professor in the Virginia Military Institute, with the rank of Major.  All those connected with the Institute, professors and cadets alike, were in the military service of the State of Virginia by virtue of their position at the institution.  Governor John Letcher, who was at the head of the Virginia militia at the outbreak of the war, was a resident of Lexington, where, by the way, in the summer of 1864, his house was burned by the Union General Hunter on account of an incendiary proclamation found there.  Upon the passage of the ordinance of secession by the Virginia Legislature Governor Letcher telegraphed the news to Colonel Smith, who was in command of the Institute of Lexington.

            Captain Brown described to me the scene that followed.  The whole body of cadets were as-sembled together and the commandant read the tele-gram.  It was received with uproarious applause.  The audience was, in fact, a lot of eager and spirited boys, just as anxious for fight as everybody was in those days who had not seen any fighting, and just as certain that the South must prevail as everybody in the South who had no adequate knowledge of the power of the Federal Government, the resources of the North, and the slumbering patriotism of that section, which was yet to be stirred up to fever-heat.

            The excitement of the time was so great that the cadets released themselves from the mili-tary discipline of the Institute, and began to call on the professors for speeches.  One after another the professors answered; and of course their remarks were full of confidence and bravo, and greatly in-creased the excitement.  Finally the cry went round for “Old Jack.”  This was the nickname by which the man was known to the school who was about to achieve the second greatest military reputation of any one in the Confederacy.

            “What did the cadets think of him before the war?” I asked.  “I have heard that they thought he was slow and dull, and were more surprised than any others to find that he had greatness in him.”

            “I don’t think that was so,” replied Captain Brown.  “We all knew his abilities as professor of mathematics and artillery, and, while he was awkward and eccentric, certainly none of the pro-fessors excited the enthusiasm that he did when he rose to respond to our call there in the great hall of the barracks on that memorable day.

            “It was with difficulty that we made him speak.  But the cries of ‘Old Jack!  Old Jack!’ swelled into a volume, and he at last mounted the platform.

            “Often during the war I met him; and from that fact, and from the fact that I had long been un-der his instruction at the Institute, I was perfectly familiar with his face and appearance; but perhaps his aspect that day on the platform impressed me more than at any other time that I saw him.

            “He was far from being a graceful man.  He was tall, a little stooped, and rather knock-kneed.  He wore his militia uniform of a Major, and I remember that he had his sword on.

            “His speech was the first in the way of ‘cooling’ and ‘going slow’ that we had heard.  But he knew, what we did not, what war meant, and he had had ample opportunities to learn about the power and the resources of the North.

            “He set the whole matter before us in a plain light, and gave us some new ideas.  They were so good, and they turned out to be so true, that many a time while the war was going on, and we were getting a full measure of its horrors, I went back in memory to Stonewall Jackson’s speech to us hot-headed boys that day in the barracks at Lex-ington.

            “He began by saying that in case of war the cadets of the Institute would be called into service.  He said he thought the difficulties of the nation had not yet gone so far but that they could be settled by arbitration, as he hoped they would be.  He did not advance any plan, but he did stand up there before all of us cadets, who were full and running over with the war spirit, and said, in substance at least, that he hoped there would be no war.

            “’But,’ he went on, ‘we are citizens of Vir-ginia.  Our State has seceded; and if war comes we must go with her.  But do not think there will be any child’s play about this business.  It will be a long, costly and bloody struggle. If you go into it, go seriously and prayerfully, not expecting a speedy result. If you draw the sword, you must throw away the scabbard!’

            “You may imagine how impressive these words were at that time and place.  Coming from such a source, they gave us our first idea of what the war was likely to be. If we did not give them full weight then, we did afterward.”

            The remains of General Jackson are at rest there in Lexington.  It is interesting to note, in this connection, that his reluctance to take up the sword against his country was matched by that of General Lee.  The latter held back until the last moment, resigning his commission in the United States army and casting his fortunes with the Confederacy only when Virginia, his State, had seceded.  While the South was hurried on to war by the mad appeals of men, of whom many never exposed themselves on the battlefield for the cause they could be so elo-quant over, it is interesting, indeed, to note the re-luctance with which the two who became her great-est military chieftains took up arms for the Confed-eracy.

 

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Hog Eat Dog.

 

            Ed Trick, of Burlington, Vt., who served in Company G, Second Vermont, is the man who played the practical joke on the officers of a New Jersey regiment.  The Vermont regiment captured some sheep one night, killed, dressed, and hung them up.  During the night the servant of the New Jersey officers stole the sheep, and they feasted.  Trick had had a hand in getting and killing those sheep, and, of course, felt ugly.  In the Vermont re-giment was a large Newfoundland dog. One dark night Trick killed and dressed the dog, and hung it where the sheep had hung. In the morning the dog was gone, and it was soon found that the Jerseyites had stolen the Newfoundland dog carcass, and en-joyed another feast, pronouncing it the finest mutton they had ever eaten. It did not take long for the news to spread throughout the corps, and whenever that regiment made its appearance on the march or in a fight, or was passing by any other regiment, that their fellow-soldiers commenced barking.  Trick says it was a case of hog eat dog.  He has never forgiven those Jerseyites, and says he never will.

 

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He Whipped Five of Us.

By J. M. Collum.

 

            Abbott was his name.  He was a perfect giant in stature and size, and though he had the appearance of one who was inclined to attend to his own business, if he got in but one difficulty per day he was making a very poor average.  He was a brave soldier, and though he never sought a person-al encounter, he was always ready for a fight when-ever the occasion was offered for one, notwith-standing the punishment that would follow.

            He had been sent to us as a recruit, and though he had been with us but a short while, all of us knew the “big recruit.”

            About the first forcible recollection I have of him is that I found him under guard “marking time” for some offense he had committed.  Just as we were passing the guard called out:

            “Time up! You can go.”

            He didn’t stop, but as he continued his “tramp-tramp!” he said to the guard:

            “You just keep the time, and go back and tell the bosses that I’m gwine to try it a couple of more hours, as I want to have another fight tomor-row.”

            There was another fellow in the company, who, if he was worth anything except to get drunk, it was never developed.  I expect Abbott whipped him a hundred times, for if there was ever a bottle smuggled into the camp, and he got a drink, the next thing he would do would be to hunt up the “big recruit,” insult him, and get a whipping.

            None of the boys had any sympathy for this drunken brute, as they felt that he deserved all the punishment that he got at Abbott’s hands; but for the purpose of having a little fun, three of the boys and myself arranged that, in the next encounter, our giant should get the worst of it.

            I was to go to Abbott and tell him that the other boys were conspiring with the other fellow to give him a whipping; at the same time I was to pre-tend to be his friend and promise to stand by him in the fight, yet when it occurred I was to turn upon Abbott and help the boys give him a good mauling.

            He had come among us as a stranger, and all the friends he had he had made since his arrival; consequently he was highly elated over my profess-ed friendship, and said we could whip a dozen of them.

            It happened that the difficulty was brewing, though warm on a dark, rainy and drizzly night, and the place of meeting was in a secluded part of the camp near a mud hole.  The boys selected this place, they said, that they might give him a good wallowing.

            At the appointed time all parties were on hand and the fray began.  The boys were good grit and sailed in with a vim, but I don’t think they ever got him to his knees.  But he scattered them worse than you have ever seen ten-pins, and literally wiped the mud-hole dry with them.  Thinking I was his friend I never received a scratch, though I put in a lick to help the boys wherever I could till I found he had whipped us.  I met with a good many rough-looking cases during the war, but those fellows presented the worst appearance of any I ever met.  The remnants of a cyclone would have presented a very poor contrast.

            It would seem that we, especially the other boys, had been punished enough, but the sequel was that we were reported the next day at headquarters and were put on double duty for a week.

            We never tried to whip Abbott again.

-          Putnam, Ga.

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Swords Against Bayonets.

By William W. Herrick.

 

            During the summer of 1865 I was serving as a private in Company H, Forty-eighth Wisconsin Infantry, and was on duty at Kansas City with a squad of twenty-one men under the command of a Lieutenant Griggs.  While there, a sergeant of the Seventh Illinois Cavalry came in with five men and undertook to do some bragging on the superiority of the cavalry over the infantry arm of the service.  He said that a regiment of cavalry could whip a regi-ment of infantry if they were both equally well drilled.  This was disputed by Lieutenant Griggs, and then the sergeant said that he could take the bayonet off of any man’s gun in our command, and that if he had a saber he would be glad to challenge Lieutenant Griggs or the best drilled man in the command.  Lieutenant Griggs took my gun and ac-cepted the challenge, giving his own sword to the sergeant at the same time, saying:  “I will not try to punch you to hurt, but if you can cut me down or run me through I will give you the privilege of doing so.” A suitable place was chosen and the passage-at-arms that followed was one of the finest I ever witnessed.  Both men were strong, well-built, wiry men, unusually well drilled.  From the start it was evident that the Sergeant was an expert in the use of the sword and that the Lieutenant would need all of his skill to keep from being disarmed.  But we knew that he could handle a gun pretty well and that the Sergeant would have more work than he expect-ed.  The Lieutenant came to the position of guard, and the Sergeant engaged.  Then followed a series of thrusts, cuts, and parries on the part of the Ser-geant, with the rapid, smooth action of a man who knows how to handle his weapon.  The Lieutenant was kept busy parrying – quarte, tierce, prime, butt, high prime, seconde, etc., so fast that we could scarcely follow the movement of the gun.  Finally, the Sergeant, seeing that he could not reach the Lieutenant, tried to take the bayonet off of the gun.  To see the twisting and squirming, it seemed like two snakes made of iron, each trying to break the

 

 

 

other in two.  Finally the Sergeant was tired out and compelled to acknowledge his defeat, but he said that the Lieutenant was the best drilled man he had ever met.                  – Detroit, Beck County, Minn.

 

 

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Suffolk, Va.

By Royce Kelly.

 

            This place is about twenty-five miles inland from Norfolk.  When I was there in April, 1863, Longstreet was in front of us with a force estimated at thirty thousand men.  The command to which I belonged was armed with target rifles, and we were stationed in rifle-pits on our side of a small river which I think was called the Nansemond.  The Con-federates occupied a similar position on the oppo-site bank, and after a few days’ practice it was not safe for a man on either side to show his head above the works.

            One Sunday morning we made an agree-ment with the enemy that there was to be no firing that day, so we climbed on top of our works like mud-turtles on a log, and swapped lies and talked politics during the day with the Alabama troops in our front.  Nothing happened to mar the quiet until about five o’clock in the afternoon, when the sharp report of a rifle on the Confederate side broke the stillness and a bullet struck one of the caissons near by, then glancing off, struck a soldier in the side.  Our armistice ended right there – school was out for noon and the teacher gone to dinner – and we kept up an almost constant firing until dark.

Hartford, Mich.

 

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He Died Game.

 

            Shortly before sunset Cedar Creek was reached, about fifteen miles from Kernstown, Va., writes General Capehart in the National Tribune.  As we were approaching there was a battery of brass  howitzers  in  the  meadow  beyond  the  mill,

 

 

 

firing back at us.  Jenks’ battery was moved up, and after a few shots the enemy’s battery was pulled out into the turnpike and was about moving off, when Daum sighted a 12-pounder Parrott and sent over a shell, which burst just in their midst, killing men and horses and knocking things to splinters general-ly, though the guns were run off.  Perhaps few more killing shots were ever made, if report was true, on both Federal and Confederate authority, for it was said to have killed nine men and wounded thirteen.  I went over soon after with hospital attendants and ambulances to care for the wounded.  Among those mortally wounded was one who im-mediately recognized me, and when I drew near he said:

            “Doc, I’m done for.”

            Both his legs were torn off near the body, and the hue of death was fast settling in his face. I had known him, and his father as well, at Wheeling, and I said to him that if he had any word to send to his father I would take it.  Gathering his little re-maining strength, as if making an effort to hold on to life for a few brief seconds longer, he replied in gasps:  “Well, Doc, tell the old man – I died – game!” and sank into his last sleep.  His name was James Robinson, and he had entered the Confed-erate service among the first.       – Chicago Ledger.

 

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Our Two Opinions.

By Eugene Field.

 

Us two wuz boys when we fell out –

Nigh to the age uv my youngest now;

Don’t rec’lect what ‘twuz about,

Some small diff’rence I’ll allow,

Lived next neighbors twenty years,

A-hatin’ each other, me ‘nd Jim –

He having’ his opinyin uv me

‘Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him.

 

Grew up together ‘nd wouldn’t speak,

Courted sisters, ‘nd marr’d ‘em, too;

‘Tended same meetin’ house oncet a week,

But when Abe Linkern asked the West

F’r soldiers we answered – me ‘nd Jim –

He havin’ his opinyin uv me

‘Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!

But down in Tennessee one night

Ther wuz sound uv firin’ fur away,

‘Nd the Sergeant allowed ther’d be a fight

with the Johnnie Rebs some time nex’ day;

‘Nd as I wuz thinin’ uv Lizzie ‘nd home

Jim stood afore me, long ‘nd slim –

He havin’ his opinyin uv me

‘Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!

 

Seemed like we knew there wuz goin’ to be

Serious trouble f’r me ‘und him –

Us two shuck hands, did Jim ‘nd me,

But never a word from me or Jim!

He went his way ‘nd I went mine,

‘Nd into the battle’s roar went we –

I havin’ my opinyin uv Jim

‘Nd he havin’ his opinyin uv me!

 

Jim never come back from the war again,

But I haint forgot that last, last night

When, waitin’ f’r orders, us two men

Made up ‘nd shuck hands, afore the fight;

‘Nd, after it all, it’s soothin’ to know

That here I be ‘nd yonder’s Jim –

He havin’ his opinyin uv me

‘Nd I havin’ my opinyin uv him!

 

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About Getting Captured.

By James Franklin Fitts.

 

            I was a private in an infantry regiment, and we were sharply engaged at the battle of Hatcher’s Run in October, 1864.  If you ask me on what part of the field we fought, my answer would have to be that I hadn’t the least idea.  Pretty much all I can remember about what went before my capture is that there was a good deal of fighting and quite a number killed and wounded near me.  But when our line – or that part of it that I could see – fell back, there were only dead men left on the ground.  Only dead men and myself; the wounded had got to the rear some way.  Even those who were badly hurt had got off. I see now that I never should have re-mained there; and if the thing were to be done again – as, thank heaven, it never will be! – you may be certain that I would find some way to retreat.  Why I did not, is the mot of the story of what led to my being taken prisoner.

            As to why our line fell back, you will have to find out from some of the war histories.  I couldn’t see any occasion for it, though there may easily have been reasons for it that did not appear to me.  We did not seem to me to be hard pressed, though we were losing men all the time; but, as I learned afterward from what I saw of the ground in front of us when taken over it, the enemy was losing, too.

            But the order was given, and we retreated; all but me.  I started with the others, when a strange accident prevented me.  We were going through quite a stretch of woods, and I got my foot wedged between an exposed root and the ground.  In my ef-forts to get it out, pulling and twisting it, the ankle got turned so that I could not stand on the foot or bear it on the ground.  It was dreadfully painful, too.  Some of my comrades looked back, missing me from the ranks, and one of them called out, asking what the matter was.  I replied that it was nothing:  that I had hurt my foot a little, but would “catch up” right off.  Of course, had I called for help, there would have been no lack of it, and my mistake was to take it for granted that I could get off alone.  It was a mistake that cost me four months in Libby Prison.

            The pain increased, and so long did I sit there on the ground, holding my ankle, that every soldier in blue had disappeared before I made an effort to get up.  I sat down again, groaning.  I was no more able to stand up than I was to fly.  Long afterward, when telling this experience, comrades said to me:  “Well, you must have expected what was coming; and couldn’t you endure the pain of moving long enough to get so far to the rear that you would be safe?”  I can only say that I did, of course, expect what was coming; but that if there had been reason to believe that death threatened me, instead of capture, I could not have moved a rod from where I was.  The pain was so intense that I could not bear the idea of voluntary motion.  A desperate effort might have saved me; but I was no more capable of making the necessary effort than as though a minie bullet had gone through my body.

            It is not easy to measure time in such a situation; but it must have been half an hour at least that I sat there before I saw a living creature.  Then I began to catch glimpses of soldiers in gray moving about in the woods.  It was a Confederate skirmish-line, advancing very cautiously, evidently expecting to be fired on. I saw that they were dispersed all through the woods, moving in such a way as to keep sheltered by the trees as much as possible.  As they advanced, one of them discover-ed me at the distance of perhaps two rods, and promptly covered me with his musket.

            “Hold!”  I said.  “Don’t fire; I am hurt, and couldn’t get off.”

            He was suspicious of some “Yankee trick,” and came up with his gun ready for instant use. I told him my story in a few words, laying particular stress upon the fact that I could not walk a step or even stand upright.

            He shouted to a sergeant, who also came and examined me. By this time my ankle was considerably swollen, and I had no difficulty in making the sergeant believe the truth of my story.

            “I reckon it’s as you say,” he remarked. “First I thought you was a – deserter; but, all round, you don’t look nor act like it.  Miles, you stay with him till we get back.”

            The skirmish line passed on, and it was about an hour before I saw it again.  In the mean-time my guard, a solemn-faced, silent man in an old butternut suit, sat down on the ground with his mus-ket across his knees, and for some minutes stared me in the face.  His reflections at last found vent in this wise:

            “Yank, don’t you wish you was home?”

            “Indeed I do,” was my prompt and hearty reply.

            “I’ll be d—d if I don’t, too.  Fact, I wish both of us was.  Hand us that bag.”

            “That bag,” was my haversack, containing at least one day’s rations of hardtack and bacon.  I passed it over to him, and his homely face lighted up joyfully when he discovered the contents. Then and there he devoured the whole, never asking me to partake.  I was not hungry, and as he certainly was, the discourtesy was overlooked.  Perhaps there was nothing else for me to do but to overlook it.

            I was taken up by four of the Confederate soldiers later in the day and carried back more than a mile.  A doctor set and dressed my ankle, and the next day I entered Richmond; but not precisely in the way the Northern newspapers were predicting we were about to enter that capital.  I did not see my regiment again till the following February.

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An Incident at Gettysburg.

 

            M. V. E. sends to the Atlanta Constitution the story of a touching incident of the late war which has never before been in print:

            During the great battle of Gettysburg, and while the chances of success were about equally poised in the balance, a young man from Atlanta, as delicate as a girl, but as brave as Napoleon, re-ceived a terrible wound from a cannon shot, which laid open his vitals so that his heart was actually seen to pulsate by his companions, while he was yet talking and telling them of the preparation for the change then at hand, and his willingness to meet his Master.  Soon after he was shot General Lee came near.  When the wounded man saw him he expressed a desire to shake his hand and bid him farewell.  General Lee was called and rode up to the wounded man, who was raised to his feet by two of his companions, and, holding his entrails with his left hand, he extended the other to the great captain, saying:  “Goodbye, General.  I am killed, but I have been a good boy, and am prepared to go.  I shall meet you in heaven.”

            General Lee gave him a hearty shake of the hand and said:  “Goodbye, my boy.  I shall try to meet you on the other side.”

            This young man was Lewis Morris, of Company “D”, 44^th regiment, Georgia volunteers, who was known to his comrades as “Crick” Morris.  He had a large kinsfolk in and around Atlanta, among them Councilman Morris, a brother.  Probably some of them never heard of this drama-tic, heroic and triumphant death until now.  The scene presented is not overdrawn.  It was witnessed by many of the sun-burnt veterans of Jackson’s old corps, a few of whom are yet living to testify to the fact that all who saw it, including General Lee himself, shed tears.  “Crick” Morris died a few minutes after General Lee rode off, and, like thou-sands of noble men, is sleeping quietly today in an unknown grave.

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Incident of the War in Missouri.

 

            After General Price left Springfield, Mo., in the spring of 1862, we were followed by the Federal troops, and had a rear guard to cover our retreat.  The butcher of our brigade, a man named Vaughn, amused himself by waiting with a friend behind our rear guard at convenient turns in the road and picking off the leaders of the advance guard of our pursuers, mostly Kansas troops.  After a while the pursuers found out where they could expect these little ambuscades, and so one day when the butcher and his friend, a man named Dick Shacklet, came to a place in the road which was exactly suited to their purpose, they were somewhat surprised when some of the Kansas boys dashed into sight on a full gallop with their revolver-rifles ready to fire as soon as they caught sight of our men.  Vaughn rode a fine mule, and his friend was well mounted.  They had hardly time to shoot, and, in fact, I am not sure that they did shoot before they put spurs to their horses and tried to get away as fast as they could.  One of the Federals got very close to Vaughn, when the cylinder of his gun, being caught by a piece of cap or something, refused to revolve.  The other pur-suers were left in the rear, and Vaughn’s friend was already quite a distance in advance.  The leading Federal had fired several shots, but without serious effect, and as he drew nearer Vaughn in desperation turned in his saddle and fired at his pursuer.  The latter dropped from his saddle, and his horse was the first to reach our lines, in which he afterward did good service.  Vaughn had such a fright in this case that he never cared to amuse himself in the same way afterward.           – Monroe County, Mo.

 

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Grant’s Laconic Vicksburg Letter.

 

            President Guild, of the Boston Art Club, says a letter from that city, has in his possession a letter written by General Ulysses S. Grant after the fall of Vicksburg, which furnishes an example of the remarkably concise expression for which the great captain was noted. Even the magnitude of the event did not excite any exuberance of jubilation. Following is an exact copy of the letter, which is addressed to his father, at that time living in Ohio:

VICKSBURG, July 6, 1863.

DEAR FATHER:  Vicksburg has at last surrendered after a siege of over forty days.  The surrender took place on the morning of the 4^th of July.  I found I had continuously underestimated the force of the enemy, both in men and artillery.  The number of prisoners surrendered was 30,200.  The process of paroling is so tedious, however, that many who are desirous of getting to their homes will escape before the paroling officers get around to them.  The arms taken are about 180 pieces of artillery and over 30,000 stand of small arms.  The enemy still had about four days’ rations of flour and meat and a large quantity of sugar. The weather is now exceedingly warm and the roads intolerably dusty.  It cannot be expected under these circumstances that the health of this command can keep up as it has done.  My troops were not allowed one hour’s time after the surrender, but were