waiting for us to dislodge the skirmishers. Suddenly I heard Captain Haskell’s voice ordering us forward at double-quick. We ran down the hill into the valley below; there we found a shallow creek with steep banks covered with briers. We beat down the briers with our guns, and scrambled through to the other side of the creek in time to see the Yankees run scattering through the woods and away. We reached their position and rested while the brigade found a crossing and formed again in our rear. I searched for a wounded man at the foot of a tree, but found none; yet I felt sure that I had fired over my man and had knocked another out from the tree above him.
We advanced again, and had a running fight for an hour or more. At length no Yankees were to be seen; doubtless they had completed the withdrawing of their outposts, and we were not to find them again until we should strike their main lines.
Now we advanced for a long distance; troops–no doubt Jackson’s–could be seen at intervals marching rapidly on our left, marching forward and yet at a distance from our own line. We reached an elevated clearing, and halted. The brigade came up, and we returned to our position in the line of battle–on the left of the First. It was about three o’clock; to the right, far away, we could hear the pounding of artillery, while to the southeast, somewhere near the centre of Lee’s lines, on the other side of the Chickahominy perhaps, the noise of battle rose and fell. Shells from our front came among us. A battery–Crenshaw’s–galloped headlong into position on the right of the brigade, and began firing. The line of infantry hugged the ground.
Three hundred yards in front the surface sloped downward to a hollow; the slope and the hollow were covered with forest; what was on the hill beyond we could not see, but the Yankee batteries were there and at work. A caisson of Crenshaw’s exploded. Troops were coming into line far to our right.
General Gregg ordered his brigade forward. We marched down the wooded slope, Crenshaw firing over our heads. We marched across the wooded hollow and began to ascend the slope of the opposite hill, still in the woods.
The advance through the trees had scattered the line; we halted and re-formed. The pattering of bullets amongst the leaves was distinct; shells shrieked over us; we lay down in line. Between the trunks of the trees we could see open ground in front; it was thick with men firing into us in the woods. Those in our front were Zouaves, with big, baggy, red breeches. We began to fire kneeling. Leaves fell from branches above us, and branches fell, cut down by artillery. Butler, of our company, lying at my right hand, gave a howl of pain; his head was bathed in blood. Lieutenant Rhett was dead. Rice, at my left, had found whiskey in the Yankee camp. He had drunk the whiskey. He raised himself, took long aim, and fired; lowered his gun, but not his body, gazing to see the effect, and yelled, “By God, I missed him!” McKenzie was shot. Lieutenant Barnwell was shot. The red-legged men were there and thicker. Our colour went down, and rose. We had gone into battle with two colours,–the blue regimental State flag, and the battle-flag of the Confederate infantry. Lieutenant-colonel Smith had fallen.
A lull came. I heard the shrill voice of Gregg:–
“_Bri-ga-a-a-de_–ATTENTION!”
“_Fi-i-i-x_–BAYONETS!”
“_For-w-a-r-d_–” and the next I knew men were dropping down all around me, and we were advancing. But only for a minute did we go forward. From front and left came a tempest of lead; again the colours–both–fell, and all the colour-guard. The colonel raised the colours. We staggered and fell back; the retreat through the woods became disorder.
On top of our hill I could see but few men whom I knew,–only six, but one of the six was Haskell. The enemy had not advanced, but shell and shot yet raked the hill. Crenshaw’s battery was again in full action. We hunted our regiment and failed to find it. Some regiment–the Thirtieth North Carolina–was advancing on our right. Captain Haskell and his six men joined this regiment, placing themselves on its left. The Thirtieth went forward through the woods–reached the open–and charged.
The regiment charged boldly; forward straight it went, no man seeing whither, every man with his mouth stretched wide and his voice at its worst.
Suddenly, down to the ground fell every man; the line had found a sunken road, and the temptation was too great–down into the friendly road we fell, and lay with bodies flat and faces in the dust.
The officers waved their swords; they threatened the men; the men calmly looked at their officers.
A man on a great horse rode up and down the line urging, gesticulating. He got near to Haskell–
“Who _are_ you?” shouted our Captain.
“Captain Blount–quartermaster fourth North Carolina.”
“We will follow you!” shouted Haskell.
Blount rode on his great horse–he rode to the centre of the Thirtieth–he stooped; he seized the colour–he lifted the battle-flag high in the air–he turned his great horse–he rode up the hill.
Then those men lying in the sunken road sprang to their feet, and followed their flag fluttering in front, and made the world hideous with yells.
And the red flag went down–and Blount was dead–and the great horse was lying on his side and kicking the air–and the hill was gained.
The Thirtieth was disorganized by its advance. Another North Carolina regiment came from the right rear. Haskell and his six were yet unbroken; they joined the advancing regiment, keeping on its left, and charged with it for another position. Believe it or not, the same thing recurred; the regiment charged well; from the smoke in front death came out upon it fast; a sunken road was to be crossed, and was not crossed; down the men all went to save their lives.
And the officers waved their swords, and the men remained in the road.
Now the Captain called the six, and ran to the centre of the regiment; he snatched the flag and rushed forward up the slope–he looked not back, but forward.
The six were on the slope–the Captain was farthest forward–one of the six fell–in falling his face was turned back–he saw that the regiment was yet in the sunken road, and he shouted to his Captain and told him that the regiment did not follow.
The Captain came back, and said tenderly, “Ah! Jones? What did I tell you? Are you hurt badly? I will send for you.”
Then the Captain and five turned away to the right, for the flag would not be taken back to the regiment lying down.
On an open hill between the two battling hosts I was lying. The bullets and shells came from front and rear. The blue men came on–and the others went back awhile. I fired at the blue men, and tried to load, but could not. I felt a great pain strike under my belt and was afraid to look, for I knew the part was mortal. But at length I exerted my will, and controlled my fear, and saw my trousers torn. My first wound had deadened my leg, but I felt no great pain–the leg was numb. The new blow was torture. I managed to take down my clothing, and saw a great blue-black spot on my groin. I was confused, and wondered where the bullet went, and perhaps became unconscious.
Darkness was coming, and Jones or Berwick, or whoever I was, yet lay on the hill. Now there were dead men and wounded men around me. Had a tide of war flowed over me while I slept? A voice feebly called for help, and I crawled to the voice, but could give no help except to cut a shoe from a crushed foot. The flashes of rifles could be seen,–the enemy’s rifles,–they came nearer and nearer, and I felt doomed to capture.
Then from the rear a roar of voices, and in the gathering gloom a host of men swept over me, disorderly, but charging hard— the last charge of Gaines’s Mill.
“What troops are you?” I had strength to ask, and two replied:–
“Hood’s brigade.”
“The Hampton Legion.”
* * * * *
Night had come. The great battle was won. Lights flashed and moved and disappeared over the hills and hollows of the field,–men with torches and lanterns; and names of regiments were shouted into the darkness by the searchers for wounded friends who replied, and for others who could not. At last I heard: “First South Carolina! First South Carolina!” and I gathered up my strength and cried, “Here!” Louis Bellot and two others came to me. They carried me tenderly away, but not far; still in the field of blood they laid me down on the hillside–and a night of horror passed slowly away.
* * * * *
The next morning, June 28th, they bore me on a stretcher back to the field hospital near Dr. Gaines’s, just in rear of the battlefield. Our way was through scattered corpses. We passed by many Zouaves, lying stiff and stark; one I shall always call to mind: he was lying flat on his back, the soles of his feet firm on the ground, his knees drawn up to right angles above, and with his elbows planted on the grass, his fingers clinched the air. His open mouth grinned ghastly on us as we went by.
At the field hospital the dangerously wounded were so numerous that I was barely noticed; a brief examination; “flesh wound”–that was all. I had already found out that the bullet had passed entirely through the fleshy part of my thigh, and I had no fears; but the limb now gave me great pain, and I should have been glad to have it dressed. I was laid upon the ground under a tree and remained there until night, when I was put with others into an ambulance and taken to some station on some railroad–I have never known what station or what road. The journey was painful. I was in the upper story of the ambulance. We jolted over rough roads, halting frequently because the long train filled the road ahead. The men in the lower story were badly wounded, groaning, and begging for this or that. I did not know their voices; they were not of our company. But some time in the night I learned somehow–I suppose by his companion calling his name–that one of the men below me was named Virgil Harley. Harley? I thought–Virgil Harley? Why, I knew that name once! Surely I knew that name in South Carolina! And I would have spoken, but was made aware that Virgil Harley was wounded unto death. When we reached the railroad, I was taken out and lifted into a car, I asked about Virgil Harley. “He is dead,” was the answer.
Then I felt more than ever alone because of this slightest opportunity, now lost forever. Virgil Harley might have been able to tell me of myself. He was dead. I had not even seen him. I had but heard his voice in groans that ended in the death-rattle.
XXVI
A BROKEN MUSKET
“What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou remember’st ought, ere thou cam’st here, How thou cam’st here, thou may’st.”–SHAKESPEARE.
When the train of wounded arrived in Richmond, it was early morning. Many men and women had forsaken their beds to minister unto the needs of the suffering; delicacies were served bountifully, and hearts as well as stomachs were cheered; there were evidences of sympathy and honour on every hand.
Late in the forenoon I was taken to Byrd Island Hospital–an old tobacco factory now turned into something far different. My clothing was cut from me and taken away. Then my wound–full of dirt and even worms–was carefully dressed. The next morning the nurse brought me the contents of my pockets. She gave me, among the rest, a marble and a flattened musket-ball, which, she had found in the watch-pocket of my trousers. Now I recalled that I had put my “taw” in that pocket; the bullet had struck the marble, which had saved me from a serious if not fatal wound.
The ward in which I found myself contained perhaps a hundred wounded men, not one of whom I knew, though there were a few belonging to my regiment–other companies than mine. Acquaintance was quickly made, however, by men on adjoining cots; but no man, I think, was ever called by his name. He was Georgia, or Alabama,–his State, whatever that was. My neighbours called me, of course, South Carolina.
Many had fatal wounds; almost every morning showed a vacant cot. I remember that the man on the next cot at my left, whose name in ward vernacular was Alabama, had a story to tell. One morning I noticed that he was wearing a clean white homespun shirt on which were amazingly big blue buttons. I allowed myself to ask him why such buttons had been used. He replied that, a month before he had been on furlough at his home in Alabama, and that his mother had made him two new shirts, and had made use of the extraordinary objects which I now saw because they were all she had. He had told her jestingly that she was putting that big blue button on the middle of his breast to be a target for some Yankee; and, sure enough, the wound which had sent him to the hospital was a rifle shot that struck the middle button. I laughed, and Alabama laughed, too, but not long. He died.
For nearly two months I remained in this woful hospital. Life there was totally void of incident. After the first week, in which we learned of the further successes of the Confederate arms and of our final check at Malvern Hill, anxiety was no longer felt concerning Lee’s army, now doing nothing more than watching McClellan, who had intrenched on the river below Richmond, under the protection of the Federal fleet. We learned with some degree of interest that another Federal army was organizing under General Pope somewhere near Warrenton; but Southern hopes were so high in consequence of the ruin of McClellan’s campaign, and the manifest safety of Richmond, that the new army gave us no concern; of course I am speaking of the common soldiers amongst whom I found myself.
At the end of a fortnight my wound was beginning to heal a little, and in ten days more I began to hobble about the room on crutches. On the first day of August I was surprised to see Joe Bellot enter the ward. The brigade had marched into Richmond, and was about to take the cars for Gordonsville in order to join Jackson, who was making head against Pope. It was only a few minutes that Bellot could stay with me; he had to hurry back to the command.
Then I became restless. The surgeons told me that I could get a furlough; but what did I want with a furlough? To go home? My home was Company H.
I was limping about without crutches, and getting strong rapidly, when the papers told us of Jackson’s encounter with Banks at Cedar Run. Then my feverish anxiety to see the one or two persons in the world whom I loved became intense. I walked into the surgeon’s office, keeping myself straight, and asked an order remanding me to my company. He flatly refused to give it. Said he, “You would never reach your company; where is it, by the way?”
“Near Gordonsville, somewhere,” said I.
“I will find out to-day; come to me to-morrow morning.”
On the next day he said, “Your regiment is on the Rapidan. You would have to walk at least twenty miles from Gordonsville; it would be insane.”
“Doctor,” said I, “I am confident that I can march.”
“Yes,” said he; “so am I; you can march just about a mile and a half by getting somebody to tote your gun and knapsack. Come to me again in about a week.”
I came to him four days afterward, and worried him into giving me my papers, by means of winch I got transportation to Gordonsville, where I arrived, in company with many soldiers returning to their commands, on August 22d. From Gordonsville I took the road north afoot. There was no difficulty in knowing the way, for there was no lack of men and wagons going and returning. I had filled a haversack with food before I left Richmond–enough for two days. My haversack, canteen, and a blanket were all my possessions.
At about two o’clock the next day, as I was plodding over a hot dusty road somewhere in Culpeper County, I met a wagon, which stopped as I approached. The teamster beckoned to me to come to him. He said: “Don’t go up that hill yonder. There is a crazy man in the road and he’s a-tryin’ to shoot everybody he sees. Better go round him.” I thanked the teamster, who drove on. At the foot of the ascending hill I looked ahead to see whether there was a way to get round it, but the road seemed better than any other way. Heavy clouds were rolling up from the south, with wind and thunder. A farmhouse was on the hill at the left of the road; I wanted to get there if possible before the rain. In the road I saw nobody. I walked up the hill, thinking that, after all, my friend the wagoner was playing a practical joke upon me. All at once, from the side of the road, a Confederate soldier showed himself. He sprang into the middle of the road some six paces in front of me, presented his gun at me with deliberate aim, and pulled the trigger without saying a word. Altogether it was a very odd performance on his part and an unpleasant experience for me. When his gun failed to fire, he changed his attitude at once, and began the second part of his programme. He dropped his piece to the position of ordered arms, kept himself erect as on dress-parade, raised his right hand high, and shouted, “The cannons! the cannons!”
I stood and looked at him ten seconds; then I tried to slip round him, keeping my eyes on him, however, for fear that his gun might, after all, be loaded; he faced me again, and repeated his cry, “The cannons! the cannons!”
The rain was beginning to fall in big drops. I rushed past him, and seeing–nearer to me than the house–some immense haystacks with overhanging projections resulting from continued invasion by cattle, I was soon under their sheltering eaves. As I ran, I could hear behind me the warning voice of the soldier, who evidently had lost his reason in battle.
* * * * *
As night fell on the 24th I was standing behind a tree, waiting to surprise Company H. I had reached the lines while they were moving; Hill’s Light Division was passing me. Soon came General Gregg, riding at the head of his brigade; then one regiment after another till the last–the First–appeared in sight, with Company C leading. I remained behind the tree; at last I could see Captain Haskell marching by the side of Orderly-sergeant Mackay; then I stepped out and marched by the side of the Captain. At first, in the twilight, he did not know me; then, with a touch of gladness in his voice, he said: “I did not expect you back so soon. Are you fully recovered?”
“I report for duty, Captain,” I replied.
He made me keep by his side until we halted for the night, and had me tell him my experiences in the hospital and on the road. He informed me briefly of the movements which had taken place recently. The regiment had been under fire in the battle with Banks, but had not suffered any loss. On this day–the 24th–the regiment had been under fire of the Federal artillery on the Rappahannock. We were now near the river at a place called Jeffersonton, and were apparently entering upon the first movements of an active campaign.
The company was much smaller than I had known it. We had lost in the battles of the Chickahominy many men and officers. Disease and hardship had further decreased our ranks. Captain Haskell was almost the only officer in the company. My mess had broken up. There were but four remaining of the original nine, and these four had found it more convenient for two men, or even one, to form a mess. I found a companion in Joe Bellot, whose brother had been wounded severely at Gaines’s Mill. Bellot had a big quart cup in which we boiled soup, and coffee when we had any, or burnt-bread for coffee when the real stuff was lacking. Flour and bacon were issued to the men. We kneaded dough on an oilcloth, or gum-blanket as the Yankee prisoners called it, and baked the dough by spreading it on barrel-heads and propping them before the fire. When these boards were not to be had, we made the dough into long slender rolls, which, we twined about an iron ramrod and put before the fire on wooden forks stuck in the ground. My haversack of food brought from Richmond was exhausted; this night but one day’s ration was issued.
* * * * *
On the next morning Jackson began his movement around Pope’s right. I had no rifle, or cartridge-box, or knapsack, and managed so as to keep up. Being unarmed, I was allowed to march at will–in the ranks or not, as I chose. The company numbered thirty-one men. The day’s march was something terrible. We went west, and northwest, and north, fording streams, taking short cuts across fields, hurrying on and on. No train of wagons delayed our march; our next rations must be won from the enemy. Jackson’s rule in marching was two miles in fifty minutes, then ten minutes rest,–but this day there was no rule; we simply marched, and rested only when obstacles compelled a halt,–which loss must at once be made up by extra exertion. At night we went into bivouac near a village called Salem. We were now some ten or fifteen miles to the west of Pope’s right flank.
There were no rations, and the men were broken and hungry. A detail from each company was ordered to gather the green ears from some fields of corn purchased for the use of the government. That night I committed the crime of eating eighteen of the ears half roasted.
At daylight on the 26th we again took up the march. I soon straggled. I was deathly sick. Captain Haskell tried to find a place for me in some ambulance, but failed. I went aside into thick woods and lay down; I slept, and when I awoke the sun was in mid-heaven, and Jackson’s corps was ten miles ahead, but I was no longer ill. The troops had all passed me; there were no men on the road except a few stragglers like myself. I hurried forward through White Plains–then along a railroad through a gap in some mountains–then through Gainesville at dark–and at last, about ten o’clock at night, after questioning until I was almost in despair, I found Company H asleep in a clover field. Still no rations.
Before dawn of the 27th we were waked by the sound of musketry toward the east–seemingly more than two miles away. We moved at sunrise, and soon reached Manassas Junction, already held by our troops. Up to this time I had been unarmed, and all the men destitute of food; here now was an embarrassment of riches. I got a short Enfield rifle, marked for eleven hundred yards. Everything was in abundance except good water. The troops of Jackson and Ewell and Hill crammed their haversacks, and loaded themselves with whatever their fancies chose–ludicrous fancies in too many cases. Hams could be seen on bayonets. Comstock got a lot of smoking tobacco and held to it tenaciously, refusing to divide. Cans of vegetables, and sardines, and preserved fruits; coffee, sugar, tea, medicines–everything, even to women’s wearing apparel, was taken or burnt. Our regiment lay by a muddy pool whose water we were forced to drink, though filth–even horses’ bones–lay on its margin, and I know not what horrors beneath its green, slimy surface. Before daylight of the 28th we marched northward in the glare of the burning cars and camps. We crossed Bull Run on a bridge, some of the men fording; here we got better water, but not good water.
In the forenoon we readied Centreville and halted. Nobody seemed to know the purpose of this movement toward the north. Were we making for Washington? I had the chance of speaking to the Captain. He told me that he thought Jackson’s corps was in a close place, but that he had no doubt we should be able to hold our own until Longstreet could force his way to our help. We were between Pope’s army and Washington, and it was certain that Pope would make every effort to crush Jackson.
About two o’clock the troops were put in motion, heading west, down the Warrenton pike. It now appeared that only A. P. Hill’s division had marched to Centreville; the other divisions of Jackson’s corps were at the west, and beyond Bull Run. After matching a mile or two we could see to the eastward and south, great clouds of dust rolling up above the woods, evidently made by a column in march upon the road by which, we had that morning advanced from Manassas to Centreville. We knew that Pope’s army–or a great part of it–was making that dust, and that Pope was hot after Jackson. We crossed Bull Run on the stone bridge and halted in the road. It was about five o’clock; the men were weary–most of us had loaded ourselves too heavily with the spoils of Manassas and were repenting, but few had as yet begun to throw away their booty. My increased burden bore upon me, but I had as yet held out; in fact, the greater part of my load–beyond weapon, and accoutrements–consisted in food which diminished at short intervals. We could not yet expect rations.
We had rested perhaps half an hour. Again we were ordered to march, and moved to the right through woods and fields, and formed line facing south. How long our line was I did not know; I supposed the whole of Hill’s division was there, though I could see only our regiment. Soon firing began at our right and right front; it increased in volume, and artillery and musketry roared and subsided until dark and after. At dark, the brigade again moved to the right, seemingly to support the troops that had been engaged, and which we found to be Ewell’s division.
We lay on our arms in columns of regiments. We were ordered to preserve the strictest silence. We were told that a heavy column of the enemy was passing just beyond the hills in front of us. Suddenly the sound of many voices broke out beyond the hills. The Federal column was cheering. Near and far the cry rose and fell as one command after another took it from the next. What the noise was made for I never knew; probably Pope’s sanguine order, in which he expressed the certainty of having “the whole crowd bagged,” had been made known to his troops for the purpose of encouraging them. Our men were silent, even gloomy, not knowing what good fortune had made our enemies sound such high, triumphant notes; yet I believe that every man, as he lay in his unknown position that night, had confidence that in the battle of the morrow, now looked for as a certainty, the genius of Lee and of Jackson would guide us to one more victory.
Early on the morning of Friday, the 29th, we moved, but where I do not know–only that we moved in a circuitous way, and not very far, and that when we again formed line, we seemed to be facing northeast. Already the sound of musketry and cannon had been heard close in our front. Our regiment, left in front, was in the woods. We brought our right in front, and then the brigade moved forward down a slope to an unfinished railroad.
Comstock had given away all of his smoking tobacco, saying that he would not need it.
Company H had been thrown out to left and front as skirmishers. The regiment moved across the railroad and through the woods into the fields beyond, far to the right of the position held by Company H. The regiment met the enemy in heavy force; additional regiments from the brigade were hurried to the support of the First, which, by this time, was falling back before a full division of the enemy. The brigade retired in good order to the railroad, and Company H was ordered back into the battle line on the left of the First.
[Illustration: Map entitled “SECOND MANASSAS, Aug. 29, 1882”]
It was almost ten o’clock. Four companies of the First regiment, under Captain Shooter, were now ordered forward through the woods as skirmishers; on the left of this force was Haskell’s company. We came up with the enemy’s skirmishers posted behind trees, and began firing. We advanced, driving the Yankee skirmish-line slowly through the woods. After some fluctuations in the fight, seeing that our small force was much too far from support, order was given to the skirmishers to retire; a heavy line of the enemy had been developed. This order did not reach my ears. I suppose that I was in the very act of firing when the order was given. While reloading, I became aware that the company had retired, as I could see no man to my right or left. Looking round, I saw the line some thirty yards in my rear, moving back toward the brigade. Now I feared that in retreating, my body would be a target for many rifles. The Yankees were not advancing. I sprang back quickly from my tree to another. Rifles cracked. Again I made a similar movement–and again–at each tree, as I got behind it, pausing and considering in front. At last I was out of sight of the enemy, and also out of sight of Company H.
The toils of the last week had been hard upon me. My wounded leg had not regained its full strength. I was hot and thirsty as well as weak. I crossed a wet place in the low woods and looked for water. Still no enemy was pursuing. I searched for a spring or pool, following the wet place down a gentle slope, which inclined to my right oblique as I retreated. Soon I found a branch and drank my fill; then I filled my canteen and rose to my feet refreshed.
Just below me, uprooted by some storm, lay a giant poplar spanning the little brook. I stepped upon the log and stood there for a second. Here was a natural retreat. If I had wanted to hide, this spot was what I should have chosen. The boughs of the fallen tree, mingling with the copse, made a complete hiding-place.
The more I looked, the more the spot seemed to bind me. I began to wonder. Surely this was not my first sight of this spot. Had I crossed here in the morning? No; we had moved forward much to the right. What was the secret of the influence which the spot held over me? I had seen it before or I had dreamed of it. I was greatly puzzled.
On the ground lay the broken parts of a rust-eaten musket. I picked up the barrel; it was bent; I threw it down and picked up the stock. Why should I be interested in this broken gun? I knew not, but I knew that I was drawn in some way by it. On the stock were carved the letters J.B. Who had owned this gun? John Brown? James Butler? Then the thought came suddenly–why not Jones Berwick? No! That was absurd! But why absurd? Did I know who I was, or where I had been, or where I had not been?
A shot and then another rang out in the woods at my left; I dropped the gun and ran.
I soon overtook Company H retiring slowly through the woods. And now we made a stand, as the brigade was in supporting distance. Our position was perhaps three hundred yards in front of the brigade, which was posted behind the old railroad. Thick woods were all around us. Soon the blue skirmishers came in sight, and we began firing. The Federals sprang at once to trees and began popping away at us. The range was close. Grant was mortally hit. My group of four on that day was reduced to one man. Goettee fell, and Godley. We kept up the fight. But now a blue line of battle could be seen advancing behind the skirmishers. They kept coming, reserving their fire until they should pass beyond their skirmish-line. We should have withdrawn at once, but waited until the line of battle had reached the skirmishers before we were ordered to fall back. When we began to retire, the line of battle opened upon us, and we lost some men.
Company H formed in its place on the left of the First, which was now the left regiment of the brigade, of the division, and of the corps. Company H was in the air at the left of Jackson’s line.
General Lee had planned to place Jackson’s corps in rear of Pope’s army, without severing communication with Longstreet; but the developments of the campaign had thrown Jackson between Pope and Washington while yet the corps of Longstreet was two days’ march behind, and beyond the Bull Run mountains. Pope had made dispositions to crush Jackson; to delay Longstreet he occupied with a division Thoroughfare Gap,–through which Jackson had marched and I had straggled on the 26th,–and with his other divisions had marched on Manassas. Jackson had thus been forced to retreat toward the north in order to gain time. When Hill’s division reached Centreville, it turned west, as already related, and while Pope was marching on Centreville Jackson was marching to get nearer Longstreet. This placed Ricketts’s division of Pope’s army, which had occupied Thoroughfare Gap for the purpose of preventing the passage of Longstreet, between Longstreet and Jackson. Ricketts was thus forced to yield the gap after having delayed Longstreet during the night of the 28th. Pope could now have retired to Washington without a battle, but he decided to overwhelm Jackson before Longstreet could reach the field, and attacked hotly on the Confederate left.
The battle of Friday, the 29th of August, was fought then in consequence of the double motive already hinted at, namely, that of Pope to overwhelm Jackson, and of Jackson to resist and hold Pope until Longstreet came. Jackson’s manoeuvres had brought him within six hours’ march of Longstreet, and while Jackson’s men were dying in the woods, Longstreet’s iron men, covered with dust and sweat, were marching with rapid and long strides to the sound of battle in their front, where, upon their comrades at bay, Pope was throwing division after division into the fight.
Upon the left of Company H was a small open field, enclosed by a rail fence; the part of the field nearest us was unplanted; the far side of the field–that nearest the enemy–was in corn. The left of our line did not extend quite to the fence, but at some times in the battle we were forced to gather at the fence and fire upon the Federals advancing through the field to turn our left.
Company H had hardly formed in its position upon the extreme left before the shouts of the Federal line of battle told of their coming straight through the woods upon us. They reached the undergrowth which bordered the farther side of the railroad way. The orders of their officers could be heard. We lay in the open woods, each man behind a tree as far as was possible; but the trees were too few. The dense bushes, which had grown up in the edge of the railroad way, effectually concealed the enemy. We were hoping for them to come on and get into view, but they remained in the bushes and poured volley after volley into our ranks. We returned their fire as well as we could, but knew that many of our shots would be wasted, as we could rarely have definite aim, except at the line of smoke in the thick bushes.
Now the firing ceased, and we thought that the enemy had retired; but if they had done so, it was only to give place to a fresh body of troops, which opened upon us a new and terrific fire. We had nothing to do but to endure and fire into the bushes. If our line had attempted to cross the railroad, not one of us would have reached it; the Federals also were afraid to advance.
Again there came a lull in the fight, but, as before, it was only premonitory of another tempest of balls. How many attacks we stood that day nobody on our side clearly knew. Again the Federal lines gave way, or were relieved. Our line still held. The woods were thick with dead. Comstock was dead. Bail was dead. Bee and Box were dead. Joe Bellot was fearfully wounded. Many had been carried to the rear, and many yet lay bleeding in our ranks, waiting to be taken out when the fight ceased. Each man lay behind the best tree he could get; the trees had become more plentiful. We fired lying, kneeling, standing, sometimes running; but the line held. If we had had but the smallest breastwork!–but we had none.
In the afternoon the Federals tried more than once to throw a force around our left–through the open field; but each time they were driven back by our oblique fire, helped by a battery which we could not see, somewhere in our rear. I now suppose that before this time Longstreet had formed on Jackson’s right; the sounds of great fighting came from the east and southeast.
We had resisted long enough. Our cartridges were gone, although our boxes had more than once been replenished, and we had used up the cartridges of our wounded and dead.
Just before the sun went down, the woods suddenly became alive with Yankees. A deafening volley was poured upon our weakened ranks,–no longer ranks, but mere clusters of men,–but the shots went high; before the smoke lifted, the blue men were upon us; they had not waited to reload.
Many of our men had not a cartridge, but the enemy were so near that every shot told.
Their line is thinned; they come still, but in disconnected groups; they are almost in our midst; straight toward me comes a towering man–his sleeves show the stripes of a sergeant. His great form and his long red hair are not more conspicuous than the vigour of his bearing. He makes no pause. He strikes right and left. Men fall away from him. Our group is scattering, some to gain time to load, others in flight. The great sergeant rushes toward me; his gun rises again in his mighty hands, and the blow descends. I slip aside; the force of the blow almost carries him to the ground, but he recovers; he comes again; again he swings his gun back over his shoulder, his eyes fixed upon my head where he will strike. I raise my gun above my head–at the parry. Suddenly his expression yields–a look as if of astonishment succeeds to fixed determination–and at the same instant his countenance passes through an indescribable change as the blood spouts from his forehead and he falls lifeless at my feet, slain by a shot from my rear[7].
[7] The attack at sunset described by Mr. Berwick was made by Grover’s brigade, of Hooker’s division, and succeeded in driving back Gregg’s worn-out men, who were at once relieved by Early’s brigade of Ewell’s division. [ED.]
Confusion is everywhere. Ones, twos, groups, are beginning to flee from either side. Here and there a small body of men yet hold fast and fight. The shouting is more than the firing. At my right I see our flag, and near it a flag of the Federals.
In a moment comes a new line of the enemy; our ranks–what is left of them–must yield. We begin to run. I hear Dominic Spellman–colour-bearer of the First–cry out, “Jones, for God’s sake, stop!” I turn. A few have rallied and are bringing out the flag. Our line is gone–broken–and Jackson’s left is crumbling away. Defeat is here–in a handbreadth of us–and Pope’s star will shine the brightest over America; but now from our rear a Confederate yell rises high and shrill through the bullet-scarred forest, and a fresh brigade advances at the charge, relieves the vanquished troops of Gregg, and rolls far back the Federal tide of war. It was none too soon.
On the morning of the 29th of August thirty-one men had answered roll-call in Company H. On the morning of the 30th but thirteen responded; we had lost none as prisoners.
The 30th was Saturday. The division was to have remained in reserve. We were yet lying in the woods, some hundreds of yards in the rear of our position of the 29th, and details were burying our dead, when we were ordered to form. We marched some distance to the left. A low grass-covered meadow was in our front, with a rail fence at the woods about three hundred yards from us. Bullets came amongst us from the fence at the woods, toward which we were marching in column of fours, right in front. I heard the order from Major McCrady–“_Battalion–by companies_!” and Haskell repeated–“_Company H_!”–then McCrady–“_On the right–by file–into line–MARCH_!” This manoeuvre brought the regiment into column of companies still marching in its former direction, Company H being the rear of all.
Again I heard McCrady–“_Battalion–by companies_!” and Haskell again–“_Company H_!”–then McCrady–“_Left–half wheel_!” and Haskell–“_Left wheel_!”–then McCrady–“_Forward into line_,” and both voices–“_Double-quick_–MARCH!”
It was a beautiful manoeuvre, performed as it was under a close fire and by men battle-sick and void of vanity. The respective companies executed simultaneously their work, and as their graduated distances demanded, rushed forward, with a speed constantly increasing toward the left company, Company H, which wheeled and ran to place, forming at the fence from which the enemy fled. We lost Major McCrady, who fell severely wounded.
For the remainder of that bloody day the First was not engaged. We heard the great battle between Lee and Pope, but took no further part.
On the first of September, as night was falling, we were lying under fire, in a storm of rain, in the battle of Ox Hill, or Chantilly as the Yankees call it. The regiment did not become engaged.
The campaign of eight days was over.
XXVII
CAPTAIN HASKELL
“Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. The soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God who is our home.”–WORDSWORTH.
I believe I have already said that in the battle of Manassas Joe Bellot was severely wounded. My companion gone, I messed and slept alone.
For a day or two we rested, or moved but short distances. On one of these days, the company being on picket, the Captain ordered me to accompany him in a round of the vedettes. While this duty was being done, he spoke not a word except to the sentinels whom he ordered in clear-cut speech to maintain strict vigilance. When the duty had ended, he turned to me and said, “Let us go to that tree yonder.”
The point he thus designated was just in rear of our left— that is, the left of Company H’s vedettes–and overlooked both vedettes and pickets, so far as they could be seen for the irregularities of ground. Arriving at the tree, the Captain threw off all official reserve.
“Friday was hard on Company H,” he said; “and the whole company did its full duty, if I may say so without immodesty.”
“Captain,” I replied, “I thought it was all over with us when the Yankees made that last charge.”
“As you rightly suggest, sir, we should have been relieved earlier,” said he; “I am informed that in the railroad cut, a little to the right of our position, the men fought the enemy with stones for lack of cartridges.”
“Yes, sir; I have heard that. Can you predict our next movement?”
“I know too little of strategy to do that,” he said; “but I am convinced that we cannot remain where we are.”
“Why?” I asked.
“I venture the opinion that we are too far from our supplies. I am told that we cannot maintain the railroad back to Gordonsville. The bridges are burnt; I doubt that any steps will be taken to rebuild them, as they would be constantly in danger from the enemy’s cavalry. I am informed that McClellan’s whole army, as well as Burnside’s corps from North Carolina, has joined Pope; General McClellan is said to be in command. If Pope’s army, which we have just fought, was larger than ours, then McClellan’s combined forces must be more than twice as great as General Lee’s.”
“Yet some of the men think we shall advance on Washington,” said I.
“The men discuss everything, naturally,” he replied; “I speculate also. It seems to me that every mile of a further advance would but take from our strength and add to that of our enemy’s. If we could seize Washington by a sudden advance–but we cannot do that, I think, and as for a siege, I suppose nobody thinks of it. Even to sit down here could do us no good, I imagine; our communications would be always interrupted.”
“Then we shall retreat after having gained a great victory?” I asked.
“It would give me great pleasure to be able to tell you. I am puzzled,” he replied. “The victory may be regarded as an opportunity to gain time for the South to recuperate, if we make prudent demonstrations; but an actual advance does not appear possible. General Lee may make a show of advancing; I dare say we could gain time by a pretence of strength. Does not such manoeuvre meet your view? But we are fearfully weak, and our enemies know it or should know it.”
I understood well enough that the Captain’s question was but an instance of his unfailing habit of courtesy.
“Then what is there for us to do? If we ought not to stay here, and ought not to advance on Washington, and ought not to retreat, what other course is possible?”
“There seems but one, sir. I hear that the best opinion leans to the belief that General Lee will cross the Potomac in order to take Harper’s Ferry and to test the sentiment of the Maryland people.”
“What is at Harper’s Ferry, Captain?”
“I am informed that there is a great quantity of supplies and a considerable garrison.”
“But could such an effort succeed in the face of an army like McClellan’s?”
“If the Federals abandon the place, as they ought to do at once, I should think that there would then be no good reason for this army’s crossing the river. But military success is said to be obtained, in the majority of cases, from the mistakes of the losers. It might be that we could take Harper’s Ferry at very little cost; and even if we should fail, we should be prolonging the campaign upon ground that we cannot hope to occupy permanently, and living, in a sense, upon the enemy. What I fear, however, is that the movement would bring on another general engagement; and I think you will agree with me in believing that we are not prepared for that.”
“Harper’s Ferry is the place John Brown took,” said I.
“You are right, sir; do you remember that?”
“That is the last thing that I remember reading about–the last experience I can remember at all; but in the light last Friday there happened something which gives me a turn whenever I think of it.”
“May I ask what it was?”
“I saw a spot which I am sure–almost sure–I had seen before.”
“Some resemblance, I dare say. I often pass scenes that are typical. Near my father’s home I know one spot which I have seen in twenty other places.”
“Yes, sir; I know,” said I. “But it was not merely the physical features of the place that awoke recognition.”
“Oblige me by telling me all about it,” he said kindly.
“You remember the position to which the four companies advanced as skirmishers?”
“Distinctly. We did very well to get away from it,” said the Captain.
“And you remember the order to fall back?”
“Certainly, since I took the initiative.”
“Well, I did not hear the order. I suppose that I fired at the very moment, and that the noise of my gun prevented my hearing it. At any rate, a few moments afterward I saw that I was alone, and retreated as skilfully as I knew how. The company was out of sight. I saw some signs of water, and soon found a branch, at a place which impressed me so strongly that for a moment I forgot even that the battle was going on. I am almost certain that I had quenched my thirst at that spot once before. Besides, there was an extraordinary–“
“Jones,” interrupted the Captain, “you may have been in the first battle of Manassas. Why not? But if you saw the place in last year’s battle, you came upon it from the east or the south. The positions of the armies the other day were almost opposite their positions last year. In sixty-one the Federals had almost our position of last Friday. It will be well to find out what South Carolina troops were in the first battle. By the way, General Bee, who was killed there, was from South Carolina; I will ask Aleck to tell us what regiments were in Bee’s brigade.”
“Captain,” said I, “when I saw that spot I felt as though I had been there in some former life.”
“Yes? I have had such feelings. More than once I have had a thought or have seen a face or a landscape that impressed me with such an idea.”
“Do you believe in a succession of lives?”
“I cannot say that I do,” he replied; “but your question surprises me, sir. May I ask if you remember reading of such subjects?”
“No, I do not, Captain; but I know that the thought must have once been familiar to me.”
“I dare say you have read some romance,” said he “or, there is no telling, you may have known some one who believed, the doctrine; you may have believed it yourself. And I doubt that mere reading would have influenced your mind to attach itself so strongly to thoughtful subjects. I find you greatly interested philosophy. I think it quite probable, sir, without flattery, that at college your professor had an apt student.”
“But you do not believe the doctrine?”
“I believe in Christ and His holy apostles, sir; I believe that we live after death.”
“And that I shall be I again and again?”
“Pardon me for not following you entirely. I believe that you will be you again; but my opinion is not fixed as to more than one death.”
“Do you believe that when you live again you will remember your former experiences?”
“I lean to that belief, sir, yet I consider it unimportant; I might go so far as to say that it makes no difference.”
“But how can I be I if I do not remember? What will connect the past me with the present me? I have a strange, elusive thought there, Captain. It sometimes seems to me that I am two,–one before, and another now,–and that really I have lived this present time, or these present times, in two bodies and with two minds.”
“Allow me to ask if it is not possible that your strange thought as to your imagined doubleness is caused by your believing that memory is necessary to identity?”
“And that is error?” I asked.
“You say truly, sir; it is error. Your own experience disproves it. If memory is necessary, you have lost your personality; but you have a personality,–permit me to say a strong one,–and whose have you taken?”
“I do remember some things,” said I.
“Then do you not agree with me that your very memory is proof that you are not double? But, if you please, take the case of any one. Every one has been an infant, yet he cannot remember what happened when he was in swaddling clothes, though he is the same person now that he was then, which proves that although a person loses his memory, he does not on that account, sir, lose his identity.”
“Then what is the test of identity, Captain?”
“It needs none, sir; consciousness of self is involuntary.”
“I have consciousness of self; yet I do not know who I am, except that I am I.”
“Every man might say the same words, sir,” said he, smiling.
“And I am distinct? independent?”
“Jones, my dear fellow, there are many intelligent people in the world who, I dare say, would think us demented if they should know that we are seriously considering such a question.”
This did not seem very much of an answer to my mind, which in some inscrutable way seemed to be at this moment groping among fragments of thoughts that had come unbidden from the forgotten past. I felt helpless in the presence of the Captain; I could not presume to press his good-nature. Perhaps he saw my thought, for he added: “A man is distinct from other men, but not from himself. He constantly changes, and constantly remains the same.”
“That is hard to understand, Captain.”
“Everything, sir, is hard to understand, because everything means every other thing. If we could fully comprehend one thing, even the least,–if there be a least,–we should necessarily comprehend all things,” said the Captain.
Then he talked at large of the relations that bind everything–and of matter, force, spirit, which he called a trinity.
“Then matter is of the same nature with God?” I asked; “and God has the properties of matter?”
“By no means, sir. God has none of the properties of matter. Even our minds, sir, which are more nearly like unto God than is anything else we conceive, have no properties like matter. Yet are we bound to matter, and our thoughts are limited.”
“How can the mind contemplate God at all?”
“By pure reason only, sir. The imagination betrays. We try to image force, because we think that we succeed in imaging matter. We try to image spirit. I suppose that most people have a notion as to how God looks. Anything that has not extension is as nothing to our imagination. Yet we know that our minds are real, though we cannot attribute extension to mind. Divisibility is of matter; if the infinite mind has parts, then infinity is divisible–which is a contradiction.”
“Then God has no properties?”
“Not in the sense that matter has, sir. If God has one of them, He has all of them. If we attribute extension to Him, we must attribute elasticity also, and all of them. But try to think of an elastic universal.”
“Captain, you said a while ago that everything is matter, force, and spirit. Do you place force as something intermediate between God and matter?”
“Certainly, sir; force is above matter, and mind is above force.”
“I have heard that force is similar to matter in that nothing of it can be lost,” said I.
“When and where did you hear that?” asked the Captain, looking at me fixedly, almost sternly.
The question almost brought me to my feet. When and where _had_ I heard it? My attention had been so fastened on the Captain’s philosophy that it now seemed to me that I had become unguarded, and that from outside of me a thought had been sent into my mind by some unknown power; I could not know whence the thought had come. I had suddenly felt that I had heard the theory in question. I knew that, the moment before, I could not have said what I did. But I had spoken naturally, and without feeling that I was undergoing an experience. I stared back at Captain Haskell. Then I became aware of the fact that at the moment when I had spoken I had known consciously when it was and where it was that I had heard the theory, and I felt almost sure that if I had spoken differently, if I had only said, “From Mr. Such-a-one, or at such a place or time, I had heard the theory,” I should now have a clew to something. But the flash had vanished.
“It is lost,” I said.
“I am sorry,” said he.
“It is like the J.B. on the broken gun,” said I.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I did not finish, telling you of my experience at that spot where I got water last Friday. Right in that spot was a broken gun with J.B. on the stock.”
“Are you sure, Jones?”
“I picked up both pieces of the gun and looked at them closely.”
“Perhaps your seeing J.B. on the gun gave rise to your other reflections.”
“Not at all; the gun came last, not first.”
“What you are telling me is very remarkable,” said the Captain; “you almost make me believe that you are right in saying that your name is Jones Berwick. However, J.B. is no uncommon combination of initials. Suppose Lieutenant Barnwell had found the gun.”
“If he had found J.G.B. on it, he would have wondered,” said I.
“True; but do you know that J.G.B. is many times more difficult than J.B.?”
“No, Captain; I hardly think so; these are the days of three initials.”
“Yes, you are right in that,” he said.
“And I know I am right about my name.” said I.
“Still, the whole affair may be a compound of coincidences. We have three–or did have three–other men in the company whose initials are J.B.,–Bail, Box, and Butler. Of course you could not recognize your own work in the lettering?”
“No, sir; anybody might have cut those letters; just as anybody might imitate print. And I think, Captain, that there is not another J.B. in Lee’s army who would have supposed for an instant that he had any connection with that gun.”
“Suppose, then, that I call you Berwick hereafter?”
“No, I thank you, Captain. I’d rather be to you Jones than Berwick. Beside, if you should change now, it would cause remark.”
“I think I shall ask my brother Aleck to find out what South Carolina regiments were in the first battle of Manassas,” said he. “You may go with me to see him to-night if you will.”
That night Captain A.C. Haskell, the assistant adjutant-general, was able to inform me that Bee’s brigade had not been composed of troops from South Carolina, although General Bee himself was from that state. After hearing my description of the place which I thought I had revisited, he expressed the opinion that no Confederate troops at all had reached the spot in the battle of sixty-one. The place, he said, was more than a mile from the position of the Confederate army in the battle; still, he admitted, many scattered Federals retreated over the ground which interested me so greatly, and it was possible that some Confederates had been over it to seek plunder or for other purposes; but as for pursuit, there had been none. I asked if it could have been possible for me to be a prisoner on that day and to be led away to the rear of the Federals. “If so,” he replied, “you would not have been allowed to keep or to break your gun. Moreover, the whole army lost in missing too few men to base such a theory on; the loss was just a baker’s dozen in both Beauregard’s and Johnston’s forces. For my part, I think it more likely that, if you were there at all, you were there as a scout, or as a vedette. General Evans–Old Shanks, the boys call him–began the battle with the Fourth South Carolina. He was at Stone Bridge, and found out before nine o’clock that McDowell had turned our left and was marching down from Sudley. You might have been sent out to watch the enemy; yet I am confident that Evans would have used his cavalry for that purpose, for he had a company of cavalry in his command. A more plausible guess might be that you were out foraging that morning and got cut off. I will look up the Fourth South Carolina for you, and try to learn something. Yet the whole thing is very vague, and I should not advise you to hope for anything from it. I am now convinced that you did not originally belong to this brigade. You would have been recognized long ago. By the way, I have had a thought in connection with your case. You ought to write to the hotel in Aiken and find out who you are.”
“I wonder why I never thought of that!” I exclaimed. “I suppose that a letter addressed to the manager would answer.”
“Certainly.”
“But–” I began.
“But what?”
“If I write, what can I say? Can I sign a letter asking an unknown man to tell me who I am?”
“Write it and sign it Berwick Jones,” said Captain Haskell, who by this speech seemed to give full belief that my name was reversed on the roll of his company.
As we walked back to our bivouac that night I asked the Captain whether, in the improbable event of our finding that I had belonged to the Fourth, I could not still serve with Company H. He was pleased, evidently, by this question, and said that he should certainly try to hold me if I wished to remain with him, and should hope to be able to do so, as transfers were frequently granted, and as an application from me would come with peculiar force when the circumstances should be made known at headquarters. Of course, there would be no difficulty unless the application should be disapproved by my company commander, that is, the commander of my original company.
* * * * *
I wrote a letter, addressed “Manager of Hotel, Aiken, S.C.” inquiring if a man named Jones Berwick had been a guest at his house about October 17, 1859, and if so, whether it was possible to learn from the hotel register, or from any other known source, the home of said Berwick.
To anticipate; it may be said here that no answer ever came.
XXVIII
BEYOND THE POTOMAC
“Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, And we are graced with wreaths of victory; But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, I spy a black, suspicious, threat’ning cloud, That will encounter with our glorious sun.” –SHAKESPEARE.
We left the position near Fairfax Court-House early in September, and marched northward, crossing the Potomac on the 5th at White’s Ford near Edwards’s Ferry. We reached Fredericktown in Maryland about midday of the 6th, after a fatiguing tramp which, for the time, was too hard for me. My wound had again given me trouble; while wading the Potomac I noticed fresh blood on the scar.
We rested at Fredericktown for three or four days. One morning Owens of Company H, while quietly cooking at his fire, suddenly fell back and began kicking and foaming at the mouth. We ran to him, but could do nothing to help him. He struggled for a few moments and became rigid. Some man ran for the surgeon; I thought there was no sense in going for help when all was over. The surgeon came and soon got Owens upon his feet. This incident made a deep impression on me. It seemed a forcible illustration of the trite sayings: “Never give up,” “While there’s life there’s hope,” and it became to me a source of frequent encouragement.
* * * * *
On the 10th we marched westward from Fredericktown. In the gap of the Catoctin Mountains we came in sight of the most beautiful valley, dotted with farms and villages. Where the enemy was, nobody seamed to know.
We passed through Middletown and Boonsboro, and recrossed the Potomac at Williamsport, where we learned definitely that Longstreet’s wing of the army had been held in Maryland. We marched southward to Martinsburg. The inhabitants were greatly rejoiced, and were surprised to find Confederate troops coming amongst them from the north. At Martinsburg were many evidences that we were near the enemy. Captain Haskell said that it was now clear that Lee intended to take Harper’s Ferry, and that Longstreet’s retention on the north side of the Potomac was part of the plan. We destroyed the railroad near Martinsburg, moving along it toward the east. Late in the forenoon of the 13th we came in sight of Harper’s Ferry. The short siege of the place had already been begun; cannon from our front and from a mountain side on our right were throwing shells into the enemy’s lines, and the enemy’s batteries were replying.
On the night of the 14th Gregg’s brigade marched to the right. We found a narrow road running down the river,–the Shenandoah,–and move on cautiously. There were strict orders to preserve silence. The guns were uncapped, to prevent an accidental discharge. In the middle of the night we moved out of the road and began to climb the hill on our left; it was very steep and rough; we pulled ourselves up by the bushes. Pioneers cut a way for the artillery, and lines of men drew the guns with ropes.
When morning came our guns commanded the intrenchments of the enemy. Our batteries were in full action, the brigade in line of battle. The enemy replies with all his guns, but they were soon silenced. A brigade at our left seemed ready to advance; the enemy’s artillery opened afresh. Then from our left a battery stormed forward to a new position much nearer to the enemy. We were ordered to fix bayonets and the line began to advance, but was at once halted. Harper’s Ferry had been surrendered, with eleven thousand prisoners and seventy pieces of artillery, and munitions in great quantity.
We had been hearing at intervals, for the last day or two, far-off sounds of artillery toward the north. On the night after the surrender, A.P. Hill’s men knew that theirs was the only division at Harper’s Ferry, the two other divisions of Jackson’s corps having marched away, some said to the help of Longstreet on the north side of the Potomac; then we felt that some great event was near, and we wondered whether it should befall us to remain distant from the army during a great engagement.
The 16th passed tranquilly. Sounds of artillery could be heard in the north and northwest, but we had nothing to do but to rest in position while our details worked in organizing the captured property. The prisoners were not greatly downcast. We learned that they were to be released on parole. Crowds of them had gathered along the roads on the 15th to see Stonewall Jackson whenever he rode by, and they seemed to admire him no less than his own men did. Late in the afternoon the regiment marched out of the lines of Harper’s Ferry and bivouacked for the night some two miles to the west of the town.
On the 17th the division was put in motion on a road running up the Potomac. The march began, at sunrise. Soon the sounds of battle were heard far in front, and the step was lengthened. The day was hot, and the road was dusty. Frequently we went at double-quick. About one o’clock we waded the Potomac below Shepherdstown. Beyond the river the march turned northeast–a rapid march; many men had fallen out before we reached the river; now many more began to straggle. All the while the roar of a great battle extended across our front, mostly in our left front. We passed through a village called Sharpsburg. Its streets were encumbered with wagons, ambulances, stragglers, wounded men, and all the horrid results of war that choke the roads in rear of an army engaged in a great battle.
Beyond the village we turned to the right. We marched up one side of a hill and down the other side. On the slope of the opposite hill we halted, some of the troops being protected by a stone fence. The noise of battle was everywhere, and increasing at our right, almost on our right flank. Wounded men were streaming by; the litter-bearers were busy. Nothing is so hard to bear as waiting while in expectation of being called on to restore a lost battle from which the wounded and dead are being carried. Our time was near.
Thick corn was growing on the hillside above us. General Gregg dismounted. His orders reached our ears and were repeated by the colonels and the captains. We were to advance.
While Jackson had marched south from Maryland in order to effect the capture of Harper’s Ferry, Longstreet had retired before McClellan, who had collected an immense army and had advanced. The North had risen at the first news that Lee had crossed the Potomac and McClellan’s army, vast as it was, yet continued to receive reinforcements almost daily; his army was perhaps stronger than it had been before his disastrous campaign of the Chickahominy, his troops on James River had marched down the Peninsula and had been taken in transports to Fredericksburg and Alexandria. Porter’s and Heintzelman’s corps of McClellan’s army had fought under Pope in the second battle of Manassas. Now McClellan had his own army, Pope’s army, Burnside’s corps, and all other troops that could be got to his help. To delay this army until Jackson could seize Harper’s Ferry had been the duty intrusted to Longstreet and his lieutenants. But Longstreet with his twenty thousand were now in danger of being overwhelmed. On the 15th, in the afternoon of the surrender at Harper’s Ferry, two of Jackson’s divisions had marched to reenforce Longstreet. Had not time been so pressing, Hill’s division would not have been ordered to assault the works at Harper’s Ferry–an assault which was begun and which was made unnecessary by the surrender.
McClellan knew the danger to Harper’s Ferry and knew of the separation of the Confederate forces. A copy of General Lee’s special order outlining his movements had fallen into General McClellan’s hands. This order was dated September 9th; it gave instructions to Jackson to seize Harper’s Ferry, and it directed the movements of Longstreet. With this information, General McClellan pressed on after Longstreet; he ordered General Franklin to carry Crampton’s Gap and advance to the relief of Harper’s Perry.
On Sunday, the 14th, McClellan’s advanced divisions attacked D.H. Hill’s division in a gap of South Mountain, near Boonsboro, and Franklin carried Crampton’s Gap, farther to the south. Though both of these attacks were successful, the resistance of the Confederates had in each case been sufficient to gain time for Jackson. On the 15th Harper’s Ferry surrendered, and McClellan continued to advance; Longstreet prepared for battle.
The next day, at nightfall, the Federals were facing Lee’s army, the Antietam creek flowing between the hostile ranks.
At 3 P.M. of the 17th, A.P. Hill’s division, after a forced march of seventeen miles, and after fording the Potomac, found itself in front of the left wing of the Federal army,–consisting of Burnside’s corps,–which had already brushed away the opposition in its front, and was now advancing to seize the ford at Shepherdstown and cut off Lee from the Potomac.
A.P. Hill rode into battle at the head of his division. The few brigades which, had been opposed to Burnside had offered a stout resistance, but, too weak to resist long, had fallen back to our right. Into the gap we were ordered. In the edge of the corn a rabbit jumped up and ran along in front of the line; a few shots were fired at it by some excited men on our left. These shots seemed the signal for the Federals to show themselves; they were in the corn, advancing upon us while we were moving upon them. There were three lines of them. Our charge broke their first line; it fell back on the second and both ran; the third line stood. We advanced through the corn, firing and shouting. The third line fired, then broke; now we stood where it had stood, on the top of the hill. A descending slope was before us, then a hollow— also in thick corn–and an open ascent beyond. Behind the brow of this next hill a Federal battery made its presence felt by its fire only, as the guns and men were almost entirely covered. This battery was perhaps four hundred yards from us, and almost directly in front of the left wing of the First. The corn on our slope and in the hollow was full of Federals running in disorder. We loaded and fired, and loaded and fired. Soon the naked slope opposite was dotted with fleeing men. We loaded and fired, and loaded and fired.
In a thick row of corn at the bottom of the hill I saw a bayonet glitter. The bayonet was erect, at the height of the large blades of corn. The owner of the bayonet had squatted in the corn; he was afraid to run out upon the naked hillside behind him, and he had not thought too well. He had kept his gun in his hand, with the butt on the ground, and the sun’s rays betrayed him. Nothing could be seen but the bayonet. I fired at the ground below the bayonet. The bayonet fell.
An officer was riding back and forth on the open hillside, a gallant officer rallying his men. None would stop; it was death to stop. He threatened, and almost struck the men, but they would run on as soon as his back was turned. They were right to run at this moment, and he was wrong in trying to form on the naked slope. Beyond the hilltop was the place to rally, and the men knew it, and the gallant officer did not He rode from group to group of fleeing men as they streamed up the hill. He was a most conspicuous target. Many shots were fired at him, but he continued to ride and to storm at the men and to wave his sword. Suddenly his head went down, his body doubled up, and he lay stretched on the ground. The riderless horse galloped off a few yards, then returned to his master, bent his head to the prostrate man, and fell almost upon him.
The Federal infantry could now be seen nowhere in our front. On our left they began to develop and to advance, and on the right the sound of heavy fighting was yet heard. The enemy continued to develop from our left until they were uncovered in our front. They advanced, right and left; just upon our own position the pressure was not yet great, but we felt that the Twelfth regiment, which joined us on our left, must soon yield to greatly superior numbers, and would carry our flank with it when it went. The fight now raged hotter than before. I saw Captain Parker, of Company K, near to us. His face was a mass of blood–his jaw broken. The regiment was so small that, although Company H was on its left, I saw Sam Wigg, a corporal of the colour-guard, fall–death in his face. Then the Twelfth South Carolina charged, and for a while the pressure upon us was relieved; but the Twelfth charged too far, and, while driving the enemy in its front, was soon overlapped, and flanked. Upon its exposed flank the bullets fell and it crumbled; in retiring, it caught the left of the First, and Company H fell back. Now the enemy moved on the First from the front and the regiment retired hastily through the corn, and formed easily again at the stone fence from which it had advanced at the beginning of the contest. The battle was over. The enemy came no farther, and the fords of the Potomac remained to Lee.
All the night of the 17th and the day of the 18th we lay in position. A few shells flew over us at irregular intervals, and we were in hourly expectation of a renewal of the battle, but the Federals did not advance. By daylight on the morning of the 19th we were once more in Virginia.
While A.P. Hill’s division had suffered but small loss in the battle of Sharpsburg, and while our part in the battle had been fortunate, it was clear that Lee’s army as a whole had barely escaped a great disaster. I have always thought that McClellan had it in his power on the 18th of September to bring the war to an end. Lee had fought the battle with a force not exceeding forty thousand men, and had lost nearly a third. McClellan, on the 18th, was fully three times as strong as Lee; but he waited a full day, and gave the Confederates opportunity to cross, almost leisurely, the difficult river in their rear.
* * * * *
A.P. Hill’s division went into bivouac some five miles south of Shepherdstown.
On the morning of the 20th the warning rumble of the long roll called us once again to action. We were marched rapidly back to the Potomac. Firing could be heard in front, and wounded men could be seen here and there. Men said that in the night McClellan had thrown a force to the south side of the river, and had surprised and taken some of our artillery. As we drew near the river, we could see the smoke of cannon in action spouting from the farther side, and from our side came the crackling of musketry fire.
The division was formed for battle; we were to advance in two lines of three brigades each, General Gregg in command of the first line. Orr’s Rifle regiment was thrown forward as skirmishers and advanced to the river bank. The division moved behind the skirmishers. The ground was open. We marched down a slope covered with corn in part, and reached a bare and undulating field that stretched to the trees bordering the river. As soon as the division had passed the corn, the Federal batteries north of the Potomac began to work upon our ranks. The first shots flew a little above us. We were marching at a quick time, keeping well the alignment. The next shots struck the ground in front of us and exploded–with what effect I could not see. And now the enemy had our range and made use of the time. Before us, about three hundred yards, was a depression of the ground, with a low ascending hill beyond. Shells burst over us, beyond us, in front of us, amongst us, as we marched on at quick time. We reached the hollow and were ordered to lie down. The sun was oppressive. The troops had scant room in the hollow; they hugged the earth thick. Shells would burst at the crown of the low hill ten steps in front and throw iron everywhere. The aim of the Federal gunners was horribly true.
We were cramped with lying long in one position; no water. Behind us came a brigade down the slope–flags flying, shells bursting in the ranks. Down the hill that we had come they now were coming in their turn, losing men at every step. The shells flew far above us to strike this new and exposed line. Behind us came the brigade; right against Company H came the centre of a regiment. The red flag was marching straight. The regiment reached our hollow; there was no room; it flanked to the left by fours; a shell struck the colour-group; the flag leaped in the air and fell amongst four dead men. A little pause, and the flag was again alive, and the regiment had passed to the left, seeking room.
For hours we lay under the hot sun and the hotter fire. The fight had long since ended, but we were held fast by the Federal batteries. To rise and march out would be to lose many men uselessly.
A shell burst at the top of the rise. Another came, and I felt my hat fly off; it was torn on the edge of the brim. Again, and a great pain seized my shoulder and a more dreadful one my hip. I was hit, but how badly I did not know. The pain in my hip was such agony that I feared to look. Since our great loss at Manassas, I was the tallest man in Company H, and the Captain was lying very near to me. I said to him that I was done for. “What!” said he, “again? You must break that habit, Jones.” I wanted to be taken out, but could not ask it. What with the danger and the heat and the thirst and pain, I was unnerved and afraid to look. Perhaps I lost consciousness for a time; the pain had decreased. At last I looked, and I saw–nothing! I examined, and found a great contusion, and that was all. I was happy–the only happy man in the regiment, for the cannon on the hills beyond the river had not lessened their fire, and the sun was hot, and the men were suffering.
As the darkness gathered, the regiment filed out and marched back to bivouac. I limped along and kept up. We got water and food and, at length, rest; and sleep banished the fearful memory of a fearful day.
In the fight at Shepherdstown the Confederate infantry drove the Federals to the river bank, where many surrendered. Some succeeded in getting across to the northern bank, but most of those who attempted the crossing were lost. It was said in Lee’s army— but with what truth I do not know–that blue corpses floated past Washington.
After this fight Lee was not molested. Jackson camped his corps near Martinsburg, and a week later moved to Bunker Hill, where water was plentiful.
From the 25th of June to the 20th of September–eighty-seven days–the Army of Northern Virginia had made three great campaigns: first, that of the week in front of Richmond; second, that of Manassas; third, that of Harper’s Ferry and Sharpsburg. The Confederates had been clearly victorious in the first two, and had succeeded in the last in withdrawing with the fruits of Harper’s Ferry, and with the honours of a drawn battle against McClellan’s mighty army.
XXIX
FOREBODINGS
“_King John_. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. _King Philip_. Excuse; it is to put usurping down.” –SHAKESPEARE.
All of the month of October, 1862, Jackson’s corps remained near Bunker Hill, in the valley of the Shenandoah. It was here that we learned of Lincoln’s proclamation freeing the slaves. A few copies of it were seen in our camp–introduced, doubtless, by some device of the enemy. Most of the officers and men of Company H were not greatly impressed by this action on the part of the Northern President. I have reason to know, however, that Captain Haskell regarded the proclamation a serious matter. One day I had heard two men of our company–Davis and Stokes–talking.
“I wonder why Jones never gets any letters,” said Stokes.
“Have you noticed that?” asked Davis.
“Yes; haven’t you?”
“Yes; but I thought it was none of my business.”
“Have you ever seen him write any letters?”
“No; I haven’t, except for somebody else; he writes letters for Limus and Peagler.”
Limus was a negro, Lieutenant Barnwell’s servant. Peagler was one of Company H, and a valuable member of the infirmary corps, but he could not write.
The talk of the men had made me gloomy. I sought Captain Haskell, and unburdened to him. The Captain’s manner toward me had undergone a modification that was very welcome to me; his previous reserve, indicated by formal politeness, had given place to a friendly interest, yet he was always courteous.
“I would do anything to relieve you,” said he, “but of course you do not wish me to speak to the men about you.”
“Certainly not, sir” said I; “that would only make matters worse.”
“Have you ever yet heard from the hotel at Aiken?”
“Not a word, sir.”
“I suppose the hotel has changed hands; or perhaps it has ceased to exist.”
“Possibly so, Captain. Has anything been learned as to the Fourth South Carolina?”
“Only that it is yet in this army–in Jenkins’s brigade. I think nothing further has resulted. Aleck will ask very prudently if such a man as Jones Berwick, or Berwick Jones, is missing from that regiment. We shall know In a few days.”
“I suppose we shall know before we march again,” said I.
“Probably. We shall hardly move before the Federals do. McClellan is giving us another display of caution, sir.”
“I think he ought to have advanced on the 18th of last month,” said I.
“True,” said Captain Haskell; “he missed his chance.”
“Why does he not advance now?” I asked.
“He takes time to get ready, I judge. There is one thing to be said for McClellan: he will do nothing rashly; and he has considerable nerve, as is shown by his resistance to popular clamour, and even to the urgency of the Washington authorities. The last papers that we have got hold of, show that Lincoln is displeased with his general’s inactivity. By the way, the war now assumes a new aspect.”
“In what respect, Captain?”
“Lincoln’s emancipation order will make it impossible for the North to compromise. He is a stronger man than I thought him, sir. He burns his bridges.”
“But will not the proclamation cause the South to put forth greater effort?”
“Pardon me,” said he. “It will cause the slaveholders to feel more strongly; but it will cause also many non-slaveholding men, such as are in our mountain districts and elsewhere, to believe, after a while, that the South is at war principally to maintain slavery, and in slavery they feel no interest at stake. In such conditions the South can do no more than she is now doing. She may continue to hold her present strength for a year or two more, but to increase it greatly seems to me beyond our ability. The proclamation will effectually prevent any European power from recognizing us. We must look for no help, and must prepare to endure a long war.”
“Can we not defend ourselves as long as the North, can continue a war of invasion?”
“A good question, sir. Of course aggression is more costly than defence. But one trouble with us is that we rarely fight a defensive battle. Lee’s strategy is defensive, but his tactics are just the reverse. The way to win this war, allow me to say, is to fight behind trees and rocks and hedges and earthworks: never to risk a man in the open except where absolutely necessary, and when absolute victory is sure. To husband her resources in men and means is the South’s first duty, sir. I hope General Lee will never fight another offensive battle.”
“But are not the armies of the enemy strong enough to outflank any line of intrenchments that we might make?”
“True; but in doing so they would present opportunities which skilful generalship would know how to seize. If no such opportunities came, I would have the army to fall back and dig again.”
“Then it would be but a matter of time before we should come to the last ditch,” said I.
“Pardon me; the farther they advanced, the more men would they need. Of course there would come a limit, at least a theoretical limit. It might be said that we could not fall back and leave our territory, which supplies our armies, in the hands of the enemy. But to counteract this theory we have others. Disease would tell on the enemy more than on ourselves. Our interior lines would be shortened, and we could reenforce easily. The enemy, in living on our country, would be exposed to our enterprises. His lines of communication would always be in danger. And he would attack. The public opinion of the North would compel attack, and we should defeat attacks and lose but few men.”
Captain Haskell had no hope that there would be any such change in the conduct of the war. He seemed depressed by Mr. Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation, which, he saw, would effectually put an end to hope of aid or intervention from Europe. His hope in the success of the South was high, however. The North might be strong, but the South had the righteous cause. He was saddened by the thought that the war would be a long one, and that many men must perish.
I had read much from books borrowed from other men in my spare time, from newspapers, and from magazines; and my questions had led Captain Haskell to talk for half an hour, perhaps more freely than he thought.
He told me to say nothing to the men concerning the prospect for a long war. He seemed serious rather than gloomy. For my part, it mattered little that the war should be long. I had almost ceased to expect any discovery of my former home and friends, and the army seemed a refuge. What would become of me if the war should end suddenly? I did not feel prepared for any work; I know no business or trade. Even if I had one, it would be tame after Lee’s campaigns.
XXX
TWO SHORT CAMPAIGNS
“What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? The varying fortune of each separate field, The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?” –BYRON.
Longstreet’s corps had marched out by the Valley, and now occupied a line east of the Blue Ridge; Jackson remained yet at Bunker Hill. We heard that Burnside had superseded McClellan; speculation was rife as to the character of the new commander. It was easy to believe that the Federal army would soon give us work to do; its change of leaders clearly showed aggressive purpose, McClellan being distinguished more for caution than for disposition to attack.
On November 22d we moved southward, up the Shenandoah Valley. The march lasted many days. We passed through Winchester, Strasburg, Woodstock, and turned eastward through Massanutten Gap, and marched to Madison Court-House. From Madison we marched to Orange, and finally to Fredericksburg, where the army was again united by our arrival on December 3d. The march had been painful. For part of the time I had been barefoot. Many of the men were yet without shoes.
The weather was now cold. Snow fell. I was thinly clad. On the morning of December 4th, after a first night in bivouac in the lines, I awoke with a great pain in my chest and a “gone” feeling generally. The surgeon told me that I had typhoid pneumonia, and ordered me to the camp hospital, which consisted of two or three Sibley tents in the woods. I was laid on a bed of straw and covered with blankets.
I lay in the camp hospital until the morning of the 14th. How far off the regiment was I do not know; however, one or two men of Company H came to see me every day and attended to my wants. On the 11th two of them came and told me good-by; they were ordered to march; the enemy was crossing the river and was expected to attack. These men told me afterward that when they said good-by they felt they were saying the long farewell; I was not expected to recover.
On the 13th, flat on my back, I heard the battle of Fredericksburg roaring at the front, some two or three miles away, I was too ill to feel great interest. On the 14th, early in the morning, I was lifted into an open wagon and covered with a single blanket. In this condition I was jolted to a place called Hamilton’s Crossing. There I was lifted out of the wagon and laid upon the ground. There were others near me, all lying on the ground. In many places the ground was white with snow; the wind cut like a blade of ice; I was freezing. At about two o’clock some men put me into a car–a common box freight-car, which had no heat and the doors of which were kept open. After a while the car started. At twelve o’clock that night the train reached Richmond. Some men put me into an ambulance. I was taken to Camp Winder Hospital, several miles out, which place was reached about two o’clock in the morning of the 15th. That I survived that day–the 14th,–has always been a wonder,
I was put to bed. There were many beds in the ward. In the middle of the ward, which was about sixty feet long by thirty wide, was a big stove, red-hot, and around the stove was a circle of people–women-nurses and stewards, and perhaps some convalescing patients–singing religious songs. There was a great open space between the red-hot stove and the people around it. I wanted to lie in that open space.
I succeeded in getting out of bed; then I crawled on the floor until I was within a few feet of the stove. The singing stopped. “You’ll burn to death,” said a woman. I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.
For three or four weeks I lay in bed in Camp Winder. Not an incident occurred. I received no letters. I had hoped that some man in the company would write to me. I heard of nothing but general affairs. The army had gained a victory over Burnside. I had known that fact on the night of the 14th. I knew, also, that General Gregg had been killed. The papers that I saw gave me some of the details of the battle, but told me nothing of the position of the army, except that it was yet near Fredericksburg. I did not know where Company H was, and I learned afterward that nobody in Company H knew what had become of me.
The monotony of hospital life became intolerable. My recovery was slow and my impatience great. When I felt my strength begin to return, I wrote to Captain Haskell. No answer came. Before the end of February I had demanded my papers and had started for the army yet near Fredericksburg. Transportation by rail was given me to a station called Guiney’s, from which place I had to walk some nine or ten miles. I found Company H below Fredericksburg and back from the river. Captain Haskell was not with the company. He had been ordered on some special duty to South Carolina, and returned to us a week later than my arrival. Many of the men–though all of twenty-six men could hardly be said to be many–had thought that I was dead, as nothing had been heard of me since the battle of Fredericksburg.
When Captain Haskell returned, he showed wonderful cheerfulness for so serious a man. He was greatly encouraged because General Lee had fought at Fredericksburg a purely defensive battle–behind breastworks–and had lost but few men. The worst loss in the whole army had been caused by a mistake of our own officers, who refused to allow their men to fire upon a line of Yankees until almost too late, believing them to be Confederates. It was through this error that General Gregg, for whom the camp of the army was named, had lost his life.
Company H was in small huts made of poles and roofed variously–some with cloth or canvas, others with slabs or boards rudely riven from the forest trees. We had camp guard to mount and picket duty occasionally.
The remainder of the winter passed without events of great importance. Adjutant Haskell had learned that no man missing from the Fourth South Carolina, which had suffered such losses that it had been reorganized as a battalion, fitted with my description or with either of my names. I spent much time in reading the books which passed from man to man in the company.
* * * * *
At this period of my service I was in good health and somewhat more cheerful than I had been previously. The woods had begun to show signs of Spring. The snow had disappeared, and early in April the weather became mild. To say that I was content would be to say what is untrue, but I felt that my condition had much of solace. I knew that I had a friend in Captain Haskell–a man whom I admired without reservation, and whose favours were extended to me freely–I mean to say personal, not official, favours. The more I learned of this high-minded man, the more did the whole world seem to me brighter and less deserving of disregard. He was a patriot. An heir to an estate of many slaves, he was at war for a principle of liberty; he was ready at any time to sacrifice personal interest to the furtherance of the common cause of the South. In battle he was strong, calm, unutterably dignified. Battle, it seemed to me, was considered by him as a high, religious service, which he performed ceremonially. Nothing could equal the vigorous gravity of his demeanour when leading his men in fight. His words were few at such times; he was the only officer I ever knew void absolutely of rant in action. Others would shout and scream and shriek their orders redundant and unwholesome; Haskell’s eye spoke better battle English than all their distended throats. He was merciful and he was wise.
* * * * *
On the 28th of April, 1863, we were ordered to have three days’ cooked rations in our haversacks, and to be prepared to move at a moment’s notice.
The next day at ten o’clock the men left their huts and fell into ranks. We marched to Hamilton’s Crossing–some six miles–and formed in line of battle, and began to throw up breastworks. The enemy was in our front, on our side of the Rappahannock, and we learned that he had crossed in strong force up the river also. We faced the Yankees here for two days, but did not fire a shot.
Before dawn on Friday, May 1st, we were in motion westward–up the river. At noon we could hear skirmishing and cannon in our front. The sounds at first went from us, but at two o’clock they increased in volume. We were pressed forward; again the noise of the fight began to die away. The enemy were retiring before our advanced troops. Night came on, and we lay on our arms, expecting the day to bring battle.
The morning brought Jackson’s famous flank march to the left of Hooker’s army. At first we moved southward under a sharp fire of artillery from which we seemed to retreat; the men thought the movement was retreat, and it is no wonder that Hooker thought so; but suddenly our march broke off toward the west, and the men could not conceal their joy over what they were now beginning to understand. Frequently, on that day, Jackson was seen riding past the marching lines to the head of his column, or halted with his staff to see his troops hastening on.
Late in the afternoon our column was halted on the turnpike. Our backs were toward the sunset. Two other divisions were in line of battle in our front. We moved along the road at supporting distance.
Shots rang out in the woods in front, and in another instant the roar of the charging yell mingled with the crash of continuous musketry. There was no pause in the advance. Both lines ahead of us had swept on. We followed, still in column of fours upon the road, which was almost blocked by a battery of artillery.
Soon we found the road full of the signs of battle. On our right was open ground–to the south; facing this open space was a breastwork from which the enemy had just been driven, leaving wounded and dead, their muskets, accoutrements, cooking utensils yet upon the fires, blankets, knapsacks–everything.
We continued to advance. Our first and second lines having become intermingled, needed time to restore their ranks. Hill’s division now formed the first line of battle.
It was now dark, and no enemy could be seen. Their guns in the distance told us, however, that they had made a stand. We again went forward. Near the enemy’s second line of intrenchments we were halted in the thick woods.
The battle seemed to have ended for the night. In our front rose a moon, the like of which was never seen. Almost completely full and in a cloudless sky, she shown calmly down on the men of two armies yet lingering in the last struggles of life and death. Here and there a gun broke the silence, as if to warn us that all was not peace; now and then a film of cannon smoke drifted across the moon, which seemed to become piteous then. There was silence in the ranks.
The line was lying down, ready, however, and alert. At about nine o’clock a sharp rattle of rifles was heard at our left–about where Lane’s brigade was posted, as we thought–and soon a mournful group of men passed by us, bearing the outstretched form of one whom we knew to be some high officer. Jackson had been shot dangerously by one of Lane’s regiments–the Eighteenth North Carolina.
General A.P. Hill now commanded the corps. Again all was silent, and the line lay down, as it hoped, for the night. All at once there came the noise of a gun, and another, and of a whole battery, and many batteries, and fields and woods were alive with shells and canister. More than forty pieces of cannon had been massed in our front. We lay and endured the fire. General Hill was wounded, and at midnight General Stuart of the cavalry took command of the corps. At last the cannon hushed. The terrible night passed away without sleep.
At eight o’clock on Sunday morning the Light Division, under command of General Pender, assaulted the intrenchments of the enemy. Our brigade succeeded in getting into the works; but on our right the enemy’s line still held, and as it curved far to the west it had us in flank and rear. A new attack at this moment by the troops on our right would have carried the line; the attack was not made. We were compelled to abandon the breastworks and run for the woods, where we formed again at once.
And now another brigade charged, and was driven back by an enfilade fire.
At ten o’clock a third and final charge was made along the whole line; the intrenchments were ours, and Chancellorsville was won.
Company H had lost many men; Pinckney Seabrook, a most gallant officer, had fallen dead, shot by some excited man far in our rear.
We moved no farther in advance. The scattered lines re-formed, and were ready to go forward and push the Federals to the Rappahannock, but no orders came. General Lee had just received intelligence of the second battle of Fredericksburg. The enemy, under Sedgwick, had taken the heights above the town, and were now advancing against our right flank. Our division, and perhaps others, held the field of Chancellorsville, while troops were hurried east to face Sedgwick. Before the close of the 4th the Federals near Fredericksburg had been forced to retire to the north bank of the Rappahannock. By the morning of the 6th all of Hooker’s army had recrossed the river.
Chancellorsville is considered Lee’s greatest victory, because of the enormous odds he fought. Longstreet, with two of his divisions, was not at Chancellorsville, but was at Suffolk opposing the Federals under Peck. Hooker’s army had numbered a hundred and thirty thousand, while Lee had less than sixty thousand men.
We marched back to our huts below Fredericksburg. A few days later we learned that the most illustrious man in the South was dead. No longer should we follow Stonewall Jackson.
The two corps of the army were formed into three–Longstreet’s the first, Ewell’s the second, and A.P. Hill’s the third. Our General Gregg had been killed at Fredericksburg, and we were now McGowan’s brigade. Our General Jackson had fallen at Chancellorsville, and we were now in the corps of A.P. Hill, whose promotion placed four brigades of our division under General Pender. Letters received by Company H a few weeks before had been addressed to Gregg’s brigade, A.P. Hill’s division, Jackson’s corps; letters received now were addressed to McGowan’s brigade, Pender’s division, A.P. Hill’s corps. But why do I talk of letters?
* * * * *
Shortly after our return to the old camp, by order of General Pender, a battalion of sharp-shooters was formed in each brigade of his division. Two or three men were taken from each, company–from the large companies three, from the small ones two. Our brigade had five regiments of ten companies each, so that McGowan’s battalion of sharp-shooters was to be composed of about a hundred and twenty men. General McGowan chose Captain Haskell as the commander of the battalion. When I heard of this appointment, I went to the Captain and begged to go with him. He said, “I had already chosen you, Jones,” and I felt happy and proud. When the battalion was drawn up for the first time, orders were read showing the organization of the command. There were to be three companies, each under a lieutenant. I was in Company A, with the other men from the First. Gus Rhodes, a sergeant in Company H, was named orderly-sergeant of Company A of the battalion, and Private B. Jones was named second sergeant. For a moment I wondered who this B. Jones was, and then it came upon me that no one could be meant except myself.
After the ranks broke I went to the Captain. He smiled at my approach. “You deserved it, Jones; at least I think so. I don’t know the other men, and I do know you.”
I stammered some reply, thanking him for his goodness toward me, and started to go away.
“Wait,” said he, “I want to talk to you. Do you know the men of the company?”
“No, sir; only a few of them; but the few I know know the others and say they are good men.”
“No doubt they have been well proved in the line,” said he; “but you know that Company C and Company H have thus far had to do almost all the skirmishing for the regiment, and we have only four or five men in the battalion out of those companies. It is one thing, to be a good soldier in the line and another thing to be a good skirmisher.”
“I suppose so, Captain,” said I; “but it seems to me that anybody would prefer being in the battalion.”
“No, not anybody,” said the Captain; “it shows some independence of mind to prefer it. A man willing to lean on others will not like the battalion. Our duties will be somewhat different for the future. The men get their rations and their pay through their original companies, but are no longer attached to them otherwise. On the march and in battle they will serve as a distinct command, and will be exposed to many dangers that the line of battle will escape, though the danger, on the whole, will be lessened, I dare say, especially for alert men who know how to seize every advantage. But the most of the men have not been trained for such service. As a body, we have had no training at all. We must begin at once, and I expect you to hold up your end of Company A.”
“I will do my best, Captain,” said I.
“Come to my quarters to-night,” said he; “I want you to do some writing for me.”
That night a programme of drill exercises for the battalion was prepared, and day after day thereafter it was put into practice. We drilled and drilled; company drill as skirmishers; battalion drill as skirmishers; estimating distances; target firing, and all of it.
Early in June Hill’s corps alone was holding the line at Fredericksburg. Ewell and Longstreet had marched away toward the Shenandoah Valley, and onward upon the road that ends at Cemetery Hill. The Federals again crossed the Rappahannock, but in small bodies. Their army was on the Falmouth Hills beyond the river.
On the 6th the battalion was ordered to the front. We took our places–five steps apart–in a road running down the river. On either side of the road was a dry ditch with a bank of earth thrown up, and with trees growing upon the bank, so that the road was a fine shaded avenue. In front, and on our side of the river, was a Federal skirmish-line–five hundred yards from us.
Firing began. The Yankees were screened from view by bushes in the low ground between us and the river. Much tall grass, woods, and broom-sedge covered the unwooded space between the opposing lines; rarely could a man be seen. Our men stood in the dry ditch and fired above the bank, which formed a natural breastwork. At my place, on the left of Company A, a large tree was growing upon the bank. I was standing behind this tree; a bullet struck it. The firing was very slow–men trying to pick a target. When the bullet struck the tree, I saw the smoke of a gun rise from behind a bush. I aimed at the bush and fired. Soon a bullet sizzed by me, and I saw the smoke at the same bush; I fired again. Again the tree was struck, and again I fired. The tree was a good protection,–possibly not so good as the bank of earth, though it gave