Project Gutenberg's A Boy Trooper With Sheridan, by Stanton P. Allen This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: A Boy Trooper With Sheridan First Massachusetts Cavalry Author: Stanton P. Allen Illustrator: Stanton P. Allen Release Date: April 12, 2014 [EBook #45024] Last Updated: March 14, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A BOY TROOPER WITH SHERIDAN *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by The Internet Archive
“The rats they were mustered, And then they were paid; 'And now,' says Col. Morrison, 'We'll have a dress parade.' Lallv boo! Lally boo, oo, oo, Lally bang, bang, bang, Lally boo, oo, oo, Lally bang!”I would join in the chorus, and although I did not understand the sentiment—if there was any in the song—I was ready to adopt it as a national hymn. I was the proudest boy in the Brimmer district at the opening of school the next winter. I fairly “paralyzed” the teacher, George Powell, and all the scholars, when I marched in wearing Nat's cavalry jacket and forage cap. He had made me a present of them. I was the lion of the day. The jacket fitted me like a sentry-box, but the girls voted the rig “perfectly lovely.” Half a dozen big boys threatened to punch my eyes out if I did not “leave that ugly old jacket at home.” I enjoyed the notoriety, and continued to wear the jacket. But one day Jim Duffy, a boy who worked for Tom Jones, came into the school with an artillery jacket on. It was of the same pattern as the jacket I wore, but had red trimmings in place of yellow. The girls decided that Jim's jacket was the prettier. I made up my mind to challenge Jim at the afternoon recess, but my anger moderated as I heard one of the small girls remark: “But Jim ain't got no sojer cap, so he ain't no real sojer—he's only a make-b'lief.” “Sure enough!” chorused the girls. Then I expected Duffy to challenge me, but he did not, and there was no fight. That same winter Thomas Torrey of Williamstown came to our house visiting. Tom was one of the first to respond to the call for volunteers to put down the rebellion. He was in the Western army, and fought under Grant at Shiloh. He received a wound in the second day's fight, May 7, 1862, that crippled him for life. He had his right arm extended to ram home a cartridge, when a rebel bullet struck him in the wrist. The ball shattered the bone of the forearm and sped on into the shoulder, which it disabled. Tom's good right arm was useless forever after. Tom was a better singer than Bass, and as we claimed him as our cousin, it seemed as if our family had already shed blood to put down the rebellion. While the wounded soldier remained at our house and told war stories and sang the patriotic songs of the day, my enthusiasm was kept at one hundred and twenty degrees in the shade. I made up my mind that I would go to war or “bust a blood vessel.” I assisted in dressing Tom's shattered arm once or twice, but even that did not quench the patriotic fire that had been kindled in my breast by Bass's war stories and fanned almost into a conflagration by Tom's recital of his experiences in actual combat. I discarded Nat's “Lally boo” and transferred my allegiance to a stirring song sung by Tom:
“At Pittsburg Landing Our troops fought very hard; They killed old Johnston And conquered Beauregard.” Chorus: “Hoist up the flag; Long may it wave Over the Union boys, So noble and so brave.”I laid awake nights and studied up plans to go to Pittsburg Landing and run a bayonet through the rebel who shot “Cousin Tom.” The summer of 1862 was a very trying time. Charley Taylor of Berlin, opened a recruiting office in the village and enlisted men for Company B, One hundred and twenty-fifth New York volunteers. I wanted to go, but when I suggested it to my father he remarked: “They don't take boys who can't hoe a man's row. You'll have to wait five or six years.” When the Berlin boys came home on furlough from Troy, to show themselves in their new uniforms and bid their friends good-by, it seemed to me that my chances of reaching the front in time to help put down the rebellion, were slim indeed. I reasoned that if Nat Bass could have driven the rebels into Richmond alone—as he said he could have done if he had been given an opportunity—the war would be brought to a speedy close when Company B was turned loose upon the Confederates in Virginia. It seemed that nearly everybody was going in Company B except Bass and I. I urged Nat to go, but he said it would be considered “small potatoes for a man who had served in the cavalry to re-enlist in the infantry.” If I had not overlooked the fact that Nat had never straddled a horse during his six months' service in Col. Morrison's regiment, I might have questioned the consistency of Bass's position. The One hundred and twenty-fifth left Troy Saturday, August 30, 1862, and on the same day the second battle of Bull Run was fought, resulting in the retreat of the Union Army into the fortifications around Washington. “I told you so,” said Bass, when the news of the battle reached Berlin. “The boys in Company B will have their hands full. They will reach the front in time to take part in this fall's campaign. I shall wait till next summer, and then if there's a call for another cavalry regiment to fight the rebels, I'll go down and help whip 'em some more.” When the news of Grant's glorious capture of Vicksburg, and Meade's splendid victory at Gettysburg, was received in Berlin, I made up my mind that the crisis had arrived. I said to Bass: “Nat, our time's come.” “How so?” “We've waited a year, and they've called for another regiment of cavalry.” “Then I believe I'll go.” “So'll I.” “Where's the regiment being raised?” “In Troy.” “Will your father let you go?” “Of course not—don't say a word to him. But I tell you, Nat, I'm going. The Union armies are knocking the life out of the rebels east and west, and it's now or never. I can't stand it any longer. I'm going to war.” I was only a boy—born February 20, 1849—but thanks to an iron constitution, splendid health and a vigorous training in farm work, I had developed into a lad who would pass muster for nineteen almost anywhere. Bass got away from me. My father drove to Troy with Nat, who enlisted August 7, in Company E, of the Griswold cavalry. The regiment was taken to the front and into active service by the late General William B. Tibbits of Troy. About the first of August a circus pitched its tents in Berlin. Everybody went to the show. While the acrobats were vaulting about in the ring, a lad in a cavalry uniform entered the tent and took a seat not far from where I was sitting. The circus was a tame affair to me after that. A live elephant was nowhere when a boy in blue was around. “Who's that soldier?” I asked my best girl. “That's Henry Tracy; I wish he'd look this way. He's too sweet for anything.” “Where's he from?” “Off the mountain, from the Dutch settlement near the Dyken pond. Isn't he lovely! What a nobby suit!” When the circus was out, I managed to secure an interview with the “bold sojer boy,” who informed me that he was in the same camp with Bass at Troy. “How old are you?” I asked Tracy. “I'm just eighteen,” he answered, with a wink that gave me to understand that I was not to accept the statement as a positive fact. “Do you think they'd take me?” “Certainly; you're more'n eighteen.” “When are you going back?” “Shall start to-night. Think you'll go along?” “Yes; if you really think they'll take me.” “I'm sure they will; you just let me manage the thing for you.” “All right; I'm with you.” I went with Tracy that night—after he had seen his girl home. As we climbed the steep mountain, I expected every minute to hear the footsteps of a brigade of relatives in pursuit. We reached the Tracy domicile about midnight, and went to bed. I could not sleep. The frogs in the pond near the house kept up a loud chorus, led by a bull-frog with a deep bass voice. I had heard the frogs on other occasions when fishing in the mountain lakes, and the boys agreed that the burden of the frog chorus was:
You'd better go round! You'd better go round! We'll bite your bait off! We'll bite your bait off!Somehow the chorus seemed that night to have been changed. As I lay there and listened for the sound of my father's wagon, the frogs sang after this fashion:
You'd better go home! You'd better go home! They'll shoot your head off! They'll shoot your head off!And, oh! how that old bull-frog with the bass voice came in on the chorus:
“They'll shoot your head off!”We got up at daylight, and walked over to the plank road and waited for the stage from Berlin to come along, en route to Troy. When the vehicle came in sight, I hid in the bushes until Tracy could reconnoiter and ascertain if iny father was on board. He gave a signal that the coast was clear, and we took passage for the city. “You're Alex Allen's boy?” the driver—Frank Maxon—said, as we took seats in the stage. “What about it?” “I heard 'em say at the post-office this morning that you'd run away.” “False report,” said Tracy; “he's just going to Troy to bid me good-by.” “Well, he must be struck on you, as they say he never set eyes on you till yesterday.” The stage rattled into Troy about half-past ten o'clock. There was considerable excitement in the city over the draft. Soldiers were camped in the court-house yard and elsewhere. They were Michigan regiments, I think. There was a section of artillery in the yard of the hotel above the tunnel. I could not understand how it was that the Government was obliged to resort to a draft to secure soldiers. To me it seemed that an ablebodied man who would not volunteer to put down the rebellion, was pretty “small potatoes.” But I was only a boy. Older persons did not look at it in the same light as I did. By the way, the draft euchred our family out of three hundred dollars. When I enlisted in the First Massachusetts, after the failure of my plan to reach Dixie in the Griswold cavalry, I was paid three hundred dollars bounty. I sent it home to my father. The draft “scooped him in,” and the Government got the three hundred dollars back, that being the sum the drafted men were called on to pay to secure exemption. Tracy escorted me to Washington Square, where there were several tents in which recruiting officers were enlisting men for the Griswold cavalry. A bounty of two dollars was paid to each person bringing in a recruit. Tracy sold me to a sergeant named Cole for two dollars, but he divided the money with me on the way to camp. As we entered the tent where Sergeant Cole was sitting, Tracy said: “This young man wants to enlist, Sergeant.” “All right, my boy; how old are you—nineteen, I suppose?” “Of course he's nineteen,” said Tracy. I did not contradict what my soldier friend had said, and the sergeant made out my enlistment papers, Tracy making all the responses for me as to age. After I had been “sworn in” for three years, or during the war, I was paid ten dollars bounty. Then we went up to the barracks, and I was turned over to the first sergeant of Captain George V. Boutelle's company. I drew my uniform that night. The trousers had to be cut off top and bottom. The jacket was large enough for an overcoat. The army shirt scratched my back—but what is the use of reviving dead issues!
“Go and get your breakfast, Breakfast without meat.”But a cavalry poet tried his hand, and after that whenever the infantry fellows shouted the above at us to the tune of breakfast call, we all joined in the refrain:
“Dirty, dirty doughboy, Dirty, dirty feet.”That settled it. The doughboys soon fell back. If they had not, there might have been a riot, for our poet was at work on another verse that he said would settle their hash. Judging from the result of his first effort, I can readily see that the infantry had a narrow escape. We had inspection every Sunday morning after stables. Each company was looked over by its first sergeant. Then the captains would appear and take charge. If it were to be a regimental inspection, all the companies would be marched to the parade-ground, and the colonel or regimental commander would be the inspecting officer. Every now and then a brigade review would follow the inspection. It was fun for the brigadier, or inspector, but after the rear rank privates had been in the saddle two hours or more, sitting bolt upright, with eyes fixed square to the front while waiting to have the inspector come round to them, and go through the motions of examining their carbines, revolvers, sabers and equipments, the affair became tedious. But our regiment was blessed with an excellent band. The members rode white horses, and on all grand reviews and parades they took position on the right of the regiment. Whenever the inspection was particularly protracted and severe, the band would play inspiring selections, and many a poor fellow who was on the point of asking permission to fall out of the ranks, would cheer up as the strains of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” or some other popular air, would reach his ear. Survivors of the Army of the Potomac—and all other armies—will recall that the playing of a single tune as the comrades rushed forward into the heat of battle, was worth more than the spread-eagle speeches of scores of generals. The soldier that could muster backbone enough to turn tail and run when his comrades were presenting a solid front to the enemy, and the bands were playing national airs, was made of queer material, indeed. On one of these Sunday morning inspections, Taylor remarked to me in a low tone of voice: “I'd like to know how they expect us to diligently attend divine worship when they keep us harnessed up all day after this fashion?” “Keep still, Giles; if the sergeant hears you he'll tie you up by the thumbs.” Yet Taylor's inquiry was to the point. The articles of war had been read to us only the day before that inspection. Here is what we were given along the line referred to by Taylor: “Article 2.—It is earnestly recommended to all officers and soldiers, diligently to attend divine service; and all officers who shall behave indecently or irreverently at any place of divine worship, shall, if commissioned officers, be brought before a general court-martial, there to be publicly and severely reprimanded by the President; if non-commissioned officers or soldiers, every person so offending shall, for his first offense, forfeit one sixth of a dollar, to be deducted out of his next pay; for the second offense he shall not only forfeit a like sum, but be confined twenty-four hours; and for every like offense, shall suffer and pay in like manner; which money, so forfeited, shall be applied by the captain or senior officer of the troop or company, to the use of the sick soldiers of the company or troop to which the offender belongs.” The boys called the regulations the army Bible. Of course, many of the articles were intended for troops in garrison. When in active service, on the march and on the battle field, divine services were impracticable until there was at least a temporary cessation of hostilities. Regimental chaplains exhibited remarkable fortitude, courage and self-sacrifice in administering spiritual consolation to the wounded and dying at the front, even under heavy fire from the enemy. There were services in camp in such organizations as had ministers of the gospel with them, but many regiments were without chaplains, and had to forage for religious food, if they had any. I do not remember attending divine service in the army, except once in the Wilderness campaign. It was at night, and the congregation stood around a blazing camp-fire. The good old chaplain exhorted the boys to prepare the way, and buckle on the whole armor. It was a striking scene. Some of the boys wept as the minister alluded to the loved ones at home, who were looking to the Army of the Potomac for a victory that would crush out the rebellion. There were few dry eyes when the benediction was pronounced, after the chaplain had urged his hearers to “be prepared to stand an inspection before the King of kings.” It was the last religious service that many who were present that night ever attended. The next day rebel bullets mowed them down by scores. They died in defense of the right—that the Union might be preserved. Of those who fell as they fell a poet has written:
“No more the bugle calls the weary one, Rest, noble spirit, in your grave unknown; We will find you and know you, Among the good and true, When the robe of white is given For the faded coat of blue.”I may have had many opportunities to hear the Gospel preached during the war, but I do not recall the circumstances now. Yet I am sure that if I had diligently reconnoitered the camps, I could have found faithful disciples preaching the Word of Life to such as had ears to hear. And I believe that when the general roll shall be called on the shores of eternity, the noble Christian soldiers who held aloft the banner of their Master on the battle fields of the great Civil War, will not only hear the welcome, “Well done,” but they will be crowned with diadems bedecked with many stars. The third commandment laid down in the regulations was probably violated more frequently than any of the one hundred and one articles of war. It read: “Article 3.—Any non-commissioned officer or soldier who shall use any profane oath or execration, shall incur the penalties expressed in the foregoing article; and a commissioned officer shall forfeit and pay, for each and every such offense, one dollar, to be applied as in the preceding article.” Had this article been lived up to, the “sick soldiers” referred to would have been provided for for life, as would their children and children's children. There would have been no call for the sanitary and Christian commissions to raise money to alleviate the sufferings of the sick. All that money could have supplied would have been provided. I do not mean to convey the idea that the Union soldiers were particularly profane, but something like a half-million of men were under arms at one time, about the close of the war. Some of them swore. Even generals blasphemed before their men. The general-in-chief, however, was an exception. No soldier in the Army of the Potomac ever heard Gen. Grant utter an oath. There were officers and soldiers in all regiments who did not swear. But they were in the minority. Had the penalty for using profane oaths been enforced, seventy-five per cent, of the soldiers would have been in the guard house all the time, and at the end of a week they would have been indebted to the Government more than their three years' salary would have footed up, and the guard house would have had a mortgage on them for years to come. The third article of war was read to one company in our regiment by a first sergeant, who gave such an emphasis to the reading of the penalty for swearing that the boys began to feel that they must “swear off” on profanity. Said the sergeant: “I want you men to understand that in this company the articles of war will be strictly lived up to. If I hear any man use profane language, be he non-commissioned officer or soldier, I'll bring him up for punishment as prescribed.” Then the sergeant swore a “blue streak” for a minute or two before he gave the order to “break ranks.” Yet he did it unconsciously, as he said when his attention was called to it by a corporal, and only intended to emphasize the interdiction. Quite a number of the articles of war enumerated offenses for which the penalty provided that the offender “shall suffer death, or such other punishment as by a court-martial shall be inflicted.” In the reading the officers always emphasized the penalty “shall suffer death,” and then dropped their voices till the “or such other punishment” could scarcely be heard by the soldiers standing the nearest to the reader. The death penalty was sandwiched all through the articles of war, and at the close of the reading the average recruit felt condemned, and could remember nothing but “shall suffer death,” and expected to hear the captain order out a detail to execute the sentence. But the death penalty was inflicted, except in rare instances, only upon spies or men who had deserted to the enemy and been recaptured.
“When ends life's transient dream; When death's cold, sullen stream Shall o'er me roll; Blest Saviour, then in love, Fear and distress remove; O bear me safe above A ransom'd soul.”After Dr. Newman's glowing tribute came the closing hymn, led by Mrs. Whitney, soprano, of Boston, and in which the congregation joined:
“Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee! E'en though it be a cross That raiseth me; Still all my song shall be— Nearer, my God, to Thee! Nearer to Thee!”As the echoes of the general's favorite hymn rang through the tall trees that surmounted the mountain top, the benediction was pronounced, and the remains of the old commander were borne to the funeral train. Gen. Hancock was in charge. Down the mountain to Saratoga the train proceeded. At the village the casket was transferred to the funeral car in which the remains were taken to Albany and subsequently to New York. The gallant Sherman, Sheridan, Hancock and other noble heroes have since answered their last roll-call on earth—gone to swell the ranks of the great majority beyond the river. In a few years the veterans who fought under Grant will all pass over, but their deeds of valor will ever live in song and story. The name of Grant is inscribed on the nation's roll of patriots side by side with that of the martyred Lincoln. Of the hero of Appomattox it can be truly said that he was—
“Our greatest, yet with least pretense, Great in council and great in war, Foremost captain of his time, Rich in saving common sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.”Note—This chapter was published in the Troy Daily Times at the time of Gen. Grant's death, and it is deemed best to insert it without change, although the events are not presented in chronological order with the other chapters.—S. P. A.
“The light, the spell-word of the heart, Our guiding star in weal or woe, Our talisman—our earthly chart— That sweetest name that earth can know. “We breathed it first with lisping tongue When cradled in her arms we lay; Fond memories round that name are hung That will not, cannot pass away. “We breathed it then, we breathe it still, More dear than sister, friend or brother, The gentle power, the magic thrill Awakened at the name of Mother.”“Johnnie?” “Yes, Yank.” “Take this pipe and tobacco. You'll need them.” “Thank you.” “Here's my pocket-book.” “But you'll need the money?” “Not so much as you will. Take it, I say.” “All right, if you insist on it.” “And this fine tooth comb—you'll need that also.” “Yes, I need it now.” “Here's my jack-knife; it'll come handy.” “It will.” “Now take my canteen and haversack—no, don't refuse; I can get more. I'll see them filled before we part.” “Thank you, Yank—God bless you!” “God bless you, Johnnie!” And all who stood by said, “Amen.” So mote it be. Leaving Beaver Dam Station in ruins, Sheridan's cavalry corps pushed on toward the rebel capital early on the morning of Tuesday, May 10. Not far from Beaver Dam we rode by a Virginia farmhouse. It was a one-story building, with chimneys on the outside and an “entry” running through the center. Two or three plantation hands stood near the fence, grinning and shouting: “Bress de Lawd!” “Hyar cum 'Massa Linkum's sojers—bress de Lawd! O, Glory!” “Are you glad to see us, Uncle?” “Yes, massa, 'deed I is.” “Where's the 'massa'?” “He run and gone. Must be de king-dom com-in'.” The old darky had struck the keynote of one of the ditties that were immensely popular in the Union army. The boys took up the song. They made it ring as they rode along:
“Say, dar-keys, hab you seen de mas-sa, Wid de muff-stash on his face, Go long de road some time dis morn-in', Like he gwine to leab do place? He seen a smoke, way up de rib-ber, Where de Link-um gum-boats lay; He took his hat, an' lef' berry sud-den, An' I 'spec he's run a-vvay! Chorus: “De mas-sa run? ha! ha! De dar-keys stay? ho! ho! It mus' be now de king-dom com-in', An' de year ob Ju-bi lo!”At another farmhouse we found a new-made grave in the dooryard. It was just inside the gate, and to the right of the walk leading up to the porch. The earth heaped over the grave was still moist, which showed that it had been filled in during the morning. A spade with the letters “C. S. A.” burned in the handle, lay beside the mound. At one of the windows of the farmhouse we saw the faces of two or three young ladies. They had been weeping, but it seemed as if they were holding back their tears till the Yankees should get out of sight. We concluded that the grave in the yard was that of their brother. The eyes of many of Sheridan's raiders filled with tears as they came to understand the situation, and their minds went back to their own homes and the dear ones in the North. Mother, sister, sweetheart—in a few days they might be weeping over the news of the death of their soldier boy. Every voice was hushed. With uncovered heads the troopers rode by. Their hearts were moved with sympathy for the distressed household. A staff officer inquired of an old negro who was drawing water for the soldiers at a well near the house: “Whose grave is that, Uncle?” “Young Massa Tom's, sah.” “And who was 'Massa Tom'?” “He war missus's only son.” “And the brother of the young ladies at the window?” “Yes; all de brudder dey had. Ole massa he war killed at Seben Pines. Den young Massa Tom cum home for a time to look after de plantation. But when de news cum dat Massa Linkum's army” had cross de Rapid Ann, young massa buckle on he sode an' tell de young missuses and ole missus dat he obliged to go to de front. He only lef' home Thursday, five days ago. He war in de Wilderness and war sent wid Yankee prizners to de station which you all's sojers burn up las' night. He cum home to supper in de early ebenin, an' den went back to de station. He said dey spected to start for Richmond 'fore sun-up dis mornin'. But de Yankees sweep down on de camp, an' soon de news cum dat Massa Tom been kill. A party of Massa Lee's sojers brought young massa's body home, an' bright an' early dis mornin' we laid him away in de groun'. De sojers say: 'Better bury him 'fore de Yankees cum long,' and ole missus say: 'Yes; dey shall nebber glory ober my son's dead body.' So Massa Tom war laid away. It did seem so cruel like to jest 'rap a blanket roun' him an' put him in de groud'; but it won't make a heep ob diff'nce, I reckon, when de resurreckshun day shall cum, for de good Lawd will know his chil'ren. “Poor Massa Tom—he's free. Ole missus say she 'spec I'll run off wid de Yankees now; but, massa, ole Ned's gwine to stay by an' help ole missus all he can, for de time'll soon cum when dis poor ole slave will be free! For whom de Lawd make free, he be free 'ndeed.” As we rode away ole Uncle Ned was singing:
“Dar'll be no sor-row dar, Dar'll be no sor-row dar, In heb-un a-buv, Whar all is luv- Dar'll be no sor-row dar.”The enemy did not molest us during the march Tuesday. They had received severe punishment in the early morning, and when the three divisions of the cavalry corps had secured a position on the south bank of the North Anna, Stuart concluded that it was a waste of time—to say nothing of the danger—to attack Sheridan in the vicinity of Beaver Dam. At any rate, they left us to ourselves a good part of the day. And what a picnic we enjoyed! Foraging parties were sent out in all directions, and they returned with an abundance of corn for our horses. The corn was in the ear, and we shelled it for our chargers. Now and then a trooper who had been out on the flank would come in with a supply of eggs and butter, with a chicken or two hanging on his saddle. All such provender was classed as “forage,” and was confiscated by the raiders. It was delicate business, however, and I do not believe that one out of twenty of Sheridan's troopers took anything from the plantations along the route that was not needed by the soldiers. I would not be understood as saying that the boys did not confiscate things that were not included in the Government ration. Not at all. They relished extra dishes—such as ham and eggs, butter for their flapjacks, and milk for their coffee, and wherever they found supplies of this kind they foraged them. But the Yankees showed a good deal of discrimination. When they found a dyed-in-the-wool rebel who had a goodly store of provisions, they confiscated what they needed, but in cases where the supply was scant and the farm was worked by the women and darkies, the boys admonished one another to go slow, and only a small percentage of the crop was taken into camp. A foraging party went out to a plantation about a mile from the road on which our column was moving. We saw the planter's house on a gentle rise of ground, surrounded by magnificent shade trees. Everything about the place indicated that the proprietor belonged to the F. F. V.'s. As we rode up the broad avenue leading from the front gate to the residence, the sergeant in charge of the party said: “Boys, we've struck it rich. There must be something good to eat here.” Seated in an armchair on the broad piazza was the “lord of the manor,” his eyes fairly snapping with the hatred he could not conceal for the visitors. He was full threescore years and ten. His long white hair hung down upon his shoulders, and served to heighten the color in his cheeks—and the beet red of his nose. The planter arose at our approach, and demanded: “To what am I indebted for this visit?” “Firing on the old flag at Fort Sumter, primarily,” replied the sergeant, who seemed to enjoy the old Virginian's hostile attitude. “But, sir, I did not fire on Sumter!” “No? Then you're a Union man, I take it?” “No, sir! I'm a Virginian, loyal to my State and to the Confederacy. If I were able to bears arms I should be in Lee's army to-day, fighting the vandal horde that has invaded the sacred soil. Sir, we are enemies!” “I am sorry to hear you say that. If you were a Union man you could get pay for the forage we were sent to secure. But as you are a sworn enemy of the United States of America we will be obliged to confiscate some of your corn and other supplies.” “I knew you were a band of robbers when you rode through my gate. The Northern mudsills make war on private citizens and rob them by force of arms.” “It's the fortunes of war.” “You may call it war. We of the South call it the unholy attempt to subjugate freemen—to destroy the sovereignty of the States. But Abe Lincoln with all his vandal horde will never conquer the South!” “Well, stick to your State's rights, old man; but in the meantime we must have corn for our horses to brace them up so's we can ride into Richmond and hang old Jeff Davis——” “Jeff Davis! He's a saint, sir, when compared with your negro-loving railsplitter in the White House!” “All right; I don't propose to quarrel with you. Please show us where the corn can be found.” “Never, sir! If you will plunder my plantation I am powerless to defend myself; but I'll not help you to anything.” “Then we'll prospect on our own hook. Perhaps we can find what we want.” “I protest in the name of the sovereign rights of a Virginian.” “Uncle Sam's a bigger man than 'ole Virginny,'” replied the sergeant. We had no difficulty in finding the corn crib and the old Virginian's commissary department. A young darky “let the cat out of the bag” on his master, and we soon had our horses loaded with forage. We had struck it rich, indeed, for the plantation yielded “corn, wine and oil” in abundance. There was food for man and beast. A large number of hams, cured on the plantation, sides and sides of bacon, and a goodly store of “groceries” were among the “forage” we confiscated. But we did not strip the planter of all his provisions; enough was left to run him for several months. “I'll give you a receipt for this forage,” said the sergeant, as we were about to leave. “What would the receipt of a robber be good for?” exclaimed the old planter. “You can present it to the Government when the war's over and get pay for the forage.” “Do you want to add further insult to the injury you have done me? I scorn you and your Government. You can never whip the South, sir, never, and under no consideration would I disgrace myself by taking pay for stores used by the enemies of the Confederacy. Leave my plantation. Go back to your general and tell him that my prayer is that he and his followers will get their just deserts—that they will all be hanged.” The enraged planter walked back and forth on the piazza, and shot defiant glances at us as we rode away with our plunder. I have no doubt that he would have “bushwhacked” us if there had been an opportunity. A couple of miles south of the big plantation we came to a farmhouse on a cross road. We stopped at the well to fill our canteens, and one of the boys explored the premises to see what he could find. He came back with the report that the house was occupied by a widow with a large family of children. “There don't seem to be anything to eat on this farm,” the trooper remarked. “I'll see about it,” said the sergeant, as he rode up to the porch. “Halloo, inside there!” A middle-aged woman came out into the entry and advanced timidly toward the Yankee. “We're out after forage,” the sergeant said. “Have you any corn around here?” “We have nothing but the crap that's gro'in'. We had some provisions until a few days ago a lot of soldiers came along and took all our corn and bacon. We've got a mighty little meal and a trifle of bacon left.” “I didn't know that any of our men had been through here lately.” “They were not Yankees; they were our own soldiers. They said they were hungry, and when they begun to eat it seemed like they would never quit. They fairly ate us most out of house and home. It's mighty sorry times with us. I don't know what we'll do to get along till harvest.” “Where's your husband?” “Done killed in the wah.” “Have you no sons?” “Yes, sir; two fighting under General Lee. “And you're short of provisions?” “Very short indeed.” “Boys, leave a couple of hams, a bag of meal and some bacon with this lady.” The boys gladly complied with the instructions, and they also went down in their haversacks and contributed quite a number of rations of coffee and sugar. “Oh! that's real coffee,” exclaimed the oldest of the children, a girl of about twelve years. “I expected you would take what little we had to eat,” said the head of the family, as the tears rolled down her face. “I never thought the Yankees would be so kind to the widow of a Confederate. The Richmond papers said if you all came this way you would destroy everything; they said heaps of black things about you.” “Do you all have hams on your saddles and sacks of corn to carry along all the time?” ventured the young miss who had listened to all that had been said. “No, no; we confiscated these back at the big plantation yonder.” “Where 'bouts?” inquired the widow. “At that fine house a couple of miles north.” “Was there an old gentleman there?” “Yes; he gave us his benediction when we left, by expressing the wish that we would all come to the gallows.” “And these hams and other things came from his plantation?” “Yes.” “I declare, 'vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.' Yesterday I called there and asked the colonel—they all call him colonel—to help me along by letting me have a little meal and bacon. I promised to pay him back when we gather our crap, by and by.” “He assisted you, of course?” “No, indeed. He said he could not afford to distribute his provisions among other people who had no claims on him. He refused to let me have a pound of meat, or a quart of meal.” “He knows your husband was killed fighting for the Confederacy—and that you have two sons in Lee's army?” “To be sure he does; he urged them to go into the army, to hurl back the invaders; but he now says I must look to the Government at Richmond for help. I'm thankful for what you all have done for us. It's a right smart help. But I believe the colonel would come down here and take the provisions away from us, if he knew you all had left them here.” “Let's go back and take what's left at his plantation and burn him out,” exclaimed one of the troopers. “No; not this time,” said the sergeant. “But we shall probably come this way again, and then we can pay our compliments to the old skinflint.” “Do you think the wah's coming to an end soon?” the woman asked as we were about to move forward. “I hope so,” replied the sergeant. “I think this campaign will wind it up.” “Who's going to whip?” “We are.” “You'll be obliged to do some powerful hard fighting, I reckon, for our side won't give up so long's there's anything to eat in the Confederacy. But if we're to be overcome, sure enough, I hope it will be soon—before my sons are killed. Our boys'll die game, sure's you're born.” “I hope your sons will be spared.” “I trust they will. They believe they are fighting for a just cause. They are Virginians, and they have great faith in Gen. Lee. They will follow him to the end. But it's a cruel wah. Somebody must be wrong; both sides cannot be right. I don't understand it thoroughly, but I feel that somebody has made a terrible mistake.” “Ma, the Yankees hasn't got horns, has they, ma?” exclaimed one of the children, a girl about five years old, and who was gnawing at a hard-tack one of the troopers had given her. “No, my darling.” And the Confederate soldier's widow joined in the laugh that followed this juvenile outbreak. Good-bys were said, and the foraging party hastened to rejoin the column.
“We'll hang Jeff Davis to a sour apple-tree, As we go marching on.”The “president” made better time in getting away from the seat of government than was made by the braves in butternut. He did not draw a long breath till he had distanced the retreating Confederates and reached Danville. To stimulate his soldiers to deeds of daring—and to induce them to beat back the Union army if possible till he could make good his escape—Davis declared in a proclamation, issued on the wing at Danville, April 5, 1865, that “Virginia, with the help of the people, and by the blessings of Providence, shall be held and defended.” “Let us,” he continued, “meet the foe with fresh defiance, and with unconquered and unconquerable hearts.” Before his signature to the document was dry, Jeff was making a bee-line for Georgia. He was willing to meet the foe face to face on paper. “You hold Grant in check till I can get far enough South to establish a rallying-point,” was the burden of his messages to the rebel general when read between the lines. At all events, the president of the Southern Confederacy took to the woods, and was next heard of at Irwinsville, Georgia, May 11, 1865. Wilson's troopers took the fugitive into camp on that day. The circumstances of the capture of Jeff Davis have been the subject of heated controversy—in magazine articles and newspaper publications. Whatever may be the fact in respect of his wearing apparel at the time the Yankee cavalrymen overhauled the rebel president—whether he had on his wife's petticoats or was clad in masculine attire—certain it is that in abandoning the “lost cause,” and leaving Lee and his followers to “meet the foe with fresh defiance,” while he skedaddled, the “rebel hero”—still idolized and worshiped by the solid South—made a sorry exhibition of himself. On the chase up the Appomattox our boys were kept busy—in the saddle night and day—carrying dispatches to and from Meade's headquarters. It was a very interesting period. Sheridan was neck-and-neck with Lee, while the grand old Army of the Potomac was hot on the rebel commander's trail. Gen. Meade was seriously ill for several days preceding the negotiations that led to the surrender. But he kept in the saddle most of the time, in spite of the request of the headquarters' medical men, that he should “avoid all excitement!” It was strange advice to give under such circumstances. The hero of Gettysburg realized that the boys were knocking the bottom out of the Southern Confederacy, and he was determined to be in at the death. Whenever there was heavy firing at the front, Meade would get out of the ambulance, in which he rode when compelled to leave the saddle, and call for his favorite horse “Baldy.” Then he would ask his son George, one of his aids, or Major Jay or Major Emory, to assist him into the saddle. Once mounted, the general seemed to have a way of shaking off his sickness. He would press on to the head of the column and make a personal reconnaissance. As soon as the rearguard of the rebels—left to check the Union advance while the Confederate wagon trains and artillery were hurried to the west—was brushed out of the way, and the line of march resumed, the general would return to his ambulance, at times completely exhausted. April 4, 1865, was one of the hardest days of the chase. It was a forced march with only an occasional breathing spell when the advance was feeling its way along the roads leading toward Appomattox. That night we unsaddled with what we considered fair prospects of rest. But before we had settled down for sleep, a trooper dashed up to Meade's headquarters. The general was so ill that he could scarcely hold up his head, but when told that Sheridan had intercepted the Confederates, and predicted the capture of Lee's army if the Army of the Potomac would push to the front near Jettersville, Meade got out of bed and gave orders for the march to be resumed at two o'clock in the morning. The boys were waiting for the wagons to come up with the hard tack and coffee, and the prospect of pushing on without grub was anything but transporting. Still when the time came to “fall in,” the men obeyed with a cheerfulness characteristic of the veterans of the gallant army that for four years had fought Lee's soldiers with varied success. The next morning Sheridan's men—a scouting party under Gen. Davies, our brigade commander—played havoc with a Confederate wagon train that was “sifting west.” Nearly two hundred wagons were destroyed. It was hard for the Johnnies to witness the destruction of their supply train. Poor fellows, they needed all the grub they could get, and more, too. They fought desperately, but the battle was against them. The Federal column moved on, and the surrounding of Lee's army was pushed on all sides. The boys in blue were hungry, but they kept in good spirits. “We can stand it if the rebs can,” was remarked now and then as the boys were ordered to move on just before the supply train would get up. On the battlefield of Sailor's Creek I picked up Gen. Lee's order book. The last order copied into the book was dated Saturday, April 1, 1865, and, as I remember it, the order referred to the sending of re-enforcements from the works in front of Petersburg to oppose Sheridan's advance on the Union left. The ground was strewn with the debris of the rebel headquarters' train. Army wagons with spokes cut out of the wheels were overturned on both sides of the road. “In the last ditch;” “The C. S. A. is gone up;” “We all can't whip you all without something to eat,” and other humorous inscriptions appeared on the canvas covers of the wagons. I wish I had held on to Lee's order book. It would have been valuable to-day. But it was heavy, and I threw it aside. April 9, 1865, while Sheridan was square across the road preventing Lee's further advance without cutting his way through, and the Army of the Potomac was on the flank and rear, came the news that white flags were displayed along the rebel lines and that Grant and Lee were negotiating for the surrender of the Confederate army of Northern Virginia. Meade's headquarters contingent was bivouacked just off the road leading to Appomattox Court House from Farmville. “Lee's going to surrender!” The boys could scarcely credit the report that the Confederate commander had asked terms, for, somehow or other, after a week's hard chase the Yankees had begun to fear that Lee would effect a junction with Johnston in North Carolina. But when an orderly from Grant's headquarters dashed up and handed Meade a letter from the lieutenant-general confirming the report that Lee had accepted Grant's terms, there was the greatest joy at headquarters. The news spread like wildfire, and in a few minutes the tired soldiers were dancing with joy. I was broiling a confiscated chicken in the angle of a rail fence when the orderly rode up. When I was told of the tidings he had brought I threw the chicken as high as I could, kicked the fire in every direction, and shouted till my throat was sore. Gen. Meade, with a few members of the escort of which I was one, rode into the Confederate lines and to Lee's camp. The Southern commander had only a wall tent fly for headquarters. Longstreet was there and several others whom Meade had known in the old army. Meade and Lee conversed for a few minutes alone. In the meantime a sergeant of Meade's escort and a sergeant of Lee's headquarters guard entered into such a heated argument that the interference of several officers of both sides was necessary to prevent them from fighting to a finish. As we were riding down the slope from Lee's bivouac, a weather-stained Confederate, wearing an old slouch hat, a short butternut jacket, and with a dilapidated blanket wrapped about his shoulders, shouted to Meade. The commander of the Army of the Potomac did not recognize the man who hailed him and who held out his hand, until the rebel said: “Don't you know me, General? I'm Gen. Wise of Virginia.” Then there was another handshake. Wise was the sorriest looking general I saw at the surrender. Lee and Longstreet and some of the others were clad in bright new uniforms, but Wise looked as though he had been rolled in the mud all the way from Petersburg. After calling on Lee, Meade rode over to the Court House and congratulated Grant and Sheridan on the result. The Union generals seemed to enjoy the “love feast.” There was joy and gladness on all sides. A majority of the rebels who surrendered at Appomattox accepted the inevitable with better grace than could have been expected of them after the desperate resistance they had made. But when you put food into a starving man's mouth the chances favor his smothering his hatred if he has such feeling toward you. “Dog gone it, that's splendid coffee,” said a butternut clad veteran who shared my supper the night of the surrender. “You all overpowered us; we couldn't hold out on wind any longer. I like this meat; I tell you, it's good. I didn't know I was so hungry; I must have got beyond the hunger point.” Then came the order for the return. It was not “on to Richmond” this time, but “on to Washington.” We all knew that the war was over—that Sherman would make short work of the Confederate Army in the Carolinas under Johnston. When we mounted our horses and rode back toward Burkesville station, leaving the provost marshal and a small force at Appomattox to parole the prisoners, it was conceded by both Yankee and rebel that the Army of the Potomac and the army of Northern Virginia would never again meet as enemies on the battlefield. The boys in blue felt that they had fought a good fight, won a glorious victory, and could now return to their homes proud to have been permitted to suffer and do battle under the flag of the Union. It was a happy army that faced about at Appomattox and took up the march for Washington. The bands played, and the victorious Federals sang. The bivouacs at night were camp meetings on a large scale. Somehow the boys did not need as much sleep as was required when in winter quarters. Discipline was relaxed, and colonels and corporals, captains and privates talked over the results of the last campaign without any “red tape nonsense,” as the boys were wont to call a strict observance of military discipline when there was no fighting to do. The song that was sung with the most expression on that homeward march, was a parody on “Dear Mother, I've come home to die,” the last word being changed to “eat.” Then there was that lively air:
“When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah, hurrah! When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah, says I; The lads and lassies, so they say, With roses they will strew the way, And we'll all feel gay When Johnny comes marching home.”On the road between Farmville and Burkesville station I dismounted at a farmhouse and asked a little negro boy who stood near the fence with mouth and eyes wide open, for a drink of water. The lad seemed to be frightened, and ran away around the house. “You, Julius, come here!” shouted a middle-aged lady who stepped out on the piazza. She had overheard my request for water. The young darky returned at the lady's command. “I'se 'fraid dese Yankees,” he said. “I don't think they'll molest you, Julius. Bring the gentleman a drink of water.” I was invited to a seat on the piazza pending Julius's expedition to the spring house, a rod or two back of the dwelling. He returned with a large gourd dipper filled with deliciously cool water. In the meantime three young ladies, daughters of the middle-aged lady, appeared on the piazza and were presented by their mother to the Yankee. Then Julius went to the spring to fill my canteen. “I'm sorry we have nothing but water to offer you,” said the mother. The young ladies also ventured to speak. “The two armies, ours and yours, just took everything in the shape of provisions on the place.” “Yes; and the soldiers found where we had stored a few hams and a sack of flour down in the woods.” “And they made out they came across the place accidentally like. I believe Jeb, a brother of Julius, told the Yankees where we had buried the box with the hams and flour, for he hasn't been seen on the plantation since.” “I am really sorry for you, ladies. I will speak to Gen. Meade, and I am sure he will direct the commissary to supply you with something to eat.” “I think we can hold out for another day,” said the mother. “My husband was in Longstreet's corps, and he said when he galloped by here the other day that the Confederacy was played out, and that if something providential did not turn up on the side of Lee's army they would all be gobbled up inside of ten days. His last words were: 'If you can save me a dish of meat of some kind till I get home, do it; it may save my life.'” “And we're doing our best for papa.” “Yes, we are. When the last Yankees marched by on the way to the surrender, we found we had one goose left—” “Yes; and we've got the goose yet, down in the cellar—” “Now, Miss Emma, you have told a Yankee about the goose, and papa's chances for dinner when he comes home are mighty slim.” “Dear sir, you will spare us?” “Mr. Yankee, let us keep our goose?” “I know you didn't mean to rob us!” “The goose is safe, ladies. Cook your goose for the family reunion, for I assure you that there isn't a man in the Federal army mean enough to steal a goose under such circumstances, especially now that the war is over.” “I feel relieved.” “Oh! so much.” “How kind you are.” “The Yankees are not so black as our papers have painted them. I'm so rejoiced to know that we can save the goose.” Just then Julius came bounding around the corner of the house. His hair fairly stood on end, and his eyes seemed starting from their sockets. “Miss Julia! Miss Julia! Miss Julia!” “What is it, Julius?” “O, Miss Julia! Miss Julia!” “Speak, you idiot!” “De goose, Miss Julia, de goose! See dar, see dar! Look, dat Yankee gwine ober de fence yonder wid de goose you's a-keepin' for Massa Colonel Bob!” Sure enough, Julius was right. While the ladies had been entertaining me on the piazza a straggling cavalryman had entered the yard. He had filled his canteen at the spring house. Then he interviewed Julius. Next he slipped into the cellar and raised a tub that was bottom-side up on the cellar bottom. Under the tub he found the goose, which he seized by the neck. In a few seconds he had jumped over the fence to where his horse was standing, and without paying any attention to my shouts for him to “stop or drop that goose,” the blue-coated robber put spurs to his steed and disappeared down the road. The goose was gone. Col. Bob's dinner was spoiled so far as that goose was concerned. “Ladies—” “Don't speak to me.” “Nor me.” “Nor me.” “Nor me.” “But I assure you—” “Yes, you assured us a few minutes ago.” “I had misgivings all the time that Miss Emma would tell about the goose.” “But, mother dear, don't cry; I thought we could trust a gentleman.” “So we could, but we should have known better than to trust a Yankee.” I believe that I would have shot the bummer who confiscated that goose had he been within range of my revolver while I was under fire on that piazza. I never felt quite so mean in the presence of ladies before. “Go and join your partner,” said the mother. “Leave us, sir!” chorused the daughters. What a predicament for a youthful soldier. There I stood, despised and hated by four ladies with whom I had been apparently on good terms a few moments before. Had a band of bushwhackers opened fire on me at that moment I should have been happy again. The bushwhackers did not come, but Julius did. I shall never forget Julius. “Miss Julia, dis yere Yankee doan' know nuffin 'bout stealin' dat goose.” “How do you know, nigger?” “Cos' what dat oder Yankee say.” “What did he say?” “He tole me 'fi made de leas bit of holler so dat Yankee sittin' on de porch wid you all see he, he would don' cut my brack hed off wid he's s'od. Deed he did, Miss Julia.” “How did he know about the goose?” “Spec I'se de nigger to blame. He axed me whar missus kept her pervisions, an' fo' I know'd what I do'n, I say, 'Nuffin left but one ole goose, Massa.' Den he say, 'Whar dat goose?' an' what wor a poor nigger to do, Miss Julia?” “We have done you an injustice, sir,” said the mother, again turning to me. “Pardon us, sir,” said the younger ladies. “Don't mention it, ladies. I am so glad that I am relieved from the suspicion of complicity in the stealing of that goose, that I would stay and help cook a dinner to celebrate Col. Bob's return were it not for the fact that I must go on and report to Gen. Meade.” We parted very good friends. A goodly store of flour, meat, coffee and sugar was sent to the ladies from the Union commissary department, and no doubt Col. Bob reached home in time to share the rations with his charming family. Although twenty-six years have come and gone since my experience on the piazza of that Virginia farmhouse, I cannot repress a feeling whenever I recall the circumstances, that I would be pleased to meet that “other Yankee” who did steal that goose and choke him till he cried “peccavi! ”
“Be it ever so humble, There's no place like home.”
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