playing poker for grains of corn; but we were so rarely in camp that
after a little while we forgot that we owned canvas dwellings, and I
cannot remember, if I ever knew, what became of them at last. For the
greater part of the time we slept on the ground out somewhere within
musket shot of the enemy's lines, and our waking hours were passed in
playing "tag" with the enemy's scouting parties, encountered in our
own impertinent intrusions into the lines of our foeman. A saddle was
emptied now and then, but that was only a forfeit of the game, and the
game went on.
[Sidenote: The Life of the Cavaliers]
It must have been a healthy life that we led. I well remember that
during that summer my company never had a man on the sick list. When
the extraordinary imbecility of the Confederate commissary department
managed to get rations of flour to us, we wetted it with water from
any stream or brook that might be at hand, added a little salt, if we
happened to have any, to the putty-like mass, fried the paste in bacon
fat, and ate it as bread. According to all the teachings of culinary
science the thing ought to have sent all of us to grass with
indigestions of a violent sort; but in fact we enjoyed it, and went on
our scouting ways utterly unconscious of the fact that we were possessed
of stomachs, until the tempting succulence of half-ripened corn in
somebody's field set appetite a-going again and we feasted upon the
grain without the bother of cooking it at all.
Of course, we carried no baggage with us during the days and weeks when
we were absent from camp. We had a blanket apiece, somewhere, we didn't
know where. When our shirts were soiled we took them off and washed them
in the nearest brook, and if orders of activity came before they were
dried, we put them on wet and rode away in full confidence that they
would dry on our persons as easily as on a clothesline.
One advantage that I found in this neglect of impedimenta was that I
could always carry a book or two inside my flannel shirt, and I feel now
that I owe an appreciable part of such culture as I have acquired to the
reading done by bivouac fires at night and in the recesses of friendly
cornfields by day.
There were many stories current among the good women at home in those
days of men's lives being saved by Bibles carried in their clothes and
opportunely serving as shields against bullets aimed at their wearers'
hearts. I do not know how much truth there may have been in these
interesting narratives, nor have I any trustworthy information upon
which to base an estimate of the comparative armorplate efficacy of
Bibles and other books. But one day, as I well remember, the impact of
a bullet nearly knocked me off my horse, and I found afterward that the
missile had deeply imbedded itself in a copy of "Tristram Shandy" which
lay in the region of my transverse colon. A Bible of equal thickness
would doubtless have served as well, but it was the ribald romance of
Laurence Sterne that stopped a bullet and saved my life that day.
It may be worth while to add that the young woman from whom I had
borrowed the book never would accept the new copy I offered to provide
in exchange for the wounded one.
This cavalry service abounded in adventures, most of them of no great
consequence, but all of them interesting at the time to those who shared
in them. It was an exciting game and a fascinating one to a vigorous
young man with enough imagination to appreciate it as I did. I enjoyed
it intensely at the time and, as the memory of it comes back to me now,
I find warmth enough still in my blood to make me wish it were all to do
over again, with youth and health and high spirits as an accompaniment.
[Sidenote: Delights of the War Game]
War is "all hell," as General Sherman said, and as a writer during many
years of peace, I have endeavored to do my part in making an end of it.
I have printed much in illustration of the fact that war is a cruel,
barbarous, inhuman device for settling controversies that should be
settled and could be settled by more civilized means; I have shown forth
its excessive costliness and its unspeakable cruelty to the women and
children involved as its victims. I have no word of that to take back.
But, as I remember the delights of the war game, I cannot altogether
regret them. I cannot shut my eyes to the fact that war, with all its
inhuman cruelty, its devastation, and its slaughter, calls forth some of
the noblest qualities of human nature, and breeds among men chivalric
sentiments that it is well worth while to cherish.
And the inspiration of it is something that is never lost to the soul
that has felt it. When the Spanish-American troubles came, and we all
thought they portended a real war instead of the ridiculous "muss" that
followed, the old spirit was so strong upon me that I enlisted a company
of a hundred and twenty-four men and appealed to both the state and the
national governments for the privilege of sharing in the fighting.
So much for psychology.
XXVIII
Among my experiences in the cavalry service was one which had a sequel
that interested me.
Stuart had been promoted and Fitzhugh Lee, or "Fitz Lee" as we called
him, had succeeded to the command of the First Regiment.
One day he led a party of us on a scouting expedition into the enemy's
lines. In the course of it we charged through a strong infantry picket
numbering forty or fifty men. As our half company dashed through, my
horse was shot through the head and sank under me. My comrades rode on
and I was left alone in the midst of the disturbed but still belligerent
picket men. I had from the first made up my mind that I would never
become a prisoner of war. I had stomach for fighting; I was ready to
endure hardship; I had no shrinking from fatigue, privation, exposure,
or anything else that falls to the lot of the soldier. But I was
resolute in my determination that I would never "go to jail"--a phrase
which fitly represented my conception of capture by the enemy.
So, when my horse dropped me there in the middle of a strong picket
force, I drew both my pistols, took to a friendly tree, and set to work
firing at every head or body I could see, with intent to sell my life
for the very largest price I could make it command.
This had lasted for less than two minutes when my comrades, pursued by
a strong body of Federal cavalry, dashed back again through the picket
post.
As they came on at a full run Fitz Lee saw me, and, slackening speed
slightly, he thrust out his foot and held out his hand--a cavalry trick
in which all of us had been trained. Responding, I seized his hand,
placed my foot upon his and swung to his crupper. A minute later a
supporting company came to our assistance and the pursuing cavalrymen
in blue retired.
The incident was not at all an unusual one, but the memory of it came
back to me years afterwards under rather peculiar circumstances. In 1889
there was held in New York a spectacular celebration of the centennial
of Washington's inauguration as president. A little company of us who
had organized ourselves into a society known as "The Virginians," gave
a banquet to the commissioners appointed to represent Virginia on that
occasion. It so fell out that I was called upon to preside at the
banquet, and General Fitzhugh Lee, then Governor of Virginia, sat, of
course, at my right.
Somewhere between the oysters and the entree I turned to him and said:
"It seemed a trifle odd to me, General, and distinctly un-Virginian, to
greet you as a stranger when we were presented to each other a little
while ago. Of course, to you I mean nothing except a name heard in
introduction; but you saved my life once and to me this meeting means
a good deal."
[Sidenote: Fitz Lee]
In answer to his inquiries I began to tell the story. Suddenly he
interrupted in his impetuous way, asking:
"Are you the man I took on my crupper that day down there by
Dranesville?"
And with that he pushed back his plate and rising nearly crushed my hand
in friendly grasp. Then he told me stories of other meetings with his
old troopers,--stories dramatic, pathetic, humorous,--until I had need
of General Pryor's reminder that I was presiding and that there were
duties for me to do, however interesting I might find Fitzhugh Lee's
conversation to be.
From that time until his death I saw much of General Lee, and learned
much of his character and impulses, which I imagine are wholly undreamed
of by those who encountered him only in his official capacities. He
had the instincts of the scholar, without the scholar's opportunity to
indulge them. "It is a matter of regret," he said to me in Washington
one day, "that family tradition has decreed that all Lees shall be
soldiers. I have often regretted that I was sent to West Point instead
of being educated in a more scholarly way. You know I have Carter blood
and Mason blood in my veins, and the Carters and Masons have had
intellects worth cultivating."
I replied by quoting from Byron's "Mazeppa" the lines:
"'Ill betide
The school wherein I learned to ride.'
Quoth Charles: 'Old Hetman, wherefore so,
Since thou hast learned the art so well?'"
Instantly he responded by continuing the quotation:
"''Twere long to tell,
And we have many a league to go
With every now and then a blow;'
That is to say, I'm still Consul-General at Havana, and I have an
appointment to see the President on official business this morning."
As we were sitting in my rooms at the Arlington and not in his quarters
at the Shoreham, this was not a hint of dismissal, but an apology for
leaving.
The conversation awakened surprise in my mind, and ever since I have
wondered how many of the world's great men of action have regretted
that they were not men of thought instead, and how far the regret was
justified. If Fitz Lee had been educated at Yale or Harvard, what place
would he have occupied in the world? Would he have become a Virginian
lawyer and perhaps a judge? or what else? Conjecture in such a case is
futile. "If" is a word of very uncertain significance.
The story told in the foregoing paragraphs reminds me of another
experience.
When the war ended it became very necessary that I should go to Indiana
with the least possible delay. But at Richmond I was stopped by a
peremptory military order that forbade ex-Confederates to go North. The
order had been issued in consequence of Mr. Lincoln's assassination, and
the disposition to enforce it rigidly was very strong.
In my perplexity I made my way into the office of the Federal chief of
staff of that department. There I encountered a stalwart and impressive
officer, six feet, four or five inches high--or perhaps even an inch
or two more than that--who listened with surprising patience while I
explained my necessity to him. When I had done, he placed his hand upon
my shoulder in comradely fashion and said:
"You didn't have anything to do with Mr. Lincoln's assassination. I'll
give you a special pass to go North as soon as you please."
I thanked him and took my leave.
[Sidenote: A Friendly Old Foe]
In 1907--forty-two years later--some one in the Authors Club introduced
me to "our newest member, Mr. Curtis."
I glanced at the towering form, and recognized it instantly.
"_Mr._ Curtis be hanged," I answered, "I know General Newton Martin
Curtis, and I have good reason to remember him. He is the man who let
me out of Richmond."
Since that time I have learned to know General Curtis well, and to
cherish him as a friend and club comrade as heartily as I honored him
before for his gallantry in war and for his ceaseless and most fruitful
efforts since the war in behalf of reconciliation and brotherhood
between the men who once confronted each other with steel between.
Senator Daniel of Virginia has written of him that no other man has
done so much as he in that behalf, and I have reason to know that the
statement is not an exaggerated one. The kindliness he showed to me in
Richmond when we were utter strangers and had only recently been foemen,
inspired all his relations with the Virginians during all the years
that followed, and there is no man whose name to-day awakens a readier
response of good will among Virginians than does his.
XXIX
Late in the autumn of that first year of war there was reason to
believe that the armies in Virginia were about to retire into the dull
lethargy of winter-quarters' life, and that the scene of active war
was to be transferred to the coast of South Carolina. The Federals
had concentrated heavy forces there and in a preparatory campaign had
seized upon the Sea Islands and their defensive works at Beaufort and
elsewhere. General Lee had already been sent thither to command and
defend the coast, and there seemed no doubt that an active winter
campaign was to occur in that region. I wanted to have a part in it,
and to that end I sought and secured a transfer to a battery of field
artillery which was under orders for the South.
As a matter of fact, the active campaign never came, and for many moons
we led the very idlest life down there that soldiers in time of war ever
led anywhere.
But the service, idle as it was, played greater havoc in our ranks than
the most ceaseless battling could have done.
For example, we were sent one day from Charleston across the Ashley
river, to defend a bridge over Wappoo Cut. We had a hundred and eight
men on duty--all well and vigorous. One week later eight of them were
dead, eight barely able to answer to roll call, and all the rest in
hospital. In the meanwhile we had not fired a gun or caught sight of
an enemy.
On another occasion we encamped in a delightful but pestilential spot,
and for ten days afterward our men died at the rate of from two to six
every twenty-four hours.
During the term of our service on that coast we were only once engaged
in what could be called a battle. That was at Pocotaligo on the 22nd of
October, 1862. In point of numbers engaged it was a very small battle,
indeed, but it was the very hottest fight I was ever in, not excepting
any of the tremendous struggles in the campaign of 1864 in Virginia. My
battery went into that fight with fifty-four men and forty-five horses.
We fought at pistol-shot range all day, and came out of the struggle
with a tally of thirty-three men killed and wounded, and with only
eighteen horses alive--all of them wounded but one.
General Beauregard with his own hand presented the battery a battle
flag and authorized an inscription on it in memory of the event. In all
that we rejoiced with as much enthusiasm as a company of ague-smitten
wretches could command, but it is no wonder that our Virginia
mountaineers took on a new lease of life when at last we were ordered
to rejoin the Army of Northern Virginia, as a part of Longstreet's
artillery.
XXX
[Sidenote: Left Behind]
At the end of the campaign of 1863 we found ourselves unhorsed.
We had guns that we knew how to use, and caissons full of ammunition,
but we had no horses to draw either the guns or the caissons. So
when Longstreet was ordered south to bear a part in the campaign of
Chickamauga, we were left behind. After a time, during which we were
like the dog in the express car who had "chawed up his tag," we were
assigned for the winter to General Lindsay Walker's command--the
artillery of A. P. Hill's corps.
We belonged to none of the battalions there, and therefore had no field
officers through whom to apply for decent treatment. For thirteen wintry
days we lay at Lindsay's Turnout, with no rations except a meager dole
of cornmeal. Then one day a yoke of commissary oxen, starved into a
condition of hopeless anemia, became stalled in the mud near our camp.
By some hook or crook we managed to buy those wrecks of what had once
been oxen. We butchered them, and after twenty-four or thirty-six hours
of continual stewing, we had meat again.
Belonging to no battalion in the corps to which we were attached, we
were a battery "with no rights that anybody was bound to respect," and
presently the fact was emphasized. We were appointed to be the provost
company of the corps. That is to say, we had to build guardhouses and
do all the duties incident to the care of military prisoners.
The arrangement brought welcome occupation to me. As Sergeant-Major I
had the executive management of the military prisons and of everything
pertaining to them. As a lawyer who could charge no fees without a
breach of military etiquette, I was called upon to defend, before the
courts-martial, all the more desperate criminals under our care. These
included murderers, malingerers, robbers, deserters, and men guilty of
all the other crimes possible in that time and country. They included no
assailants of women. I would not have defended such in any case, and had
there been such our sentinels would have made quick work of their
disposal.
[Sidenote: A Gratuitous Law Practice]
The rest, as I was convinced, were guilty, every man of them. But
equally I was convinced that a court-martial, if left to deal with
them in its own way, would condemn them whether guilty or not. To a
court-martial, as a rule, the accusation--in the case of a private
soldier--is conclusive and final. If not, then a very little
evidence--admissible or not--is sufficient to confirm it. It is the
sole function of counsel before a court-martial to do the very little
he can to secure a reasonably fair trial, to persuade the officers
constituting the court that there is a difference between admissible
evidence and testimony that should not be received at all, and finally,
to put in a written plea at the end which may direct the attention of
the reviewing officers higher up to any unfairness or injustice done in
the course of the trial. Theoretically a court-martial is bound by the
accepted rules of evidence and by all other laws relating to the conduct
of criminal trials; but practically the court-martial, in time of war at
least, is bound by nothing. It is a tribunal organized to convict, and
its proceedings closely resemble those of a vigilance committee.
But the proceedings of every court-martial must be reduced to writing
and approved or disapproved by authorities "higher up." Sometimes those
authorities higher up have some glimmering notion of law and justice,
and it is in reliance upon that chance that lawyers chiefly depend in
defending men before courts-martial.
But no man is entitled to counsel before a court-martial. It is only
on sufferance that the counsel can appear at all, and he is liable to
peremptory dismissal at any moment during the trial.
It was under these conditions that I undertook the defense of
TOM COLLINS
Tom was an old jailbird. He had been pardoned out of the Virginia
penitentiary on condition that he would enlist--for his age was one
year greater, according to his account of it, than that at which the
conscription law lost its force. Tom had been a trifle less than two
months in service when he was caught trying to desert to the enemy.
Conviction on such a charge at that period of the war meant death.
In response to a humble request I was permitted to appear before the
court-martial as Tom Collins's counsel. My intrusion was somewhat
resented as a thing that tended to delay in a perfectly clear case, when
the court had a world of business before it, and my request was very
grudgingly granted.
I managed, unluckily, to antagonize the court still further at the
very outset. I found that Tom Collins's captain--who had preferred the
charges against him--was a member of the court that was to try him.
Against that indecency I protested, and in doing so perhaps I used
stronger language than was advisable. The officer concerned, flushed
and angry, asked me if I meant to impugn his honor and integrity.
I answered, in hot blood:
"That depends upon whether you continue to sit as judge in a case in
which you are the accuser, or whether you have the decency to retire
from the court until the hearing in this case is ended."
"Are you a man responsible for his words?" he flashed back in reply.
"Entirely so," I answered. "When this thing is over I will afford you
any opportunity you like, captain, to avenge your honor and to wreak
satisfaction. At present I have a duty to do toward my client, and a
part of that duty is to insist that you shall withdraw from the court
during his trial and not sit as a judge in a case in which you are the
accuser. After that my captain or any other officer of the battery to
which I belong will act for me and receive any communication you may
choose to send."
At this point the presiding officer of the court ordered the room
cleared "while the court deliberates."
Half an hour later I was admitted again to the courtroom to hear the
deliberate judgment of the court that it was entirely legitimate and
proper for Tom's captain to sit in his case.
[Sidenote: Court Martial Evidence]
Then we proceeded with the trial. The proof was positive that Tom
Collins had been caught ten miles in front, endeavoring to make his
way into the enemy's lines.
In answer, I called the court's attention to the absence of any proof
that Tom Collins was a soldier. There are only three ways in which a man
can become a soldier, namely, by voluntary enlistment, by conscription,
or by receiving pay. Tom Collins was above the conscription age and
therefore not a conscript. He had not been two months in service, and by
his captain's admission, had not received soldier's pay. There remained
only voluntary enlistment, and, I pointed out, there was no proof of
that before the court.
Thereupon the room was cleared again for consultation, and a little
later the court adjourned till the next morning.
When it reassembled the judge advocate triumphantly presented a telegram
from Governor Letcher, in answer to one sent to him. It read:
"Yes. I pardoned Collins out of penitentiary on condition of
enlistment."
Instantly I objected to the reception of the despatch as evidence. There
was no proof that it had in fact come from Governor Letcher; it was not
made under oath; and finally, the accused man was not confronted by his
accuser and permitted to cross-examine him. Clearly that piece of paper
was utterly inadmissible as testimony.
The court made short work of these "lawyer's quibbles." It found Tom
Collins guilty and condemned him to death.
I secured leave of the court to set forth my contentions in writing
so that they might go to the reviewing officers as a part of the
proceedings, but I had very little hope of the result. I frankly told
Tom that he was to be shot on the next Saturday but one, and that he
must make up his mind to his fate.
The good clergyman who acted as chaplain to the military prison then
took Tom in hand and endeavored to "prepare him to meet his God." After
a while the reverend gentleman came to me with tears of joy in his eyes,
to tell me that Tom Collins was "converted"; that never in the course
of his ministry had he encountered "a case in which the repentance was
completer or more sincere, or a case more clearly showing the acceptance
of the sinner by his merciful Saviour."
My theological convictions were distinctly more hazy than those of
the clerical gentleman, and my ability to think of Tom Collins as a
person saturated with sanctity, was less than his. But I accepted the
clergyman's expert opinion as unquestioningly as I could, and Tom
Collins confirmed it. When I visited him in the guard-house I found
him positively ecstatic in the sunlight of Divine acceptance which
illuminated the Valley of the Shadow of Death. When I mentioned the
possibility that my plea in his behalf might even yet prove effective,
and that the sentence which condemned him to death the next morning
might still be revoked, he replied, with apparent sincerity:
"Oh, I hope not! For then I must wait before entering into joy! But the
Lord's will be done!"
The next morning was the one appointed for Tom Collins's death. His
coffin was ready and a shallow grave had been dug to receive his body.
The chaplain and I mounted with him to the cart, and rode with him to
the place of execution, where three other men were to die that day.
Tom's mood was placidly exultant. And the chaplain alone shed tears in
his behalf.
[Sidenote: "Death Bed Repentance"]