Let us go back to the “White House” and Fort Hill in our front. The
Shirley or White House was not far from Fort Hill, and being on a hill
overlooked much of the field of operations, and was the frequent resort
of Gen. Grant and other commanders during the siege. Several officers
and men were shot in this house. A Lieutenant of Battery L went to
Colonel Maltby of the 45th Illinois (whose camp was along the “White
House”) and asked permission to use a room in the house for making out
the battery pay rolls. “Why, certainly,” promptly answered Colonel
Maltby, “walk right in; it’s a splendid place. I was shot in the leg
here yesterday.”
It is of peculiar interest to the writer, as he was wounded in this
house while in the line of duty on July 2, 1863. Mr. Shirley and family
were living in this house when on May 18, 1863, the skirmishers of
the Union army advanced along the Jackson road, pressed back those
of Pemberton’s army into their main defensive line, so close at hand
that the salient fort, known as Fort Hill to the Union army, but to
the Confederates known as the Third Louisiana Redan, nearly west of
the house and immediately north of the road, was not over 350 yards
distant. As the building was an obstruction to the fire from the
Confederate line, it was to have been destroyed; but, according to the
story of Mrs. Eaton, the presence of her mother delayed carrying the
order into execution so long that the Confederate soldier who came to
do so, while holding a ball of blazing cotton to the building, fell
under the fire of the advancing vanguard and was buried the next day
upon the spot. As for Mrs. Shirley, she first had a sheet attached to
a broomstick and hung from an upper window, which gave some respite
from the fire of the Union troops. But their line soon reached the
house itself and practically rested there, so that a steady firing
upon it from the other side was inevitable. Notwithstanding this, Mrs.
Shirley remained there for three days, much of the time sitting behind
the large chimney for shelter. Having in the meantime learned of the
situation of the Shirley’s, orders came from Gen. McPherson for their
removal. They went accordingly, into a shallow cave hastily prepared
in a nearby ravine. Here the family remained for a time, Mrs. Shirley
having sickened from exposure and poor fare, but were soon after, by
Gen. Grant’s personal direction, removed to a plantation three miles in
the rear, where a negro cabin afforded temporary shelter. The Shirley’s
were Union people and Mr. Lossing, the historian, says: “That the
accomplished daughter kept a diary during the siege, each day’s record
closing with the prediction that success would crown the efforts of
the Union army.” The wish was father to the thought; her patriotism
was rewarded with the heart and hand of the gallant Gen. Eaton of the
United States army, and they were married about the close of the war.
They now reside in Washington, and if the facts of their courtship and
betrothal, conducted amidst the exciting scenes of a terrible siege,
were known, it would no doubt be a very interesting romance. But what
of the ladies who are in the besieged city? Many of them have left
their fine mansions and taken up their abode in the holes and caves of
the hills in and around the city, and so universal was this mode of
living that the city in its desolation looked like a “prairie dog’s
village.” One of the residents of the city afterwards said: “It got
to be Sunday all the time; seven Sundays in the week to us anyway. We
hadn’t anything to do and the time hung heavy. Seven Sundays, and all
of them broken up at one time or another in the day or in the night by
a few hours of the awful storm of fire and thunder and iron and lead.”
The caves were sometimes fearfully crowded, always hot and close.
Oftentimes a cave had from twenty to twenty-five people packed in it;
no turning room for anybody, and the air so foul, sometimes, you could
not have made a candle burn. A child was born in one of these caves one
night during the siege. Generally, there is considerable noise around
when a baby is born, but this fellow was welcomed with the booming of
cannon and the fierce shriek of the screaming shell. I’ll warrant, if
he was like most boys, he tried to make all the noise he could. But
he is no longer a baby, at least let us hope he is not, for he is old
enough now to be a man all through, being at this time over 50 years of
age. I have his picture and a fine-looking man he is. He writes on his
picture: “I was born 12 feet under ground.” One night a shell burst in
front of one of these caves and stopped up the hole to such an extent
the occupants came near smothering, and for a time there was some
lively scratching of dirt for a breathing hole.
Fort Hill is said to be the key to Vicksburg. We have tried often to
turn this key, and have as often failed--in fact, the lock is not
an easy one, but we soon shall try the burglar’s plan, and with the
aid of powder blow the lock to “smithereens.” The sap or trench is
run to the fort and the fort is mined, the boys digging the dirt and
carrying it out in boxes. Great holes are dug underneath the fort,
and miners from the Lead Mine, 45th Illinois Regiment, who understand
tamping, have charged the 2,200 pounds of powder, and all is ready
to light the fuse. June, the 25th, a heavy artillery fire opened all
along the line, and at 2:30 p. m., the explosion takes place. Huge
masses of earth were thrown in the air, and the ground was shaken as
by an earthquake. As soon as the earth was rent, a bright glare of
fire issued from the burning powder, but quickly died away, as there
was nothing combustible in the fort. A few Confederate soldiers were
hurled into the air, one or two of whom came down inside our lines,
and some were buried in the fort, as was proven a few years after the
war, when the fort was dismantled and turned into a cotton field, a few
skeletons were found buried underneath. One negro boy fell among the
men of our company. He gathered himself together, and looked around as
though he thought the day of judgment had surely come. One of our boys
asked him how far up he thought he had gone, and he replied: “Don’t
know, Massa; ’bout free miles, I guess.” He believed it, for I never
saw such a frightened look on any one’s face, and his eyes stood out
and looked unnatural. When the smoke and dust had cleared away partly,
a great saucer-shaped crater was seen, where before was the A-shaped
Fort Hill. It was large enough to hold about 60 or 80 men. The 23rd
Indiana and the 45th Illinois were in the trenches ready to charge; the
command was given before the dust had fully settled; the 23rd Indiana
charging to the left of the crater to the top of the works; the 45th
Illinois up and into the crater. The enemy had come up behind the big
pile of earth thrown out by the explosion, and as we went into the
crater, they met us with a terrible volley of musketry, but on the
boys went, up and over the embankment with a cheer, the enemy falling
back a few paces to an inner or second line of breastworks, where are
placed cannon loaded with grape and canister, and these cannon belched
forth their death-dealing missiles, in addition to the heavy musketry
fire, with such telling effect that many of the brave boys fall to
rise no more; the line wavers, staggers, and then falls back into the
crater. The enemy charge on us, but we repel them at the west bank of
the crater, and a hand-to-hand conflict rages for hours; hand grenades
and loaded shells are lighted and thrown over the parapet as you
would play ball. These shells and hand grenades carry death, as many
as a dozen men being killed and wounded at one explosion. It seems to
me, in looking back, a wonder that any one in that hot place was left
to tell the story. I have witnessed our men grab these shells, at the
risk of their exploding, and fling them back. Many a brave hero laid
down his life in that death hole, or, as we most appropriately called
it, “Fort Hell.” The Chicago Tribune had its correspondent in the field
and, in the issues of that paper on July 3 and 6, 1863, he speaks of
the charge and fighting in the crater, saying: * * * “A wide embrasure
in the embankment was made into which the noble Lead Mine Regiment,
led by Colonel Maltby, rushed in and at once planted our banner amid a
terrific fire from the enemy. The conduct of the 45th Illinois Regiment
was grand in the extreme. Universal commendation is bestowed for the
gallant manner that regiment performed the duty assigned it, and in
no small degree upon the field officers who so nobly inspired the men
by taking the advance and marching up to the muzzles of the enemy’s
guns, so near that for a time it was a hand-to-hand fight. The colors
of the regiment planted on the parapet of the fort are literally torn
to pieces by the shots of the enemy. Two of the field officers, Lieut.
Col. Smith and Major Fisk, are no more. Col. Maltby is still suffering
from a severe wound.”
[Illustration: The 23rd Indiana and 45th Illinois Regiments charging
Fort Hill after the explosion of the mine June 25th, 1863, at the siege
of Vicksburg.]
We fought at close range with the enemy over that embankment of earth,
many of the men receiving bayonet wounds. A cypress log, with port
holes cut on the under side, was brought into the crater, and in
helping to place it on the parapet, Col. James A. Maltby was severely
wounded by splinters from the log. A solid shot from a cannon hit
the log, hurling it with terrific force against the Colonel and his
small command. Gen. John A. Logan said of Col. Maltby, at the siege of
Vicksburg: “He is the bravest man I ever saw on the field of battle.”
He was in the Mexican War, badly wounded at Chapultepec, then at Fort
Donelson in 1862 and then at Vicksburg. He was justly promoted to be
a Brigadier General for his bravery. A detail of about two companies
would hold the crater for two hours or more, their rapid firing causing
the rifles to become hot and foul, and the men weary and worn out, when
two other companies would slip in and take their places. Badeau, in his
history of Gen. Grant, says: “Details from Leggett’s brigade relieved
each other all night long, in their attempt to hold the crater.” I want
to correct his history and say, as I have a right to say, for I was
there and speak from what I know to be the facts, it was no “attempt,”
it was an accomplished fact that we _held it_, but to our great loss,
until the order was received to give it up. What a terrible sacrifice
it was to hold that little piece of ground. It probably was all right
to have made the charge into the crater after the explosion and try to
make a breech inside the enemy’s lines, but it surely was a serious
mistake, either of Gen. Grant or Gen. McPherson, to cause that crater
to be held for over 48 hours with the loss of brave men every hour. I
remember, upon returning to the trenches, after having been relieved
in the crater, of passing Gen. John A. Logan, surrounded by some of
his aid-de-camp, and as they bore past him some wounded hero, he broke
forth with vehemence, saying: “My God! they are killing my bravest men
in that hole.” Some one suggested that the place be given up. He said
in reply: “I can’t; my commanding officer orders me to hold every inch
of ground.” The crater was at last given up and we resumed the ordinary
duties of everyday life in the trenches and in camp.