The army was without tents, yet very comfortable. They were encamped
along the steep hillside, mostly sheltered from the enemy’s shot. A
place was dug against the hill, and in many cases, into it, forming a
sort of cave. Poles were put up and covered with oil cloths, blankets
or cane rods, of which an abundant supply was near at hand. For fuel,
the farm fences were laid under contribution, in some cases being
hauled for two or three miles. The work of slaughter and destruction
went on day and night. The roar of cannon, the rattle of musketry, the
sharp crack of the rifle in the hands of the sharpshooters, reached the
ear from all sides. There was no cessation, no Let up.
“Cannon to right of them;
Cannon to left of them;
Cannon in front of them;
Volleyed and thundered.”
Stormed at with shot and shell, the beleaugered garrison and the
inhabitants of Vicksburg must have felt, as surely as day follows
night, that the end could not be much longer delayed. Mines and
countermines were dug and sprung. Not a man in the trenches on either
side could show his head above the breastworks without being picked off
by the sharpshooters. A hat held out for two minutes at a port hole
was riddled with minie-balls. Shells searched out all parts of the
city, with direful results. Several women and children were killed and
wounded during the siege. There were about 1,300 women and children in
the city during the bombardment, who, during the greater part of the
time, had been obliged to live in caves, cut in the hard clay hills
in the city, of which there were several hundred. At this day it may
seem to some of my readers that it was cruel and inhuman for the Union
forces to fire on defenseless women and children, but what could we
do; they were in the city and preferred to remain there to cheer on
their husbands and brothers in their work of trying to destroy the
Union. To show my readers with what feeling these Southern women showed
their hatred of the North and the boys in blue, let me give a simple
extract from a letter written by a Southern wife to her husband in the
Confederate army, which letter was captured near Vicksburg. Speaking of
the Yankees she says: “If there is an hereafter, a heaven or hell, I
pray to go to perdition ere my soul would be joined to rest in heaven
with the fiendish foe. It would be some solace to us, when we love our
husbands, fathers, sons and friends, to know they were fighting an
enemy, civilized or refined in a great degree. But, oh! the thought is
killing; is too painful, to see our men, the choicest, most refined
specimens of God’s work, destroyed and even forced to take up arms
against the offscourings, outcast dregs of creation, for every man
they lose is a blessing, a Godsend to humanity and society.” These are
strong words, and a woman that could harbor such feelings would have
the courage to stay in the doomed city and take her chances with her
husband and friends.
To offset this, let me tell you of a romance of the war, which has
never been published, and was given me by Comrade Searles, late of
Chicago. Gen. Elias E. Dennis, in command of a brigade of our troops
during the siege, made his headquarters at a farm house (the home of a
widow and family), occupying one portion of it. The General was very
kind to the widow and orphans, often providing for them from his own
means. One of these children, a bright, winsome little girl of some
eight years, took a deep interest in all that transpired, remembering
many events of those stirring times, but above all, retaining a most
kindly recollection of the General who occupied the house. About twelve
years ago a reunion of some old veterans was held at Vicksburg. Comrade
Searles, of Chicago, was there, and among the Southern ladies who
welcomed them was this little girl, now, of course, grown to womanhood.
Accepting her kind invitation to visit her home, the next day found our
comrade in the same house where Gen. Dennis had made his headquarters
during the siege. Naturally, the conversation turned to the days of
1863. The lady, recalling the many kindnesses of Gen. Dennis, inquired
if he were alive, to which Comrade Searles replied: “Why, bless you,
I know him personally; he lives at Omaha.” She then asked her comrade
if he would be the bearer of a letter to the General, and he replied,
“Most gladly.” In due time this was delivered. What its contents were,
none save the writer and the General ever knew, but as he read the
letter, his lips quivered and his eyes filled with tears. The General
was alone in the world, his wife and only daughter having passed away.
Soon after he journeyed south. We know not what the greeting was; no
doubt the lady awakened in the mind of the old veteran memories of his
own lost, loved child, for shortly after this, he adopted the lady as
his daughter. He lived the remainder of his days in Vicksburg, and but
recently passed over to the eternal camping ground. When the General’s
will was proven, it was found that all his property had been left to
his daughter of the Southland.
Another romance that commenced shortly after the surrender of the
city is worth recording. A Miss Mary E. Hurlburt, of Danbury, Conn.,
a Northern girl, was visiting at the Lunn Mansion in the city of
Vicksburg at the outbreak of the war, and tarrying too long, was
compelled to remain there until the Union forces opened up the
Mississippi River. When Gen. Grant captured the city, the officers
of those commanding the troops in the city domiciled themselves at
different houses. Gen. Leggett and his staff located their headquarters
at the Lunn residence. Gen. John A. Rawlins, chief of Gen. Grant’s
staff, had occasion to visit the headquarters of Gen. Leggett and
naturally met Miss Hurlburt and their acquaintance soon ripened into
a love affair, which in a few months culminated in a wedding and the
young lady became the wife of Gen. John A. Rawlins, and shared with him
in all the honors conferred upon the General as the closest advisor of
Gen. Grant, and afterwards as Secretary of War.
The month of June, 1863, was rolling by and the glorious 4th of July
drew near. The Union lines were getting closer and closer, and the
question was passed around among the boys, “Shall we spend the Fourth
in Vicksburg or in the trenches?” On June 28, the Confederates threw
over to our men a small biscuit made of corn meal and peas. To this was
attached a very small piece of meat and a note stating that it was one
day’s rations. The note went on: “We are pretty hungry and dreadful
dry. Old Pemberton has taken all the whisky for the hospitals and
our Southern Confederacy is so small just now that we are not in the
manufacturing business. Give our compliments to Gen. Grant and say to
him that grub would be acceptable, but we will feel under particular
obligations to him if he will send us a few bottles of good whisky.”
Shall I give you the experience of a wounded soldier? Towards the
close of the siege, while in the line of duty, a minie-ball from a
Confederate sharpshooter went crashing through his right lung. His
comrades bore him back a short distance; the surgeon came and seeing
where the soldier had been shot, shook his head and said, “he cannot
live.” Comrades gathered around, saying in undertones, “poor fellow,
he’s got his discharge.” The soldier closed his eyes, and although
gasping for breath, as the warm life blood flowed from his wound and
gushed from his mouth, saw something--his past life came before
him like a living panorama; the good deeds and the evil of his life
appeared in a few moments; he thought he was soon to be ushered into
eternity, and how would it stand with him there. He breathed one little
prayer: “O, Lord, spare my life and I will serve thee all my days.”
Presently the ambulance came and he was lifted tenderly into it, to be
conveyed two miles to the rear to the brush hospital. The boys said
“good-bye.” He was but a youth, not twenty years of age; had been
promoted to First Sergeant after the battle of Shiloh and had endeared
himself to all in his company, many of whom were old enough to be
his father. Louis LaBrush, a Sergeant of the company, a Frenchman by
birth, but a true lover of his adopted country, loved this smooth-faced
boy, so badly wounded, and begged permission of the Captain to go
with the wounded soldier and watch over him. The Captain, seeing the
yearning Look in the eyes of the Sergeant, granted permission, and the
ambulance started with the old Sergeant watching with a tender care
over the little Orderly Sergeant pillowed on his knee. The sun was just
sinking to rest when they reached the hospital, which was only a brush
shed covered with branches from the trees, in which were long lines of
cots upon which the wounded soldiers lay. As the ambulance drew near
the surgeon in charge came out, and looking at the wounded man, said:
“Put him out there under that tree; he’ll die tonight,” and the old
Sergeant put his darling boy out under the tree, laying him tenderly
on the ground. The Sergeant and another comrade of his company, Henry
Winter, who was a nurse in the hospital, watched by the boy’s side
during the weary hours of the night. At midnight, as the doctor was
making his rounds, he observed the Sergeant still under the tree, and
went to see if the boy was yet living. Finding that he was, he then
made an examination by probing with his fingers into the wounds. The
splintered bones pierced the tender flesh and made the boy writhe in
pain, although the only protest was the gritting of his teeth. To cause
his boy such suffering, after the treatment he had received, was more
than the old Frenchman could stand, and he burst forth in a volley of
oaths, commanding the doctor to take his hands off immediately or he
would kill him, saying, “If he is going to die, let him die in peace;
you shall not kill him.” Seeing the fire in the old Sergeant’s eyes,
the doctor went away, muttering, “Well, the boy will die anyway.”
I want to say right here, that as a rule our surgeons were men of
sympathy and did all they could for the soldiers. The example I speak
of is one of the exceptions. The next morning the surgeon did not come,
but sent word that if the soldier under the tree was still alive, to
dress his wound, give him clean clothing and place him on a cot in the
hospital. He was alive and that boy recovered, even after the surgeon
in the army and the doctors at home said he couldn’t live. That wounded
boy lives today and is able to write this book in the year 1915, and he
is ever grateful in remembrance of the old French Sergeant and Comrade
Henry Winter, whose tender care aided in saving his life.