going to City Point to recruit, they came back about a half a mile, halted
for orders; I heard of it and concluded I would go with them and so
hastened to where they were, and soon after my arrival the order came to
"fall in." They did so with alacrity and bright hopes of much needed rest.
I took my drum and place at the head of the regiment and started with
them.
The road to the left led to City Point. Imagine their surprise when
nearing it, the order came, "FILE RIGHT, BY COMPANY INTO LINE, DOUBLE
QUICK MARCH."
The entire regiment seemed paralyzed for a moment, but only for a moment,
the whizzing of the shells and the zip zip of the rebel bullets plainly
told them what caused the sudden change. I was dumbfounded, I didn't know
what to do. My brother yelled to me to go to the rear quick, but I didn't;
I kept on with them until it seemed to rain bullets, but on, on they went
unmindful of the awful storm of leaden messengers of death--on, on and
into one of the fiercest charges of the entire war. I saw men fall so
thick and fast that there didn't seem as if there was any of my regiment
left, and I made up my mind it was too hot for me, so started on the dead
run to the rear for a place of safety, and I didn't stop until I was
pretty sure I was out of harm's way.
I came to a place about one mile back where evidently there had been a
battery located; here I sat down to rest and meditate. I examined myself
all over to see if I was hit, found I was unhurt but my drum had received
several bullet holes in it.
Finding a green spot I stretched myself out and listened to the awful
sound of musketry firing which was going on at the front, around me on all
sides was the debris of a deserted camp, empty tin cans, broken bayonets,
pieces of guns, fragments of bursted shell, and occasionally a whole one
that had failed to explode. I had only sat here a few moments thinking
which was the best way to go when I was joined by another Drummer Boy from
a Pennsylvania regiment. We sat down and talked over our exploits, and I
thought he was the most profane lad I had ever met. Most every other word
he uttered was an oath.
I asked him if he wasn't afraid to talk so.
"What the h--l should I be afraid of?" he asked, at the same time picking
up an old tent stake and sticking it into the ground, trying to drive it
in with the heel of his boot. Failing in this he reached over and got hold
of an unexploded shell and used this on the stake, but it was heavy and
unwieldy.
"I wonder if this was fired by those d--d rebs," he asked.
"I guess it was," I replied, "and you better look out, or it might go
off."
"Off be d--d, their shells were never worth the powder to blow 'em to
h--l, see the hole in the butt of it, it would make a G--d--d good mawl,
wouldn't it?" and looking round at the same time he found an old broom.
Stripping the brush and wire from the handle he said, "I'll make a mawl of
it and drive that d--d rebel stake into the ground with one of their own
d--d shells, be d--d if I don't." Inserting the broom handle into the end
of the shell he walked over to a stump, and taking the shell in both hands
commenced pounding onto the stick against the stump; "d--d tight fit," he
hollored to me, and the next instant I was knocked down by a terrific
explosion. I came to my senses in a minute and hastened to where he had
been standing. There the poor fellow lay unconscious and completely
covered with blood, there was hardly a shred of clothes on him, his hair
was all burned and both hands taken completely off, as if done by a
surgeon's saw.
I was excited and horror stricken for a moment. The sight was horrible,
but I quickly regained my composure, knowing that something must be done,
and done quickly. So taking the snares from my drum I wound them tightly
around his wrists to stop the flow of blood, then I hailed an ambulance,
and we took him to the held hospital about a mile to the rear.
On the way the poor fellow regained consciousness, and looking at his
mutilated wrists, and then with a quick and bewildered glance at me,
"G--d--d tough, ain't it," then the tears started in his eyes, and he
broke down and sobbed the rest of the way, "Oh, my God! What will my poor
mother say? Oh, what will she do!"
We reached the field hospital, which is only a temporary place for the
wounded where the wounds are hurriedly dressed, and then they are sent to
regular hospitals, located in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Norfolk,
Portsmouth, etc., where they have all the comforts possible.
We laid the little fellow down in one corner of the tent to wait his turn
with the surgeon, and when I left him, he cried and begged for me to stay,
but I couldn't stand his suffering longer, so I bade him good-bye with
tears streaming down my own cheeks. I hurried out, and even after I
reached the outside I could hear him cry, "Oh, my God! What will my poor
mother say? Oh, what will she do!"
In the afternoon I was detailed to wait on the amputating tables at the
field hospital.
It was a horrible task at first. My duty was to hold the sponge or "cone"
of ether to the face of the soldier who was to be operated on, and to
stand there and see the surgeons cut and saw legs and arms as if they were
cutting up swine or sheep, was an ordeal I never wish to go through again.
At intervals, when the pile became large, I was obliged to take a load of
legs or arms and place them in a trench near by for burial. I could only
stand this one day, and after that I shirked all guard duty. The monotony,
the routine of life, in front of Petersburg, was becoming distasteful to
me. I had stolen everything I could. My district or territory had given
out, so the next day I started for the front to bid my brother good-bye.
Our regiment was sometimes relieved and ordered to the rear for rest; so
it was on this occasion, they had fallen back and halted in a little
ravine. I met my brother, who always expected me to bring him some stolen
sweets or goodies of some kind, but unfortunately this time I came
empty-handed. I had failed to find anything to steal. I was hungry myself,
but when I looked at him I forgot my own hunger, for such a forlorn
appearance as he presented almost broke my heart, and I determined to find
him something to eat at all hazards. So off I started on an independent
foraging expedition. I had only gone a short distance when I espied a "pie
wagon." Usually when the paymaster was around there would be "hucksters"
or peddlers with all kinds of commodities following in his wake. This
fellow had driven to the front from City Point. They were generally
dare-devils, and this one was no exception to the rule. He had driven
right up to the front, unhitched his horse and began selling hot mince
pies. He had some kind of a stove and outfit in an old covered wagon where
he made the pies quickly and sold them hot for one dollar apiece; the pies
were about the size of a saucer. When I reached the wagon there was quite
a crowd around him; some were buying and eating them as if they were good,
while others stood looking on wistfully watching their comrades who were
fortunate enough to have the price. I was one of the unfortunates. I could
smell the cooking of the pies long before I reached the wagon, and this
only served to increase my already ravenous hunger; but all I could do
was to stand there with my hands in my pockets, smack my lips and imagine
what they tasted like--the longer I staid the better they tasted. I
believe I would have given five hundred dollars for one if I had possessed
the money, but I didn't have a cent; our regiment had not been paid. All
this time I was thinking of my poor brother, how he would like one of
those hot pies, and I began to concoct schemes how to get one. The way I
worked the old sanitary man would never do to try on this fellow, for he
was a "fakir" by birth, occupation and inclination. The fellow was doing a
lively business. "Here you are! Nice hot pies, fresh baked, right from the
oven! Walk up lively here. Only one dollar apiece! There's only a few of
them left, and I shan't be here again for a month; walk up with your
dollar! Get off that wheel, you young devil!" I had climbed up on the
wheel to make observations and see if I couldn't sneak a pie, but he was
watching and detected my motive; so down I got and stood gaping at him, my
mouth wide open; but my hungry look had no effect on him, he had no
sympathy for anything except dollars. Finally I thought my brother might
have a dollar, so back to him I ran, told him of the pies, but he had not
a cent. The knowledge of the pies added two fold to his hunger. "Gosh!" he
said, "ain't there some way? Can't you steal one?" "No," I said, "I have
tried that. I would have made his horse run away and upset his wagon, but
the darned cuss had unhitched him."
[Illustration]
"Ge!" I exclaimed, "I have it." And off I started. Charley, my brother,
owned an old-fashioned silver watch, one of those old "English levers." He
thought a great deal of it as a keep-sake and always gave it to me to keep
when he was going into action. I had this watch now, and made up my mind I
would trade it to the "fakir" and get a lot of pies for us all. Oh! such
bright anticipations of hot mince pies. I could almost see them floating
in the air as big as cart wheels, and fearing they would all be sold
before I could reach the wagon, I ran as hard as I could. The crowd had
thinned out and so had the pies. "How many have you got left?" I eagerly
asked. "Oh, plenty," he replied; "how many, do you want?" "Well," I said,
nearly out of breath, "I haven't any money, but I want all you have, and
I'll trade you a nice watch for them."
"Say, cully! what yer givin' me? I don't want no watch. Let's see it."
I quickly passed it up to him, and stood working my fingers and feet
impatiently and revolving in my mind how many pies he would give me and
how I would manage to carry them back, when he broke out into a loud,
contemptuous laugh, and passed the watch back.
"Say, young fellow, that aint no good. I'd rather have a blacking box than
that thing."
"It's silver," I replied.
"That don't make no difference. I'll give you one pie for the thing if you
want it, see!"
I turned the watch over and over in my hand, my feelings hurt and my
stomach disappointed. Then I thought of my brother, forgot that it was his
high-priced time-piece, and quickly said:
"Give me the pie and take the watch."
He did so, and away I started on the dead run, I could hardly resist the
temptation of biting the pie; but just before I reached the regiment, and
in full sight of my brother, I stumbled and fell, smashing the pie into
the dirt and mud. I picked myself up, looked at the crushed pie, and the
tears started in my eyes; but only for a moment. I brushed them away,
gathered up the pieces and hurried to my brother. We rubbed the mud from
the pieces the best we could, and devoured them with a hearty relish.
After the pie was gone, I regretted the bargain that I had made. Pie and
watch both gone. Remorse took possession of me. I felt guilty; I was
conscience-stricken. I was unsatisfied; no more time, no more pie.
"Gosh, that pie was good, wasn't it, 'Pod'?" This was a nickname my
brother was pleased to call me by.
"Jinks, I wish you had brought more. Why didn't you try and get two?"
"Well," I said, faltering, "you--you see, I--I didn't have time enough."
"Well, how did you get it, anyway?"
"Oh! I got it on tick." And then I walked over to a stump, thinking I
would get away from his questions and all the time revolving in my mind
whether I should tell him the truth, or say I had lost it. I felt ashamed
of myself and thought what a darned fool I was. I concluded I wasn't a bit
smart--the idea of giving a watch for a pie! Finally, Charley came over to
me.
"What time is it, Pod?"
"I--I don't know!"
"Why, ain't the watch going?"
"Yes-s. No, it's gone."
"Gone! What do you mean?" And then divining the truth, he exclaimed:
"Gor-ram it, did you sell the watch for that pie?"
"Yes, Charley, I did, but I couldn't help it; I knew you wanted the pie so
bad."
"Gor-rammed little fool; didn't you know better than that?"
Then I saw the great big tears come into his eyes, and I couldn't stand
it. I patted him on the back and said: "Never mind, Charley. I'll go and
get the watch back if I have to kill the pie man." So off I started on the
dead run, caught the fellow just as he was ready to go. I asked him if I
could ride to the rear with him. He answered, "Yes, and you can show me
how to get into that turnip watch." So I climbed on to the seat beside him
and we started. I took the watch apart, showed him how it was wound, set
and regulated it, and was about to hand it back to him, when a shell burst
a short way from us, which frightened his horse so that he cramped the
wagon and upset it, and in the confusion I got lost with the watch. On the
next day I gave it to my brother and told him how I had obtained it. He
laughed at me, and said he "guess I'd better keep it myself," and so put
it in his pocket. That night the regiment went into action, and my brother
was slightly wounded several times. One shot would have proved fatal, but
the watch received the bullet and the wound proved fatal only to the
watch; it was smashed all to pieces. But my brother prizes the pieces now
more than he ever did the whole watch.
The next day my regiment was ordered to the front again. I made up my mind
I would not go with them. I concluded I needed rest in order to
recuperate, so when the regiment started I bade my brother good-bye, gave
him a parting kiss and God's blessings, so off I started.
About a half a mile from my regiment I came to one of those Virginia
fences, got up on top of it, and sat thinking, and while sitting there the
shells began to fly pretty thick. I thought I had better be moving, jumped
down, and as I did so a shell struck one of the rails of the fence. A
piece of the rail struck me and was harder than I was, for when I came to
my senses I found I was in the hospital. I didn't think I was hurt very
badly, but when I tried to get up, found I couldn't. From there they moved
me to "Balfour Hospital" at Portsmouth, Virginia. I never will forget the
shame and mortification I felt at the sight I must have presented when the
boat that conveyed us to Portsmouth arrived.
An old negro came to my bunk and took me on his back, and with a boot in
each hand dangling over his shoulder he carried me pickaback through the
streets to the hospital, a large, fine building, formerly the "Balfour
Hotel," and converted into a hospital after Portsmouth was captured. They
took me up stairs into what was formerly the dining-room but now filled
with over two hundred little iron beds, and each bed occupied by a wounded
soldier. Everything in and about the place was as neat as wax. They
carried me to a vacant bed near the center of the room, and I noticed the
next bed to mine had several tin dishes hanging over it, suspended from
the ceiling. These were filled with water, and from a small hole punctured
in the bottom the water would slowly but constantly drip upon some poor
fellow's wound to keep it moist. I had just sat down on the side of my
bed, when I was startled by the sound of a familiar voice. "Hello, cully!
What you been doin', playing with one of those d--d shells, too?"
No, I replied, the shells were playing with me. Then I recognized the
occupant of the next bed as my drummer boy acquaintance who had his hands
blown off a week ago. What a strange thing that we should be brought
together side by side again, both wounded with a shell and nearly on the
same spot.
He had changed wonderfully; his little white pinched face told too plainly
the suffering he had endured. I asked him how he was getting along.
"Oh I'm getting along pretty d--d fast. I guess I'll croak in a few days."
"Oh you musn't talk that way, you'll be all right in a little while."
"Oh, no, cully, I know better. I'm a goner; I know it. I don't want to
live, anyhow. What in h--l is the good of a man without hands?" Then
turning his bandaged head towards me, his eyes filling with tears. "I aint
afraid to die, cul., but I would like to see my old mother first. Do you
think I will?"
Oh, yes, I said, no doubt of it; at the same time I felt that his days
were numbered, but I wanted to make him feel as comfortable as possible.
He was so much worse off than I, that I forgot my own injuries and was
eager to assist him all I could. After a few minutes silence--
"Say, cully, reach under my pillow and find a little book there; it's a
little Testament that my dear old mother gave me; read a little for me,
will you please? You'll find a place mother marked for me, read that,
please."
I turned the leaves over till I found a little white ribbon pinned to a
leaf, marking the verse beginning, "Suffer little children to come unto
me." I started to read for him, but the tears filled my eyes. I had to
stop, and as I did so, I noticed he seemed very quiet. I glanced at him,
and the open, staring eyes and the rigid drawn features told me too
plainly that the little fellow was out of his sufferings:--he was dead!
"Mother" was the countersign on his lips so thin,
And the sentry in heaven _must_ let him in.
I remained here three weeks, finally got up and around and began to think
I had enough of soldier life. I had everything I wished for; some ladies
in the town--God bless them, I never will forget them--visited the
hospital occasionally, and they always took pains to bring me flowers or
goodies of some kind. (Pardon me, but somehow I was always a favorite with
ladies.) Well, after remaining there three or four weeks I concluded I
didn't want to go to the front, so I sat down and wrote a personal letter
to Secretary Stanton, told him who, how, and what I was, and asked him to
advise me what to do; if I should go to the front or home. Soon after, a
special order came back from him to have me transferred to the "2nd
Battalion Veteran Reserve Corps."
Let me here state to those who do not understand; all soldiers who were
sick or wounded, unfit for field service were transferred to the Veteran
Reserve Corps, for the purpose of doing light guard duty in camp, or at
headquarters; they were divided into two battalions, 1st and 2nd. The 1st
battalion was supposed to be able to carry a musket for duty, while the
2nd battalion was composed of one-armed men or totally disabled soldiers,
and were supplied with a small sword; and thus I was condemned by special
order; however I liked it. I had an easy time, nothing to do, and others
to help me.
I continued here for about two months, until the hospital was ordered to
be removed to Old Point Comfort. I had become a great favorite of
Lieutenant Russell, the officer in charge of the hospital, and a nice man
he was. When the order came to move, the fixtures, furniture, in fact
everything in and about the building was ordered to be sold. I was
detailed by Lieutenant Russell to remain behind and superintend the sale
of the stuff, keep accounts, make a report when all was sold, and turn
over the proceeds. That detained me there two weeks longer. I sold the
beds, dishes, tables, everything. There remained about thirty tons of coal
in the yard to be disposed of. I sold it in any quantity to poor people;
took any price for it I could get, the same as everything else. Finally,
everything was sold off, and I was ready to depart the next day for Old
Point Comfort. In the evening, the two men I had with me and myself, used
to get our pipes and sit in front of the office and smoke. We were sitting
there talking about the sale, when it occurred to me that I had overlooked
the "deadhouse." We went back to it and found seven coffins. What was to
be done; they must be sold, as they must be accounted for, and we were
going to depart early in the morning. The street was crowded at that time
in the evening, so I took the coffins and stood them up on the sidewalk,
and everyone that passed by, I would ask him if he wanted to buy a
coffin. Finally, I struck a man who offered me seven dollars for the lot,
and I took it quick. I learned afterward he was an undertaker.
The next day I landed and reported to headquarters at Fortress Monroe. A
day or two after, Lieutenant Russell sent for me; he wanted a foreman in
the Government Printing Office. I was down for occupation on the pay-roll
as a printer. He asked me if I understood the business. I said yes, I had
some knowledge of it, so I was detailed with an extra eight dollars per
month. I took charge of the office at once. The first day I had orders to
print fifty thousand official envelopes. The press-boy brought me the
proof, I looked it over, and marked it correct; they were printed and sent
to headquarters.
A few days after Lieutenant Russell sent for me to report at his office. I
didn't know what was up. Thought perhaps I was going to be sent to
Washington to take charge of the Government Printing Office there. As I
went in, the lieutenant turned to me with a quizzical smile on his face:
"Young man, you told me you were a printer?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you 'O. K.' this job?" passing one of the envelopes he held in his
hand.
"Yes sir," I answered.
"Umph! Is it correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"It is, eh?"
"Yes-s, sir."
"Umph! how do you spell business?"
[Illustration: _Fortress Monroe where Jefferson Davis was Incarcerated._]
"B-u-i-s-n-e-ss," said I.
"You do, eh?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well," said he in an imperative manner, "our government sees fit to
differ with you. You will go to your office and print fifty thousand more,
but see that you spell business right, and bring me the proof. The lot you
have printed we will send to Washington, and recommend that they be made
into a paper mache statue of yourself, and label it 'Buisness' or the only
government printer."
I was a little chagrined at the mistake, but did not take it to heart; but
I was soon relieved by a man who was more careful in his spelling. A week
or so after leaving the printing office, I was sent to the fort to act as
a kind of a companion to the confederate president, Jefferson Davis. I was
instructed to walk and talk with him. I presume I was intended for a sort
of guard. Perhaps our government wished to make him feel as if he were not
under surveillance, and so placed one whose insignificant appearance would
put him at his ease. However, I found it a very agreeable occupation. One
of the most pleasant weeks I ever passed was with Mr. Jefferson Davis. He
was a most agreeable man to me. He gave me lots of good advice, and I
learned more from conversation with him about national affairs than I ever
expected to know; and if I ever become president I will avail myself of
the advice and teaching of that great man. He pointed out the right and
wrong paths for young men; urged me above all things to adhere strictly
to honesty and integrity; to follow these two principles, and I would
succeed in business and become great and respected. I thanked him for his
kind advice, and pressed his hand good-bye. "Good-bye, my boy," said he.
"You have been a comfort to me in my loneliness and sorrow. God bless you,
my boy, God bless you!" A great, big something came up in my throat as I
turned and left him, and I have regretted all my life that I was not
fortunate enough to have the pleasure of meeting him again before he
passed away; for I assure you, indulgent readers and comrades, that no
matter what he had done, or what mistakes he had made, his memory will
always find a warm spot in the heart of that little Drummer Boy from
Maine.
One day, soon after this I sauntered down to the steamboat landing and was
leisurly beguiling my time with a very large cigar. I noticed some
commotion in the harbor but paid more attention to the cigar than anything
else. Finally a large ocean steamer came in sight, rounded up near the
wharf and let go her anchor. Very soon a "cutter" was lowered manned with
sailors and pulled with steady stroke toward the wharf. While watching and
wondering what they were going to do with the soldiers which I saw the
vessel was loaded with, the "gig" or "cutter" neared the wharf, then I
noticed particularly the young officer who sat in the stern, he was very
dictatorial and pompous in his orders to the sailors, so much so that I
said to myself, that fellow is putting on lots of airs; he thinks he's
some pumpkins, I wish he'd fall overboard.