Transcriber's note:
The original spelling of words has been retained. Italic
text has been marked with _underscores_. Minor spelling
inconsistencies, mainly hyphenated words, have been
harmonized. Obvious typos have been corrected.
[Illustration: READY FOR THE FRONT.]
THE RECOLLECTIONS
OF
A DRUMMER-BOY
BY
HARRY M. KIEFFER
LATE OF THE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH REGIMENT
PENNSYLVANIA VOLUNTEERS
ILLUSTRATED
"_Forsan et hæc olim meminisse juvabit_"
VIRGIL, ÆNEID I. 203
[Illustration]
BOSTON
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY
1883
COPYRIGHT, 1881, BY HARRY M. KIEFFER, AND 1883, BY
THE CENTURY CO.
_All rights reserved._
Cambridge:
PRINTED BY JOHN WILSON AND SON,
UNIVERSITY PRESS.
TO
THE OFFICERS AND MEN
OF
THE ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTIETH REGIMENT
PENNSYLVANIA VOLUNTEERS,
And to their Children,
_THIS VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED_.
PREFACE.
As some apology would seem to be necessary for the effort, herewith
made, to add yet one more volume to the already overcrowded shelf
containing the Nation's literature of the great Civil War, it may
be well to say a few words in explanation of the following pages.
Several years ago the writer prepared a brief series of papers for
the columns of _St. Nicholas_, under the title of "Recollections of
a Drummer-Boy." It was thought that these sketches of army life, as
seen by a boy, would prove enjoyable and profitable to children in
general, and especially to the children of the men who participated
in the great Civil War, on one side or the other; while the belief
was entertained that they might at the same time serve to revive
in the minds of the veterans themselves long-forgotten or but
imperfectly remembered scenes and experiences in camp and field. In
the outstart it was not the author's design to write a connected
story, but rather simply to prepare a few brief and hasty sketches
of army life, drawn from his own personal experience, and suitable
for magazine purposes. But these, though prepared in such intervals
as could with difficulty be spared from the exacting duties of
a busy professional life, having been so kindly received by the
editors of _St. Nicholas_, as well as by the very large circle
of the readers of that excellent magazine, and the writer having
been urgently pressed on all sides for more of the same kind, it
was thought well to revise and enlarge the "Recollections of a
Drummer-Boy," and to present them to the public in permanent book
form. In the shape of a more or less connected story of army life,
covering the whole period of a soldier's experience from enlistment
to muster-out, and carried forward through all the stirring scenes
of camp and field, it was believed that these "Recollections," in
the revised form, would commend themselves not only to the children
of the soldiers of the late war, but to the surviving soldiers
themselves; while at the same time they would possess a reasonable
interest for the general reader as well.
From first to last it has been the author's design, while
endeavoring faithfully to reflect the spirit of the army to which
he belonged, to avoid all needless references of a sectional
nature, and to present to the public a story of army life which
should breathe in every page of it the noble sentiment of "malice
towards none, and charity for all."
In all essential regards, the following pages are what they profess
to be,--the author's personal recollections of three years of army
life in active service in the field. In a few instances, it is
true, certain incidents have been introduced which did not properly
fall within the range of the writer's personal experience; but
these have been admitted merely as by the way, or for the sake
of being true to the spirit rather than to the letter. Facts
and dates have been given as accurately as the author's memory,
aided by a carefully kept army journal, would permit; while the
names of officers and men mentioned in the narrative are given as
they appear in the published muster-rolls, with the exception of
several instances, easily recognized by the intelligent reader, in
which, for evident reasons, it seemed best to conceal the actors
beneath fictitious names. While speaking of the matter of names, an
affectionate esteem for a faithful boyhood's friend and subsequent
army messmate constrains the writer to mention that, as "Andy" was
the name by which Fisher Gutelius, "high private in the rear rank,"
was commonly known while wearing the blue, it has been deemed well
to allow him to appear in the narrative under cover of this, his
army _sobriquet_.
As no full and complete history of the One Hundred and Fiftieth
Regiment Pennsylvania Volunteers has ever yet been written, it is
hoped that these Recollections of one of its humblest members may
serve the purpose of recalling to the minds of surviving comrades
the stirring scenes through which they passed, as well as of
keeping alive in coming time the name and memory of an organization
which deserved well of its country during the ever-memorable days
of now more than twenty years ago.
The author herewith acknowledges his indebtedness for certain
facts to a brief sketch of the One Hundred and Fiftieth Regiment
Pennsylvania Volunteers by Thomas Chamberlain, late Major of the
same; and to John C. Kensill, late sergeant of Company F, for
valuable information; and to the editors of _St. Nicholas_ for
their uniform courtesy and encouragement.
It cannot fail to interest the reader to know that the
illustrations signed A. C. R. were drawn by Allen C. Redwood, who
served in the Confederate army, and witnessed, albeit from the
other side of the fence, many of the scenes which his graphic
pencil has so admirably depicted.
With these few words of apology and explanation, the author
herewith places THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A DRUMMER-BOY in the hands of
a patient and ever-indulgent public.
H. M. K.
NORRISTOWN, PA.,
March 1, 1883.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. OFF TO THE WAR 15
II. FIRST DAYS IN CAMP 34
III. ON TO WASHINGTON 49
IV. OUR FIRST WINTER QUARTERS 60
V. A GRAND REVIEW 71
VI. ON PICKET ALONG THE RAPPAHANNOCK 76
VII. A MUD-MARCH AND A SHAM-BATTLE 89
VIII. HOW WE GOT A SHELLING 107
IX. IN THE WOODS AT CHANCELLORSVILLE 117
X. THE FIRST DAY AT GETTYSBURG 128
XI. AFTER THE BATTLE 152
XII. THROUGH "MARYLAND, MY MARYLAND" 159
XIII. PAINS AND PENALTIES 171
XIV. A TALE OF A SQUIRREL AND THREE
BLIND MICE 187
XV. "THE PRIDE OF THE REGIMENT" 201
XVI. AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE 214
XVII. OUR FIRST DAY IN "THE WILDERNESS" 221
XVIII. A BIVOUAC FOR THE NIGHT 235
XIX. "WENT DOWN TO JERICHO AND FELL
AMONG THIEVES" 245
XX. IN THE FRONT AT PETERSBURG 257
XXI. FUN AND FROLIC 272
XXII. CHIEFLY CULINARY 290
XXIII. HATCHER'S RUN 300
XXIV. KILLED, WOUNDED, OR MISSING? 305
XXV. A WINTER RAID TO NORTH CAROLINA 314
XXVI. "JOHNNY COMES MARCHING HOME!" 324
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
READY FOR THE FRONT _Frontispiece_
VIGNETTE 8
THE COMPANY STARTS FOR THE WAR 26
TAILPIECE 48
IN WINTER-QUARTERS 62
WAITING TO BE REVIEWED BY THE PRESIDENT 72
TAILPIECE 75
IN A DANGEROUS PART OF HIS BEAT 84
THE QUARTERMASTER'S TRIUMPH 102
TAILPIECE 106
GENERAL DOUBLEDAY DISMOUNTS AND SIGHTS THE
GUN 112
TAILPIECE 116
A SURGEON WRITING UPON THE POMMEL OF HIS
SADDLE AN ORDER FOR AN AMBULANCE 118
A SKIRMISH AFTER A HARD DAY'S MARCH 140
AT CLOSE QUARTERS THE FIRST DAY AT GETTYSBURG 144
ON THE MARCH TO AND FROM GETTYSBURG 156
TAILPIECE 158
"I'VE GOT HIM, BOYS!" 168
DRUMMING SNEAK-THIEVES OUT OF CAMP 172
TAILPIECE 186
TAILPIECE 213
CHRISTMAS EVE AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE 216
SICK 220
A SCENE IN THE FIELD-HOSPITAL 228
ARMY BADGES 236
"GENERAL GRANT CAN'T HAVE ANY OF THIS WATER!" 242
"ANDY HAD BOUGHT THE SORREL FOR TEN DOLLARS" 254
"BETTER GIT OFF'N DAT DAR MULE!" 260
FINDING A WOUNDED PICKET IN A RIFLE-PIT 262
SCENE AMONG THE RIFLE-PITS BEFORE PETERSBURG 266
THE MAGAZINE WHERE THE POWDER AND SHELLS
WERE STORED 270
"FALL IN FOR HARD-TACK!" 292
THE CONFLICT AT DAYBREAK IN THE WOODS AT
HATCHER'S RUN 304
WRECKING THE RAILWAY 316
THE CHARGE ON THE CAKES 326
THE WELCOME HOME 330
THE RECOLLECTIONS
OF
A DRUMMER-BOY.
[Illustration]
THE RECOLLECTIONS
OF
A DRUMMER-BOY.
CHAPTER I.
OFF TO THE WAR.
"It is no use, Andy, I cannot study any more. I have struggled
against this feeling, and have again and again resolved to shut
myself up to my books and stop thinking about the war; but when
news comes of one great battle after another, and I look around in
the school-room and see the many vacant seats once occupied by the
older boys, and think of where they are and what they may be doing
away down in Dixie, I fall to day-dreaming and wool-gathering over
my books, and it is just no use. I cannot study any more. I might
as well leave school and go home and get at something else."
But my companion was apparently too deeply interested in
unravelling the intricacies of a sentence in Cæsar to pay much
attention to what I had been saying. For Andy was a studious boy,
and the sentence with which he had been wrestling when the bell
rang for recess could not at once be given up. He had therefore
carried his book with him on our walk as we strolled leisurely up
the green lane which led past the "Old Academy," and, with his
copy of Cæsar spread out before him, lay stretched out at full
length on the greensward, in the shade of a large cherry-tree,
whose fruit was already turning red under the warm spring sun. It
was a beautiful, dreamy day in May, early in the summer of 1862,
the second year of the great Civil War. The air was laden with the
sweet scent of the young clover, and vocal with the song of the
robin and the bluebird. The sky was cloudless overhead, and the
soft spring breeze blew balmily up from the south. Behind us were
the hills, covered with orchards, and beneath us lay the quiet
little village of M----, with its one thousand inhabitants, and
beyond it the valley, renowned far and wide for its beauty, while
in the farther background deep-blue mountains rose towering toward
the sky.
My companion, apparently quite indifferent to the languid influence
of the season, resolutely persevered at his task until he had
triumphantly mastered it. Then, closing the book and clasping his
hands behind his head as he rolled around on his back, he looked at
me with a smile and said,--
"Oh! you only have the spring-fever, Harry."
"No, I haven't, Andy; it was the same last winter. And don't you
remember how excited _you_ were when the news came about Fort
Sumter last spring? You would have enlisted right off, had your
father consented. Or, may be, _you_ had the spring-fever then?"
"I'm all over that now, and for good and all. I want to study, and
as I cannot study and keep on thinking of the war all the time, why
I just stop thinking about the war as well as I can."
"Well," said I, "I cannot. Look at our school: why, there are
scarcely any large boys left in it any more, only little fellows
and the girls. For my part, I ought to get at something else."
"What would you get at? You would feel the same anywhere else.
There is Ike Zellers, the blacksmith, for example. When I came
past his shop this morning on my way to school, instead of being
busy with hammer and tongs as he should have been, there he was,
sitting on an old harrow outside his shop-door whittling a stick,
while Elias Foust was reading an account of the last battle from
some newspaper. I shouldn't wonder if Elias and Ike both would be
enlisting some one of these days. It is the same everywhere. All
people feel the excitement of the war--storekeepers, tradesmen,
farmers, and even the women; and we school-boys are no exception."
"Would you enlist, Andy, if your father would consent? You are old
enough."
"I don't think I should, Harry. I want to stick to study. But there
is no telling what a person may do when he is once taken down with
this war-fever. But you are too young to enlist; they wouldn't take
you. And you had therefore better make up your mind to stick to
school and help me at my Cæsar. If you want war, there's enough of
it in old Julius here to satisfy the most bloodthirsty, I should
think."
"You will find more about war, and of a more romantic kind too,
in Virgil and Homer when you get on so far in your studies, Andy.
But the wars of Cæsar and the siege of Troy, what are they when
compared with the great war now being waged in our own time and
country? The nodding plumes of Hector and the shining armor of
all old Homer's heroes do not seem to me half so interesting or
magnificent as the brave uniforms in which some of our older
school-fellows occasionally come home on furlough."
"Up there on the hillside," said Andy, suddenly rising from his
reclining posture, "is cousin Joe Gutelius, hoeing corn in his
father's lot. Let's go up and see what he has to say about the war."
We found Joe busy and hard at work with the young corn. He was
a fine young fellow, perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three years
of age, tall, well built, of a fine manly bearing, and looked a
likely subject for a recruiting-officer, as, in response to our
loud "Hello, Joe!" he left his unfinished row and came down to the
fence for a talk.
"Rather a warm day for work in a cornfield, isn't it, Joe?"
"Well, yes," said Joe, as he threw down his hoe and mounted the
top rail, wiping away the perspiration, which stood in great beads
on his brow. "But I believe I'd rather hoe corn than go to school
such beautiful weather. Nearly kill me to be penned up in the old
Academy such a day as this."
"That's what's the matter with Harry, here," said Andy. "He's got
the spring-fever, I tell him; but he thinks he has the war-fever. I
told him we'd come up here and see what you had to say about it."
"About what? About the spring-fever, or about the war?"
"Why, about the war, of course, Joe," said Andy with a smile.
"Well, boys, I know what the war-fever is like. I had a touch of
it last winter when the Fifty-first boys went off, and I came very
near going along with them, too. But my brothers, Charlie and Sam,
both wanted to go, and I declared that if they went I'd go too;
and mother took it so much to heart that we all had to give it up.
Charlie and Sam came near joining a cavalry company some months
ago, and I shouldn't wonder much if they did get off one of these
days; but as for myself, I guess I'll have to stay at home and take
care of the old folks."
"And I tell Harry, here," said Andy, "that he had better stick to
books and help me with my Cæsar."
"Or he might get a hoe and come and help me with my corn," said
Joe, with a smile; "that would take both the spring-fever and the
war-fever out of him in a jiffy. But there is your bell calling you
to your books. Poor fellows, how I pity you!"
That my companion would persevere in his purpose of "sticking
to books," as he called it, I had no doubt. For besides being
naturally possessed of a resolute will, he was several years
my senior, and therefore presumably less liable to be carried
away by the prevailing restlessness of the times. But for myself
study continued to grow more and more irksome as the summer drew
on apace, so that when, before the close of the term, a former
schoolmate began to "raise a company," as it was called, for the
nine months' service, unable any longer to endure my restless
longing for a change, I sat down at my desk one day in the
school-room and wrote the following letter home:--
DEAR PAPA: I write to ask whether I may have your permission to
enlist. I find the school is fast breaking up; most of the boys
are gone. I can't study any more. _Won't_ you let me go?
Poor father! In the anguish of his heart it must have been that he
sat down and wrote: "You may go!" Without the loss of a moment I
was off to the recruiting-office, showed my father's letter, and
asked to be sworn in. But alas! I was only sixteen, and lacked two
years of being old enough, and they would not take me unless I
could swear I was eighteen, which, of course, I could not and would
not do.
So, then, back again to the school when the fall term opened early
in August, 1862, there to dream over Horace, and Homer, and that
one poor little old siege of Troy, for a few days more, while Andy
at my side toiled manfully at his Cæsar. The term had scarcely well
opened, when, unfortunately for my peace of mind, a gentleman who
had been my school-teacher some years previously, began to raise
a company for the war, and the village at once went into another
whirl of excitement, which carried me utterly away; for they said
I could enlist as a drummer-boy, no matter how young I might be,
provided I had my father's consent. But this, most unfortunately,
had been meanwhile revoked. For, to say nothing of certain
remonstrances on the part of my father during the vacation, there
had recently come a letter saying,--
MY DEAR BOY: If you have not yet enlisted, do not do so; for
I think you are quite too young and delicate, and I gave my
permission perhaps too hastily, and without due consideration.
But alas! dear father, it was too late then, for I had set my
very heart on going. The company was nearly full, and would leave
in a few days, and everybody in the village knew that Harry was
going for a drummer-boy. Besides, the very evening on which the
above letter reached me we had a grand procession which marched
all through the village street from end to end, and this was
followed by an immense mass-meeting, and our future captain, Henry
W. Crotzer, made a stirring speech, and the band played, and the
people cheered and cheered again, as man after man stepped up and
put his name down on the list. Albert Foster and Joe Ruhl and Sam
Ruhl signed their names, and then Jimmy Lucas and Elias Foust and
Ike Zellers and several others followed; and when Charlie Gutelius
and his brother Sam stepped up, with Joe at their heels declaring
that "if they went he'd go too," the meeting fairly went wild with
excitement, and the people cheered and cheered again, and the band
played "Hail Columbia!" and the "Star-Spangled Banner," and "Away
Down South in Dixie," and--in short, what in the world was a poor
boy to do?
* * * * *
There was an immense crowd of people at the depot that midsummer
morning, more than twenty years ago, when our company started off
to the war. It seemed as if the whole county had suspended work
and voted itself a holiday, for a continuous stream of people, old
and young, poured out of the little village of L----, and made its
way through the bridge across the river, and over the dusty road
beyond, to the station where we were to take the train.
The thirteen of us who had come down from the village of M---- to
join the larger body of the company at L----, had enjoyed something
of a triumphal progress on the way. We had a brass band to start
with, besides no inconsiderable escort of vehicles and mounted
horsemen, the number of which was steadily swelled to quite a
procession as we advanced. The band played, and the flags waved,
and the boys cheered, and the people at work in the fields cheered
back, and the young farmers rode down the lanes on their horses, or
brought their sweethearts in their carriages, and fell in line with
the dusty procession. Even the old gatekeeper, who could not leave
his post, became much excited as we passed, gave "three cheers for
the Union forever," and stood waving his hat after us till we were
hid from sight behind the hills.
Reaching L---- about nine in the morning, we found the village all
ablaze with bunting, and so wrought up with the excitement that all
thought of work had evidently been given up for that day. As we
formed in line and marched down the main street toward the river,
the sidewalks were everywhere crowded with people,--with boys who
wore red-white-and-blue neckties, and boys who wore fatigue-caps;
with girls who carried flags, and girls who carried flowers; with
women who waved their kerchiefs, and old men who waved their
walking-sticks; while here and there, as we passed along, at
windows and doorways, were faces red with long weeping, for Johnny
was off to the war, and maybe mother and sisters and sweetheart
would never, never see him again.
[Illustration: THE COMPANY STARTS FOR THE WAR.]
Drawn up in line before the station, we awaited the train. There
was scarcely a man, woman, or child in that great crowd around
us but had to press up for a last shake of the hand, a last good
by, and a last "God bless you, boys!" And so, amid cheering, and
hand-shaking, and flag-waving, and band-playing, the train at last
came thundering in, and we were off, with the "Star-Spangled
Banner" sounding fainter and farther away, until it was drowned and
lost to the ear in the noise of the swiftly rushing train.
For myself, however, the last good by had not yet been said, for I
had been away from home at school, and was to leave the train at a
way station some miles down the road, and walk out to my home in
the country, and say good by to the folks at home; and that was the
hardest part of it all, for good by then might be good by forever.
If anybody at home had been looking out of door or window that hot
August afternoon, more than twenty years ago, he would have seen,
coming down the dusty road, a slender lad, with a bundle slung over
his shoulder, and--but nobody _was_ looking down the road, nobody
was in sight. Even Rollo, the dog, my old playfellow, was asleep
somewhere in the shade, and all was sultry, hot, and still. Leaping
lightly over the fence by the spring at the foot of the hill,
I took a cool draught of water, and looked up at the great red
farmhouse above with a throbbing heart, for that was home, and many
a sad good by had there to be said, and said again, before I could
get off to the war!
Long years have passed since then, but never have I forgotten how
pale the faces of mother and sisters became when, entering the
room where they were at work, and throwing off my bundle, in reply
to their question, "Why, Harry! where did _you_ come from?" I
answered, "I come from school, and I'm off for the war!" You may
well believe there was an exciting time of it in the dining-room of
that old red farmhouse then. In the midst of the excitement, father
came in from the field and greeted me with, "Why, my boy, where did
_you_ come from?" to which there was but the one answer, "Come from
school, and off for the war!"
"Nonsense! I can't let you go! I thought you had given up all idea
of that. What would they do with a mere boy like you? Why, you'd be
only a bill of expense to the Government. Dreadful thing to make me
all this trouble!"
But I began to reason full stoutly with poor father. I reminded
him, first of all, that I would not go without his consent; that
in two years, and perhaps in less, I might be drafted and sent
amongst men unknown to me, while here was a company commanded by my
own school-teacher, and composed of acquaintances who would look
after me; that I was unfit for study or work while this fever was
on me, and so on; till I saw his resolution begin to give way, as
he lit his pipe and walked down to the spring to think the matter
over.
"If Harry is to go, father," mother says, "hadn't I better run
up to the store and get some woollens, and we'll make the boy an
outfit of shirts to-night yet?"
"Well--yes; I guess you had better do so."
But when he sees mother stepping past the gate on her way, he halts
her with,--
"Stop! That boy can't go! I _can't_ give him up!"
And shortly after, he tells her that she "had better be after
getting that woollen stuff for shirts;" and again he stops her at
the gate with,--
"Dreadful boy! Why _will_ he make me all this trouble? I _can not_
let my boy go!"
But at last, and somehow, mother gets off. The sewing-machine is
going most of the night, and my thoughts are as busy as it is,
until far into the morning, with all that is before me that I have
never seen, and all that is behind me that I may never see again.
Let me pass over the trying good by the next morning, for Joe is
ready with the carriage to take father and me to the station, and
we are soon on the cars, steaming away toward the great camp,
whither the company already has gone.
"See, Harry, there is your camp!" And looking out of the
car-window, across the river, I catch, through the tall tree tops,
as we rush along, glimpses of my first camp,--acres and acres of
canvas, stretching away into the dim and dusty distance, occupied,
as I shall soon find, by some ten or twenty thousand soldiers,
coming and going continually, marching and countermarching, until
they have ground the soil into the driest and deepest dust I ever
saw.
I shall never forget my first impressions of camp life as father
and I passed the sentry at the gate. They were anything but
pleasant; and I could not but agree with the remark of my father,
that "the life of a soldier must be a hard life indeed." For as we
entered that great camp, I looked into an A tent, the front flap
of which was thrown back, and saw enough to make me sick of the
housekeeping of a soldier. There was nothing in that tent but dirt
and disorder, pans and kettles, tin cups and cracker-boxes, forks
and bayonet-scabbards, greasy pork and broken hard-tack in utter
confusion, and over all and everywhere that insufferable dust.
Afterward, when we got into the field, our camps in summer-time
were models of cleanliness, and in winter models of comfort, as
far, at least, as axe and broom could make them so; but this,
the first camp I ever saw, was so abominable, that I have often
wondered it did not frighten the fever out of me.
But once among the men of the company, all this was soon forgotten.
We had supper,--hard-tack and soft bread, boiled pork and strong
coffee (in tin cups),--fare that father thought "one could live
on right well, I guess;" and then the boys came around and begged
father to let me go; "they would take care of Harry; never you
fear for that;" and so helped on my cause, that that night, about
eleven o'clock, when we were in the railroad station together, on
the way home, father said,--
"Now, Harry, my boy, you are not enlisted yet. I am going home on
this train; you can go home with me now, or go with the boys. Which
will you do?"
To which the answer came quickly enough,--too quickly and too
eagerly, I have often since thought, for a father's heart to bear
it well,--
"Papa, I'll go with the boys!"
"Well, then, good by, my boy! And may God bless you and bring you
safely back to me again!"
The whistle blew "Off brakes!" the car-door closed on father, and I
did not see him again for three long, long years!
Often and often as I have thought over these things since, I have
never been able to come to any other conclusion than this: that it
was the "war-fever" that carried me off, and that made poor father
let me go. For that "war-fever" was a terrible malady in those
days. Once you were taken with it, you had a very fire in the bones
until your name was down on the enlistment-roll. There was Andy,
for example, my schoolfellow, and afterward my messmate for three
ever-memorable years. I have had no time to tell you how Andy came
to be with us; but with us he surely was, notwithstanding he had so
stoutly asserted his determination to quit thinking about the war
and stick to his books.
He was on his way to school the very morning the company was
leaving the village, with no idea of going along; but seeing this,
that, and the other acquaintance in line, what did he do but run
across the street to an undertaker's shop, cram his school-books
through the broken window, take his place in line, and march off
with the boys without so much as saying good by to the folks at
home! And he did not see his Cæsar and Greek grammar again for
three years.