IN THE FRONT AT PETERSBURG.
"Andy, let's go a-swimming."
"Well, Harry, I don't know about that. I'd like to take a good
plunge; but, you see, there's no telling how soon we may move."
It was the afternoon of Tuesday, June 14, 1864. We had been
marching and fighting almost continually for five weeks and more,
from the Wilderness to Spottsylvania, over the North Anna, in at
Cold Harbor, across the Pamunky and over the Chickahominy to the
banks of the James River, about a mile and a half from which we
were now lying, along a dusty road. We were sunburned, covered with
dust, and generally used up, so that a swim in the river would be a
refreshment indeed.
Having learned from one of the officers that the intention
evidently was to remain where we then were until the entire corps
should come up, and that we should probably cross the river at or
somewhere near that point, we resolved to risk it.
So, over a cornfield we started at a good pace. We had not gone
far, when we discovered a mule tied up in a clump of bushes, with
a rope around his neck. And this long-eared animal, as Gothic
as Bonaparte in his style of architecture, we decided, after a
solemn council of war, to declare contraband, and forthwith we
impressed him into service, intending to return him, after our
bath, on our way back to camp. Untying Bucephalus from the bush, we
mounted, Andy in front and I on behind, each armed with a switch,
and we rode along gayly enough, with our feet dangling among the
corn-stalks.
For a while all went well. We fell to talking about the direction
we had come since leaving the Pamunky; and Andy, who was usually
such an authority on matters geographical and astronomical that on
the march he was known in the company as "the compass," confessed
to me as we rode on that he himself had been somewhat turned about
in that march over the Chickahominy swamp.
"And as for me," said I, "I think this is the awfullest country to
get turned about in that I ever did see. Why, Andy, while we were
lying over there in the road it seemed to me that the sun was going
down in the east. Fact! But when I took my canteen and went over
a little ridge to the rear to look for water for coffee, I found,
on looking up, that on that side of the ridge the sun was all
right. Yet when I got back to the road and looked around, judge of
my surprise when I found the whole thing had somehow swung around
again, and the sun was going down in the east! And you may judge
still further of my surprise, Andy, when, on going and walking
back and forth across that ridge, I found one particular spot from
which, if I looked in one direction, the sun was going down all
right in the west; but if in the opposite direction, he was going
down all wrong, entirely wrong, in the east!"
"Whoa dar! Whoa dar! Whar you gwine wid dat dar mule o' mine? Whoa,
Pete!"
The mule stopped stock-still as we caught sight of the black
head and face of a darky boy peering forth from the door of a
tobacco-house that we were passing. Possibly, he was the owner
of the whole plantation now, and the mule Pete might be his only
live-stock.
"Where are we going, Pompey? Why we're going 'on to Richmond!'"
"On ter Richmon'! An' wid dat dar mule o' mine! 'Clar to goodness,
sodgers, can't git along widout dat mule. Better git off'n dat dar
mule!"
"Whip him up, Andy!" shouted I.
"Come up, Bucephalus!" shouted Andy.
And we both laid on right lustily. But never an inch would that
miserable mule budge from the position he had taken on hearing the
darky's voice, until all of a sudden, and as if a mine had been
sprung under our feet, there was such a striking out of heels and
such an uncomfortable elevation in the rear, the angle of which
was only increased by increased cudgelling, that at last, with an
enormous spring, Andy and I were sent flying off into the corn.
[Illustration: "BETTER GIT OFF'N DAT DAR MULE!"]
"Yi! yi! yi! Didn' I say better git off'n dat dar mule o' mine? Yi!
yi! yi!"
Laughing as heartily as the darky at our misadventure, we felt that
it would be safer to make for the river afoot. We had a glorious
plunge in the waters of the James, and returned to the regiment at
sunset, greatly refreshed.
The next day we crossed the James in steamboats. There were
thousands of men in blue all along both shores; some were crossing,
some were already over, and others were awaiting their turn. By the
middle of the forenoon we were all well over, and it has been said
that, had we pushed on without delay, the story of the siege of
Petersburg would have read quite differently. But we waited,--for
provisions, I believe,--and during this halt the whole corps took
a grand swim in the river. We marched off at three o'clock in the
afternoon, over a dusty road and without fresh water, and reached
the neighborhood of Petersburg at midnight, but did not get into
position until after several days of hard fighting in the woods.
It would be impossible to give a clear and interesting account
of the numerous engagements in which we took part around that
long-beleaguered city, where for ten months the two great armies
of the North and South sat down to watch and fight each other
until the end came. For, after days and days of manoeuvring and
fighting, attack and sally, it became evident that Petersburg could
not be carried by storm, and there was nothing for it but to sit
down stubbornly, and, by cutting off all railroad supplies and
communications, starve it into surrender.
It may be interesting, however, to tell something of the everyday
life and experience of our soldiers during that great siege.
[Illustration: FINDING A WOUNDED PICKET IN A RIFLE-PIT.]
Digging becomes almost an instinct with the experienced soldier. It
is surprising how rapidly men in the field throw up fortifications,
how the work progresses, and what immense results can be
accomplished by a body of troops in a single night. Let two armies
fight in the open field one evening--by the next morning both are
strongly intrenched behind rifle-pits and breastworks, which it
will cost either side much blood to storm and take. If spades and
picks are at hand when there is need of fortifications, well;
if not, bayonets, tin cups, plates, even jack-knives, are pressed
into service until better tools arrive; and every man works like a
beaver.
Thus it was that although throughout the 18th of June the fighting
had been severe, yet, in spite of weariness and darkness, we set to
work, and the morning found us behind breastworks; these we soon
so enlarged and improved that they became well-nigh impregnable.
At that part of the line where our regiment was stationed, we
built solid works of great pine-logs, rolled up, log on log, seven
feet high and banked with earth on the side toward the enemy, the
whole being ten feet through at the base. On the inside of these
breastworks we could walk about perfectly safe from the enemy's
bullets, which usually went singing harmlessly over our heads.
On the outside of these works were further defences. First, there
was the ditch made by throwing up the ground against the logs;
then, farther out, about twenty or thirty yards away, was the
_abatis_--a peculiar means of defence made by cutting off the tops
and heavy limbs of trees, sharpening the ends, and planting them
firmly in the ground in a long row, the sharpened ends pointing
toward the enemy, the whole being so close and so compacted
together with telegraph-wires everywhere twisted in, that it was
impossible for a line of battle to get through it without being cut
off to a man. Here and there, at intervals, were left gaps wide
enough to admit a single man, and it was through these man-holes
that the pickets passed out to their pits beyond.
Fifty yards in front of the _abatis_ the pickets were stationed.
When first the siege began, picketing was dangerous business.
Both armies were bent on fight, and picketing meant simply
sharpshooting. As a consequence, at first the pickets were
posted only at night, so that from midnight to midnight the poor
fellows lay in their rifle-pits under a broiling July sun, with
no protection from the intolerable heat, excepting the scanty
shade of a little pine-brush erected overhead, or in front of the
pit as a screen. There the picket lay, flat on his face, picking
off the enemy's men whenever he could catch sight of a head, or
even so much as a hand; and right glad would he be if, when the
long-awaited relief came at length, he had no wounds to show.
But later on, as the siege progressed, this murderous state of
affairs gradually disappeared. Neither side found it pleasant or
profitable, and nothing was gained by it. It decided nothing, and
only wasted powder and ball. And so, gradually the pickets on both
sides began to be on quite friendly terms. It was no unusual thing
to see a Johnny picket--who would be posted scarcely a hundred
yards away, so near were the lines--lay down his gun, wave a piece
of white paper as a signal of truce, walk out into the neutral
ground between the picket-lines, and meet one of our own pickets,
who, also dropping his gun, would go out to inquire what Johnny
might want to-day.
"Well, Yank, I want some coffee, and I'll trade tobacco for it."
"Has any of you fellows back there some coffee to trade for
tobacco? 'Johnny Picket,' here, wants some coffee."
Or maybe he wanted to trade papers, a Richmond _Enquirer_ for a
New York _Herald_ or _Tribune_, "even up and no odds." Or he only
wanted to talk about the news of the day--how "we 'uns whipped you
'uns up the valley the other day;" or how "if we had Stonewall
Jackson yet, we'd be in Washington before winter;" or maybe he only
wished to have a friendly game of cards!
There was a certain chivalrous etiquette developed through this
social intercourse of deadly foemen, and it was really admirable.
Seldom was there breach of confidence on either side. It would have
gone hard with the comrade who should have ventured to shoot down
a man in gray who had left his gun and come out of his pit under
the sacred protection of a piece of white paper. If disagreement
ever occurred in bartering, or high words arose in discussion,
shots were never fired until due notice had been given. And I find
mentioned in one of my old army letters that a general fire along
our entire front grew out of some disagreement on the picket-line
about trading coffee for tobacco. The two pickets couldn't agree,
jumped into their pits, and began firing, the one calling out:
"Look out, Yank, here comes your tobacco." Bang!
And the other replying: "All right, Johnny, here comes your
coffee." Bang!
[Illustration: SCENE AMONG THE RIFLE-PITS BEFORE PETERSBURG.]
Great forts stood at intervals all along the line as far as the eye
could see, and at these the men toiled day and night all summer
long, adding defence to defence, and making "assurance doubly
sure," until the forts stood out to the eye of the beholder, with
their sharp angles and well-defined outlines, formidable structures
indeed. Without attempting to describe them in technical military
language, I will simply ask you to imagine a piece of level ground,
say two hundred feet square, surrounded by a bank of earth about
twenty feet in height, with rows of gabions[4] and sand-bags
arranged on top of the embankment, and at intervals along the
sides embrasures or port-holes, at which the great cannon were
planted,--and you will have some rough notion of what one of our
forts looked like. Somewhere within the inclosure, usually near
the centre of it, was the magazine, where the powder and shells
were stored. This was made by digging a deep place something like
a cellar, covering it over with heavy logs, and piling up earth
and sand-bags on the logs, the whole, when finished, having the
shape of a small round-topped pyramid. At the rear was left a
small passage, like a cellar-way, and through this the ammunition
was brought up. If ever the enemy could succeed in dropping a
shell down that little cellar-door, or in otherwise piercing the
magazine, then good by to the fort and all and everybody in and
around it!
[4] Bottomless wicker-baskets, used to strengthen earthworks.
On the outside of each large fort there were, of course, all the
usual defences of ditch, _abatis_, and _chevaux-de-frise_, to
render approach very dangerous to the enemy.
The enemy had fortifications like ours,--long lines of breastworks,
with great forts at commanding positions; and the two lines were so
near that, standing in one of our forts, I could have carried on
a conversation with a man in the fort opposite. I remember, while
on the picket-line one evening, watching a body of troops moving
along the edge of a wood within the enemy's works, and quite easily
distinguishing the color of their uniforms.
I have said already that, inside of our breastworks, one was
quite secure against the enemy's bullets. But bullets were not the
only things we had to look out for,--there were the shell, the
case-shot, and I know not what shot besides. Every few hours these
would be dropped behind our breastworks, and often much execution
was done by them. To guard against these missiles, each mess built
what was called a "bomb-proof," which consisted of an excavation
about six feet square by six deep, covered with heavy logs, the
logs covered with earth, a little back cellar-way being left on the
side away from the enemy. Into this bomb-proof we could dart the
moment the shelling began, and be as safe as in our own mother's
kitchen. Our shelter-tents we pitched on top of the bomb-proof,
and in this upper story we lived most of the time, dropping down
occasionally into the cellar.
Bang! bang! bang!
"Fall into your pits, boys!" and in a trice there wasn't so much as
a blue coat in sight.
Familiarity breeds contempt,--even of danger; and sometimes we
were caught. Thus, one day, when there had been no shelling for a
long time, and we had grown somewhat careless, and were scattered
about under the trees, some sleeping and others sitting on top of
the breastworks to get a mouthful of fresh air, all of a sudden
the guns of one of the great forts opposite us opened with a
rapid fire, dropping shells right among us. Of course there was
a "scatteration" as we tried to fall into our pits pell-mell;
but, for all our haste, several of us were severely hurt. There
was a boy from Philadelphia,--I forget his name,--sitting on the
breastworks writing a letter home; a piece of shell tore off his
arm with the pen in his hand. A lieutenant received an iron slug
in his back, while a number of other men were hurt. And such
experiences were of frequent occurrence.
A great victory had been gained by our cavalry somewhere (I think
by Sheridan), and one evening an orderly rode along the line to
each regimental headquarters, distributing despatches containing an
account of the victory, with instructions that the papers be read
to the men. Cheers were given all along the line that night, and a
shotted salute was ordered at daylight the next morning.
[Illustration: THE MAGAZINE WHERE THE POWDER AND SHELLS WERE
STORED.]
At sunrise every available gun from the Appomattox to the Weldon
Railroad must have been brought into service and trained against
the enemy's works, for the noise was terrific. And still further to
increase the din, the Johnnies, supposing it to be a grand assault
along the whole line, replied with every gun they could bring to
bear, and the noise was so great that you would have thought the
very thunders of doom were rolling. After the firing had ceased,
the Johnnies were informed that "we have only been giving three
iron cheers for the victory Sheridan has gained up the valley
lately." There was, I presume, some regret on the other side over
the loss of powder and shot. At all events, whenever, after that,
similar iron cheers were given, and this was not seldom the case,
the enemy preserved a moody silence.
After remaining in our works for about a month, we were relieved
by other troops and marched off to the left in the direction of
the Weldon Railroad, which we took after severe fighting. We held
it, and at once fortified our position with a new line of works,
thus cutting off one of the main lines of communication between
Petersburg and the South.