A WINTER RAID TO NORTH CAROLINA.
About the beginning of December, 1864, we were busy building cabins
for the winter. Everywhere in the woods to our rear were heard the
sound of axes and the crash of falling trees. Men were carrying
pine-logs on their shoulders, or dragging them along the ground
with ropes, for the purpose of building our last winter-quarters;
for of the three years for which we had enlisted, but a few months
remained. The camp was a scene of activity and interest on all
sides. Here were some men "notching" the logs to fit them firmly
together at the corners; yonder, one was hewing rude Robinson
Crusoe boards for the eaves and gables; there, a man was digging
clay for the chimney, which his messmate was cat-sticking up to a
proper height; while some had already stretched their shelters
over rude cabins, and were busy cooking their suppers. Just then,
as ill-luck would have it in those uncertain days, an orderly rode
into camp with some orders from headquarters, and all building was
directed to be stopped at once.
"We have orders to move, Andy," said I, coming into the
half-finished cabin where Andy (lately returned from hospital) was
chinking the cracks in the side of the house.
"Orders to move! Why, where in the world are we going this time of
year? I thought we had tramped around enough for one campaign, and
were going to settle down for the winter."
"I don't know where we're going; but they say the Sixth Corps will
relieve us in the morning, and we are to pull out, anyhow."
We were not deceived. At daylight next morning, December 6th, we
did "pack up and fall in" and move out from our fortified camp,
away to the rear, where we lay all day massed in the woods, with
nothing to do but to speculate as to the direction we were to take.
From daylight of Wednesday, December 7th, we marched, through rain
and stiff mud, steadily toward the South, crossing the Nottaway
River on pontoons at 8 P. M., and halting at midnight for such
rest as we could find on the cold damp soil of a cornfield. Next
day on again we went, straight toward the South, through Sussex
Court-house at 10 A. M., halting at dusk near the Weldon and
Petersburg Railway, about five miles from the North Carolina line.
Though we did not then know what all this meant, we soon learned
that it was simply a winter raid on the enemy's communications;
the intention being to destroy the Weldon road, and so render
it useless to him. True, we had already cut that same road near
Petersburg; but the enemy still brought his supplies on it from the
South, near to the point where our lines were thrown across, and by
means of wagons carried these supplies around our left, and safely
into Petersburg.
[Illustration: WRECKING THE RAILWAY.]
Never was railway more completely destroyed. The morning after we
had reached the scene of operations, in the drizzling rain and
falling sleet, the whole command was set to work. As far as the eye
could see down the road were men in blue, divested of weapons
and accoutrements, prying and wrenching and tearing away at iron
rails and wooden ties. It was a well-built road, and hard to tear
up. The rails were what are known as "T" rails, and each being
securely fastened to its neighbor at either end by a stout bar of
iron or steel, which had been forced into the groove of the T, the
track was virtually two long unbroken rails throughout its whole
length.
"No use tryin' to tear up them rails from the ties, Major," said an
old railroader, with a touch of his cap. "The plagued things are
all spliced together at the j'ints, and the only way to get them
off is to pry up the whole thing, rails, ties, and all, and then
split the ties off from the rails when you've got her upside down."
So, with fence-rails for levers, the men fell to work, prying and
heave-I-ho-ing, until one side of the road, ties, track, and all,
pulled and wrenched by thousands of strong arms, began to loosen
and move, and was raised gradually higher and higher. Forced at
last to a perpendicular, it was pushed over and laid upside down,
with a mighty cheer from the long line of wreckers!
Once the thing was started it was easy enough to roll miles and
miles of it over without a break. And so brigade after brigade
rolled it along; tearing and splitting off the ties, and wrenching
away the rails.
It was not enough, however, merely to destroy the track. The rails
must be made forever useless as rails. Accordingly, the ties were
piled in heaps, or built up as children build corn-cob houses, and
then the heaps were fired. The rails were laid across the top of
the burning pile, where they soon became red-hot in the middle, and
bent themselves double by the weight of their ends, which hung out
beyond the reach of the fire. In some cases, however, a grim and
humorous conceit led to a more artistic use of the heated rails,
for many of them were taken and carried to some tree hard by, and
twisted two or three times around the trunk, while not a few of the
men hit on the happy device of bending the rails, some into the
shape of a U, and others into the shape of an S, and setting them
up by pairs against the fences along the line, in order that, in
this oft-repeated iron U S, it might be seen that Uncle Sam had
been looking around in those parts.
When darkness came, the scene presented by that long line of
burning ties was wild and weird. Rain and sleet had been falling
all day, and there was frost as well, and we lay down at night
with stiff limbs, aching bones, and chattering teeth. Everything
was covered with a coating of ice; so that Andy and I crept under
a wagon for shelter and a dry spot to lie down in. But the horses,
tied to the wheels, gave us little sleep. Scarcely would we fall
into a doze, when one of the horses would poke his nose between
the wheels, or through the spokes, and whinny pitifully in our
ears. And no wonder, either, we thought, when, crawling out at
daybreak, we found the poor creatures covered with a coating of
ice, and their tails turned to great icicles. The trees looked very
beautiful in their magnificent frost-work; but we were too cold and
wet to admire anything, as our drums hoarsely beat the "assembly,"
and we set out for a two days' wet and weary march back to camp in
front of Petersburg.
Both on the way down and on the retreat, we passed many fine farms
or plantations. It was a new country to us, and no other Northern
troops had passed through it. One consequence of this was that we
were everywhere looked upon with wonder by the white inhabitants,
and by the colored population as deliverers sent for their express
benefit.
All along the line of march, both down and back, the overjoyed
darkies flocked to us by hundreds, old and young, sick and well,
men, women, and children. Whenever we came to a road or lane
leading to a plantation, a crowd of darkies would be seen hurrying
pell-mell down the lane toward us. And then they would take their
places in the colored column that already tramped along the road
in awe and wonderment beside "de sodjers." There were stout young
darkies with bundles slung over their backs, old men hobbling along
with canes, women in best bib and tucker with immense bundles on
their heads, mothers with babes in their arms, and a barefooted
brood trotting along at their heels; and now and then one would
call out anxiously to some venturesome boy:
"Now, you Sam! Whar you goin' dar? You done gone git run ober by de
sodjers yit, you will."
"Auntie, you've got a good many little folks to look after, haven't
you?" some kindly soldier would say to one of the mothers.
"Ya-as, Cunnel, right smart o' chilluns I'se got yere; but I'se
a-gwine up Norf, an' can't leabe enny on 'em behind, sah."
Fully persuaded that the year of jubilee had come at last, the poor
things joined us, from every plantation along the road, many of
them mayhap leaving good masters for bad, and comfortable homes for
no homes at all. Occasionally, however, we met some who would not
leave. I remember one old, gray-headed, stoop-shouldered uncle who
stood leaning over a gate, looking wide-eyed at the blue-coats and
the great exodus of his people.
"Come along, uncle," shouted one of the men. "Come along,--the year
of jubilee is come!"
"No, sah. Dis yere chile's too ole. Reckon I better stay wid ole
Mars'r."
When we halted at nightfall in a cotton-field, around us was
gathered a great throng of colored people, houseless, homeless,
well-nigh dead with fatigue, and with nothing to eat. Near where
we pitched our tent, for instance, was a poor negro woman with
six little children, of whom the oldest was apparently not more
than eight or nine years of age. The whole forlorn family crouched
shivering together in the rain and sleet. Andy and I thought, as we
were driving in our tent-pins:
"That's pretty hard now, isn't it? Couldn't we somehow get a
shelter and something to eat for the poor souls?"
It was not long before we had set up a rude but serviceable
shelter, and thrown in a blanket and built a fire in front for
them, and set Dinah to cooking coffee and frying bacon for her
famishing brood.
Never shall I forget how comical those little darkies looked as
they sat cross-legged about the fire, watching the frying-pan and
coffee-pot with great eager eyes!
Dinah, as she cooked, and poked the fire betimes, told Andy and me
how she had deserted the old home at the plantation,--a home which
no doubt she afterward wished she had never left.
"When we heerd dat de Yankees was a-comin'," said she, "de folks
all git ready fer to leabe. Ole Mars' John, he ride out de road dis
way, an' young Mars' Harry, he ride out de road dat way, fer to
watch if dey was a-comin'; and den ebbery now an' den one or udder
on 'em'd come a-ridin' up to de house an' say, 'Did ye see anyt'ing
on 'em yit? Did ye hear whar dey is now?' An' den one mawning,
down come young Mars' Harry a-ridin' his hoss at a gallop,--'Git
out o' dis! Git out o' dis! De Yankees is a-comin'! De Yankees is
a-comin'!' and den all de folks done gone cl'ar out an' leabe us
all 'lone, an' so when we see de sodjers comin' we done cl'ar out
too,--ki-yi!"