CHAPTER I

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FROM THE RAPIDAN TO RICHMOND

[Illustration: WILLIAM MEADE DAME

PRIVATE FIRST COMPANY OF RICHMOND HOWITZERS

1864]

FROM THE RAPIDAN TO RICHMOND

AND

THE SPOTTSYLVANIA CAMPAIGN

A Sketch in Personal Narrative of the Scenes a Soldier Saw

by

WILLIAM MEADE DAME, D. D.

Private, First Company

Richmond Howitzers

Baltimore

Green-Lucas Company

1920

Copyright, 1920, by Harry B. Green

TO

MY COMRADES OF THE ARMY

OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA

[Illustration: WILLIAM MEADE DAME, D. D.

RECTOR MEMORIAL PROTESTANT EPISCOPAL CHURCH

BALTIMORE, MD.

1920]

INTRODUCTION

By

Thomas Nelson Page

"The land where I was born" was, in my childhood, a great battleground.

War--as we then thought the vastest of all wars, not only that had been,

but that could ever be--swept over it. I never knew in those days a man

who had not been in the war. So, "The War" was the main subject in every

discussion and it was discussed with wonderful acumen. Later it took on

a different relation to the new life that sprung up and it bore its part

in every gathering much as the stories of Troy might have done in the

land where Homer sang. To survive, however, in these reunions as a

narrator one had to be a real contributor to the knowledge of his

hearers. And the first requisite was that he should have been an actor

in the scenes he depicted; secondly, that he should know how to depict

them. Nothing less served. His hearers themselves all had experience and

demanded at least not less than their own. As the time grew more distant

they demanded that it should be preserved in more definite form and the

details of the life grew more precious.

Among those whom I knew in those days as a delightful narrator of

experiences and observations--not of strategy nor even of tactics in

battle; but of the life in the midst of the battles in the momentous

campaign in which the war was eventually fought out, was a kinsman of

mine--the author of this book. A delightful raconteur because he had

seen and felt himself what he related, he told his story without

conscious art, but with that best kind of art: simplicity. Also with

perennial freshness; because he told it from his journals written on the

spot.

Thus, it came about that I promised that when he should be ready to

publish his reminiscences I would write the introduction for them. My

introduction is for a story told from journals and reminiscent of a time

in the fierce Sixties when, if passion had free rein, the virtues were

strengthened by that strife to contribute so greatly a half century

later to rescue the world and make it "safe for Democracy."

It was the war--our Civil War--that over a half century later brought

ten million of the American youth to enroll themselves in one day to

fight for America. It was the work in "the Wilderness" and in those long

campaigns, on both sides, which gave fibre to clear the Belleau Wood. It

was the spirit of the armies of Lee and Grant which enabled Pershing's

army to sweep through the Argonne.

_Rome_, March 27, 1919.

WOLSELEY'S TRIBUTE TO LEE

_The following tribute to Robert E. Lee was written by Lord Wolseley

when commander-in-chief of the armies of Great Britain, an office which

he held until succeeded by Lord Roberts._

_Lord Wolseley had visited General Lee at his headquarters during the

progress of the great American conflict. Some time thereafter Wolseley

wrote:_

"The fierce light which beats upon the throne is as a rushlight in

comparison with the electric glare which our newspapers now focus upon

the public man in Lee's position. His character has been subjected to

that ordeal, and who can point to a spot upon it? His clear, sound

judgment, personal courage, untiring activity, genius for war, absolute

devotion to his State, mark him out as a public man, as a patriot to be

forever remembered by all Americans. His amiability of disposition, deep

sympathy with those in pain or sorrow, his love for children, nice sense

of personal honor and generous courtesy, endeared him to all his

friends. I shall never forget his sweet, winning smile, nor his clean,

honest eyes that seemed to look into your heart while they searched your

brain. I have met with many of the great men of my time, but Lee alone

impressed me with the feeling that I was in the presence of a man who

was cast in a grander mold and made of different and finer metal than

all other men. He is stamped upon my memory as being apart and superior

to all others in every way, a man with whom none I ever knew and few of

whom I have read are worthy to be classed. When all the angry feelings

aroused by the secession are buried with those that existed when the

American Declaration of Independence was written; when Americans can

review the history of their last great war with calm impartiality, I

believe all will admit that General Lee towered far above all men on

either side in that struggle. I believe he will be regarded not only as

the most prominent figure of the Confederacy, but as the greatest

American of the nineteenth century, whose statue is well worthy to stand

on an equal pedestal with that of Washington and whose memory is equally

worthy to be enshrined in the hearts of all his countrymen.

"WOLSELEY."

[Illustration: GENERAL ROBERT E. LEE]

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION 1

The cause of conflict and the call to arms--Those who

answered the call--An army of volunteers--Our great

leader--The call comes home--First Company Richmond

Howitzers--Back to civil life--Origin of this narrative.

I. SKETCH OF CAMP LIFE THE WINTER BEFORE THE SPOTTSYLVANIA

CAMPAIGN 17

Morton's Ford--Building camp quarters--"Housewarming"

on parched corn, persimmons and water--Camp duties--Camp

recreations--A special entertainment--Confederate soldier

rations--A fresh egg--When fiction became fact--Confederate

fashion plates--A surprise attack--Wedding bells and a

visit home--The soldiers' profession of faith--The example

of Lee, Jackson and Stuart--Spring sprouts and a "tar heel"

story.

II. BATTLE OF THE WILDERNESS 63

"Marse Robert" calls to arms--The spirit of the soldiers

of the South--Peace fare and fighting ration--Marse

Robert's way of making one equal to three--An infantry

battle--Arrival of the First Corps--The love that Lee

inspired in the men he led--"Windrows" of Federal dead.

III. BATTLES OF SPOTTSYLVANIA COURT HOUSE 96

Stuart's four thousand cavalry--Greetings on the field

of battle--"Jeb" Stuart assigns "a little job"--Wounding

of Robert Fulton Moore--A useful discovery--Barksdale's

Mississippi Creeper--Kershaw's South Carolina

"rice-birds"--Feeling pulses--Where the fight was

hottest--Against heavy odds at "Fort Dodge"--"Sticky" mud

and yet more "sticky" men--Gregg's Texans to the front--

Breakfastless but "ready for customers"--Parrott's reply

to Napoleon's twenty to two--The narrow escape of an

entire company--Successive attacks by Federal infantry--

Eggleston's heroic death--"Texas will never forget

Virginia"--Contrast in losses and the reasons

therefore--Why Captain Hunter failed to rally his men--

Having "a cannon handy"--Grant's neglect of Federal

wounded.

IV. COLD HARBOR AND THE DEFENSE OF RICHMOND 189

The last march of our Howitzer Captain--The bloodiest

fifteen minutes of the war--Federal troops refuse to

be slaughtered--Dr. Carter "apologizes for getting

shot"--Death of Captain McCarthy--A Summary.

INTRODUCTORY

=The Cause of Conflict and the Call to Arms=

In 1861 a ringing call came to the manhood of the South. The world knows

how the men of the South answered that call. Dropping everything, they

came from mountains, valleys and plains--from Maryland to Texas, they

eagerly crowded to the front, and stood to arms. What for? What moved

them? What was in their minds?

Shallow-minded writers have tried hard to make it appear that slavery

was the cause of that war; that the Southern men fought to keep their

slaves. They utterly miss the point, or purposely pervert the truth.

In days gone by, the theological schoolmen held hot contention over the

question as to the kind of wood the Cross of Calvary was made from. In

their zeal over this trivial matter, they lost sight of the great thing

that did matter; the mighty transaction, and purpose displayed upon that

Cross.

In the causes of that war, slavery was only a detail and an occasion.

Back of that lay an immensely greater thing; the defense of their

rights--the most sacred cause given men on earth, to maintain at every

cost. It is the cause of humanity. Through ages it has been,

pre-eminently, the cause of the Anglo-Saxon race, for which countless

heroes have died. With those men it was to defend the rights of their

States to control their own affairs, without dictation from anybody

outside; a right not _given_, but _guaranteed_ by the Constitution,

which those States accepted, most distinctly, under that condition.

It was for that these men came. This was just what they had in their

minds; to uphold that solemnly guaranteed constitutional right,

distinctly binding all the parties to that compact. The South pleaded

with the other parties to the Constitution to observe their guarantee;

when they refused, and talked of force, then the men of the South got

their guns and came to see about it.

They were Anglo-Saxons. What could you expect? Their fathers had fought

and died on exactly this issue--they could do no less. As their noble

fathers, so their noble sons pledged their lives, and their sacred honor

to uphold the same great cause--peaceably if they could; forcibly if

they must.

=Those Who Answered the Call=

So the men of the South came together. They came from every rank and

calling of life--clergymen, bishops, doctors, lawyers, statesmen,

governors of states, judges, editors, merchants, mechanics, farmers. One

bishop became a lieutenant general; one clergyman, chief of artillery,

Army of Northern Virginia. In one artillery battalion three clergymen

were cannoneers at the guns. All the students of one Theological

Seminary volunteered, and three fell in battle, and all but one were

wounded. They came of every age. I personally know of six men over sixty

years who volunteered, and served in the ranks, throughout the war; and

in the Army of Northern Virginia, more than ten thousand men were under

eighteen years of age, many of them sixteen years.

They came of every social condition of life: some of them were the most

prominent men in the professional, social, and political life of their

States; owners of great estates, employing many slaves; and thousands of

them, horny-handed sons of toil, earning their daily bread by their

daily labor, who never owned a slave and never would.

There came men of every degree of intellectual equipment--some of them

could hardly read, and per contra, in my battery, at the mock burial of

a pet crow, there were delivered an original Greek ode, an original

Latin oration, and two brilliant eulogies in English--all in honor of

that crow; very high obsequies had that bird.

Men who served as cannoneers of that same battery, in after life came to

fill the highest positions of trust and influence--from governors and

professors of universities, downward; and one became Speaker of the

House of Representatives in the United States Congress. Also, it is to

be noted that twenty-one men who served in the ranks of the Confederate

Army became Bishops of the Episcopal Church after the war.

Of the men who thus gathered from all the Southern land, the first

raised regiments were drawn to Virginia, and there organized into an

army whose duty it was to cover Richmond, the Capital of the

Confederacy--just one hundred miles from Washington, which would

naturally be the center of military activities of the hostile armies.

=An Army of Volunteers=

The body, thus organized, was composed _entirely of volunteers_. Every

man in it was there because he wanted to come as his solemn duty. It was

made up of regiments from every State in the South--Maryland, Virginia,

North and South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi,

Louisiana, Texas, Arkansas and Tennessee. Each State had its quota, and

there were many individual volunteers from Kentucky, Missouri and

elsewhere. That army was baptized by a name that was to become immortal

in the annals of war--"The Army of Northern Virginia."

What memories cluster around that name! Great soldiers, and military

critics of all nations of Christendom, including even the men who fought

it, have voiced their opinion of that army, and given it high praise.

Many of them, duly considering its spirit, and recorded deeds, and the

tremendous odds against which it fought, have claimed for it the highest

place on the roll of honor, and in the Hall of Fame, among all the

armies of history.

Truly it deserves high place! when you think that after four years of

heroic courage, devotion, and endurance, never more than half fed,

poorly supplied with clothes, often scant of ammunition, holding the

field after every battle, that it fought, till the end, worn out at

last, it disbanded at Appomattox, when only eight thousand hungry men

remained with arms in their hands, and they, defiant, and fighting

still, when the white flags began to pass. They surrendered then only

because General Lee said they must, because he would not vainly

sacrifice another man; and they wept like broken-hearted children when

they heard his orders. They would have fought on till the last man

dropped, but General Lee said: "No, you, my men, go home and serve your

country in peace as you have done in war."

=Our Great Leader=

They did as General Lee told them to do, and it was the indomitable

courage of those men and of the women of their land, who were just as

brave, at home, as the men were, at the front, which has made the South

rise from its ruins and blossom as the rose as it does this day.

Thus "yielding to overwhelming numbers and resources," the Army of

Northern Virginia died. But its _glory_ has not died, and the splendor

of its deeds has not, and will not grow dim.

As, in vision, I look across the long years that have pressed their

length between the now and then, I can see that Army of Northern

Virginia on the march. At its head rides one august and knightly figure,

Robert E. Lee, the knightliest gentleman, and the saintliest hero that

our race has bred. He is on old "Traveler," almost as famous as his

master. On his right rides that thunderbolt of war, Stonewall Jackson,

on "Little Sorrel," with whose fame the world was ringing when he fell.

On Lee's left, on his beautiful mare, "Lady Annie," the bright, flashing

cavalier, "Jeb" Stuart, the darling of the Army.

Behind these three, in their swinging stride, tramp the long columns of

infantry, artillery, and cavalry of the army. As we gaze upon that

spectacle, we say, and nothing better can be said, "Those chiefs were

worthy to lead those soldiers; those soldiers were worthy to follow

Robert Lee."

In this order, The Army of Northern Virginia, General Lee in front, has

come marching down the road of history, and shall march on, and all

brave souls of the generations stand at "Salute," and do them homage as

they pass. Noble Army of Northern Virginia!

All true men will understand and none, least of all the brave men who

faced it in battle, will deny to the old Confederate the just right to

be proud that he was comrade to those men and marched in their ranks,

and was with their leader to the end. Of that army, I had, thank God!

the honor to be a soldier. It came about in this way.

=The Call Comes Home=

When the war began I was a school boy attending the Military Academy in

Danville, Virginia, where I was born and reared. At once the school

broke up. The teachers, and all the boys who were old enough went into

the army. I was just sixteen years old, and small for my age, and I can

understand now, but could not then, how my parents looked upon the

desire of a boy like that to go to the war, as out of the question. I

did not think so. I was a strong, well-knit fellow, and it seemed to me

that what you required in a soldier was a man who could shoot, and would

stay there and do it. I knew I could shoot, and I thought I could stay

there and do it, so I was sure I could be a soldier, and I was crazy to

go, but my parents could not see it so, and I was very miserable. All my

classmates in school had gone or were going, and I pictured to myself

the boys coming back from the war, as soldiers who had been in battle,

and all the honors that would be showered upon them--and I would be out

of it all. The thought that I had not done a manly part in this great

crisis would make me feel disgraced all my life. It was horrible.

My father, the honored and beloved minister of the Episcopal Church in

Danville, and my mother, the daughter and grand-daughter of two

Revolutionary soldiers, said they wanted me to go, and would let me go,

when I was older--I was too young and small as yet. But I was afraid it

would be all over before I got in, and I would lay awake at night, sad

and wretched with this fear. I need not have been afraid of that. There

was going to be plenty to go around, but I did not know that then, and I

was low in mind. I suppose that my very strong feeling on the subject

was natural. It was the inherited microbe in the blood. Though I was

only a school boy in a back country town, my forebears had always been

around when there was any fighting to be done. My great-grandfather,

General Thomas Nelson, and my grandfather, Major Carter Page, and all

their kin of the time had fought through the Revolutionary War. My

people had fought in the war of 1812, and the Mexican War, and the

Indian Wars. Whenever anybody was fighting our country, some of my

people were in it, and back of that, Lord Nelson of Trafalgar, was a

second cousin of my great-grandfather, Thomas Nelson; and, still farther

back of that, my ancestor, Thomas Randolph, in command of a division of

the Scottish Army under King Robert Bruce, was the man who, by his

furious charge, broke the English line at "Bannockburn" and won the

Independence of Scotland.

You see that a boy, with all that back of him, in his family, had the

virus in his blood, and could not help being wretched when his country

was invaded, and fighting, and he not in it. He would feel that he was

dishonoring the traditions of his race, and untrue to the memory of his

fathers. However, that schoolboy brooding over the situation was mighty

miserable. When my parents realized my feelings, they, at last, gave up

their opposition, and I went into the army with their consent, and

blessing.

=First Company Richmond Howitzers=

While this matter was hanging fire, having been at a military academy, I

was trying to do some little service by helping to drill some of the raw

companies which were being rapidly raised, in and around Danville. The

minute I was free, off I went. Circumstances led me to enlist in a

battery made up in Richmond, known as the "First Company of Richmond

Howitzers," and I was thus associated with as fine a body of men as ever

lived--who were to be my comrades in arms, and the most loved, and

valued friends of my after life.

This battery was attached to "Cabell's Battalion" and formed part of the

field artillery of Longstreet's Corps, Army of Northern Virginia. It was

a "crack" battery, and was always put in when anything was going on. It

served with great credit, and was several times mentioned in General

Orders, as having rendered signal service to the army. It was in all the

campaigns, and in action in every battle of the Army of Northern

Virginia. It fought at Manassas, Williamsburg, Seven Pines, Seven Days'

Battle around Richmond in 1862, Second Manassas, Sharpsburg, Harpers

Ferry, Fredericksburg, Chancellorsville, Gettysburg, Morton's Ford, The

Wilderness, The Battles of Spottsylvania Court House, North Anna, Pole

Green Church, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, and at Appomattox Court House.

Every one of the cannoneers, who had not been killed or wounded, was at

his gun in its last fight. The very last thing it did was to help "wipe

up the ground" with some of Sheridan's Cavalry, which attacked and tried

to ride us down, but was cut to pieces by our cannister fire, and went

off as hard as their horses could run--as if the devil was after them.

Then the surrender closed our service.

=Back to Civil Life=

My comrades, as the rest of the army, scattered to their homes. I went

to my home in Danville, and had to walk 180 miles to get there. After a

few days, which I chiefly employed in trying to get rid of the sensation

of starving, I went to work--got a place in the railroad service.

After eighteen months of this, I proceeded to carry out a purpose that I

had in mind since the closing days of the war. I had been through that

long and bloody conflict; I had been at my gun every time it went into

action, except once when I was lying ill of typhoid fever; I had been in

the path of death many times, and though hit several times, had never

been seriously wounded, or hurt badly enough to have to leave my

gun--and here I was at the end of all this--alive, and well and strong,

and twenty years of age. As I thought of God's merciful protection

through all those years of hardship and danger, a wish and purpose was

born, and got fixed in my mind and heart, to devote my life to the

service of God in the completest way I could as a thanksgiving to Him.

Naturally, my thoughts turned to the ministry of the Gospel, and I

decided to enter the seminary and train for that service as soon as the

way was open.

While I was in the railroad train work, I studied hard in the scraps of

time to get some preparation, and in September, 1866, I entered the

Virginia Theological Seminary along with twenty-five other students--all

of whom were Confederate soldiers. I here tackled a job that was much

more trying than working my old twelve-pounder brass Napoleon gun in a

fight. I would willingly have swapped jobs, if it had been all the same,

but I worked away, the best I could, at the Hebrew, and Greek, and

"Theology," and all the rest, for three years.

Somehow I got through, and graduated, and was ordained by Bishop Johns

of Virginia, the twenty-sixth of June, 1869. Thus the old cannoneer was

transformed into a parson, who intended to try to be as faithful to

duty, as a parson, as the old cannoneer had been. He has carried that

purpose through life ever since. How far he has realized it, others will

have to judge.

After serving for nine years in several parishes in Virginia, I came to

Baltimore as rector of Memorial Church, and have been here ever since.

Hence I have served in the ministry for fifty years--forty-one of which

I have spent serving the Memorial Church, and having, as a side line,

been Chaplain of the "Fifth Regiment Maryland National Guard" for

thirty-odd years. When one is bitten by the military "bee" in his youth,

he never gets over it--the sight of a line of soldiers, and the sound

of martial music stirs me still, as it always did, and I have had the

keenest interest and pleasure in my association with that splendid

regiment, and my dear friends and comrades in it.

So, through the changes and chances of this mortal life, I have come

thus far, and by the blessing of God, and the patience of my people, at

the age of seventy-four I am still in full work among the people, whom I

have served so long, and loved so well--still at my post where I hope to

stay till the Great Captain orders me off to service in the only place I

know of, that is better than the congregation of Memorial Church, and

the community of Baltimore--and that is the everlasting Kingdom of

Heaven.

=Origin of This Narrative=

Now, what I have been writing here is intended to lead up to the

narrative set forth in the pages of this volume. Sam Weller once said to

Mr. Pickwick, when invited to eat a veal pie, "Weal pies is werry good,

providin' you knows the lady as makes 'em, and is sure that they _is

weal_ and not _cats_." The remark applies here: a narrative is "werry

good providin' you knows" the man as makes it, and are sure that it is

facts, and not fancy tales. You want to be satisfied that the writer was

a personal witness of the things he writes about, and is one who can be

trusted to tell you things as he actually saw them. I hope both these

conditions are fulfilled in this narrative.

But some one might say, "How about this narrative that you are about to

impose on a suffering public, who never did you any harm? What do you do

it for?"

Well, I did not do it of malice aforethought. It came about in this way.

Young as I was when I went into the war, and never having seen anything

of the world outside the ordinary life of a boy, in a quiet country

town, the scenes of that soldier life made a deep impression on my mind,

and I have carried a very clear recollection of them--everyone--in my

memory ever since. As I have looked back, and thought upon the events,

and especially the spirit, and character, and record, of my old comrades

in that army, my admiration, and estimate of their high worth as

soldiers has grown ever greater, and I felt a very natural desire that

others should know them as I knew them--and put them in their rightful

rank as soldiers. The only way to do this is for those who know to tell

people about them; what manner of warriors they were.

Now mark how one glides into mischief unintentionally. Years ago, I was

beguiled into making, at various times, places, and occasions, certain,

what might be called, "Camp Fire Talks" descriptive of Soldier Life in

the Army of Northern Virginia. Weakly led on by the kindly expressed

opinions of those who heard these talks, and urged by old friends, and

comrades, and others, I ventured on a more connected narrative of our

observations and experiences, as soldiers in that army. I wrote a

sketch, in that vein, of the "Spottsylvania Campaign"--in 1864--fought

between General Lee and General Grant. It was a tremendous struggle of

the two armies for thirty days--almost without a break. It was a

thrilling period of the war, and brought out the high quality of both

the Commander and the fighting men of the Army of Northern Virginia.

It was the bloodiest struggle known to history, up to that time. As one

item, at Cold Harbor, General Grant, in fifteen minutes, by the watch,

lost 13,723 men, killed and wounded, irrespective of many

prisoners--more men in a quarter of an hour than the British Army lost

in the whole battle of Waterloo. That gives an idea of the terrible

intensity of that campaign--one incident of it the bloodiest quarter of

an hour in all the history of war.

I took as a title for my sketch "From the Rapidan to Richmond" or "The

Bloody War Path of 1864"--"The Scenes One Soldier Saw."

As a guarantee of its accuracy, I took that narrative to Richmond, and

in the presence of fifteen of my old comrades of the First Howitzers,

every man of whom had been along with me through all the incidents of

which I wrote, and therefore had personal knowledge of all the facts, I

read it, and we freely discussed it. What resulted has the approval, and

endorsement of all those personal witnesses, and may be counted on as

accurate--in every statement and impression made in this story, and may

be safely accepted by the reader as a true narration of facts.

I am urged to put the narrative in such form that its contents may be

more widely known, and I am glad to do it. I do want as many as possible

to know my old comrades as I knew them, and value them at their true

worth. My narrative is a true account of that soldier life, and

illustrates the stuff of which those men of the Army of Northern

Virginia were made. The story illustrates this in a graphic and

impressive way, because it is a simple and homely story of how they

lived, and what they did--showing what they were. It is an honorable

testimony to the character, and worth, as patriot soldiers, of my old

comrades--borne by one who saw them display their courage, and

endurance, and devotion in heroic conduct, in every possible way,

through the long strain, and stress of war--to the end.

I believe there is interest and value, to the true understanding of

history, in such narratives of personal witnesses to the men, and

things, and conditions of that past, which reflected so much glory on

the manhood of our American race; which sterling quality, of high

soldierly worth, has just been shown again, in the present generation of

our race, when American soldiers, drawn from the North, South, East and

West have stood, shoulder to shoulder, in the one American line, under

the Star-Spangled Banner, and fighting for the freedom of the world. Our

splendid American men of today are what they are, and have done what

they did, because the blood of their sires runs in them; because they

are "the same breed of dogs" with the American soldiers, who, on both

sides, in the bloody struggle of the Civil War, bore them so bravely in

the days gone by.

This narrative only paints the picture, and gives a sample of the

Anglo-Saxon American soldier of the generation just gone; it shed lustre

upon our race. This generation has done the same--all honor to both!

=A Summary=

Let us Americans, at all cost, keep pure the Anglo-Saxon blood, to which

this America belongs, of right; let us as a nation, Americans all, work

and dwell together in true comradeship, and let our nation walk in just

and right ways, for our country. Then, indeed, our heart's aspiration

shall be fulfilled.

"And the Star-Spangled Banner _forever_ shall wave

O'er the land of the free--and the home of the brave."

As a preface to the sketch of the active campaign, I have given some

account of our life in the winter quarters camp, the winter before, from

which we marched to battle when the Spottsylvania Campaign opened.

FROM THE RAPIDAN TO RICHMOND

CHAPTER I

SKETCH OF CAMP LIFE THE WINTER BEFORE THE SPOTTSYLVANIA CAMPAIGN

=Morton's Ford=

From Orange Court House, Virginia, the road running northeast into

Culpeper crosses Morton's Ford of the Rapidan River, which, in December,

1863, lay between the "Federal Army of the Potomac" and the "Confederate

Army of Northern Virginia." The Ford is nineteen miles from Orange Court

House.

Just after the battle of Mine Run, November 26 to 28, our Battery left

its bivouac near the Court House, and marched to the Ford. As the road

reaches a point within three-quarters of a mile of the river, it rises

over a sharp hill and thence winds its way down the hill to the Ford. On

the ridge, just where the road crosses it, the guns of the Battery,

First Company of Richmond Howitzers, were placed in position, commanding

the Ford, and the Howitzer Camp was to the right of the road, in the

pine woods just back of the ridge. We had been sent here to help the

Infantry pickets to watch the enemy, and guard the Ford. Orders were

that we should remain in this position all winter, and were to make

ourselves as comfortable as we could, with a view to this long stay. We

got there December 2 and 3, and, in fact, did stay there until the

opening of the spring campaign, May 3, 1864.

=Building Camp Quarters=

With these instructions, as soon as we placed our guns in battery on the

hill, we went promptly to work to fix up winter quarters in the shelter

of the pines down the hill just a few rods back of the guns. It was

getting very cold, and rough weather threatened, so we pitched in and

worked hard to get ready for it.

Each group of tent mates chose their own site and thereon built such a

house as suited their energy, and judgment, or fancy. Some few of the

lazy ones stayed under canvas all winter, but most of us constructed

better quarters. In my group, four of us lived together, and we built

after this manner. On our selected site, we marked off a space about ten

feet square. We dug to the line all around, and to a depth of three or

four feet in the ground--this going below the surface of the ground gave

a better protection against wind and cold than any wall one could

build--and on that bleak hill you wanted all the shield from wind that

you could get. Having dug a hole ten feet square and three feet deep, we

went into the woods and cut, squared, and carried on our shoulders logs,

twelve or eighteen inches thick, and twelve feet long--enough to build

around three sides of that hole a wall four feet high. Half of the

fourth side was taken up by the chimney, which was built of short logs

split in half and covered well inside with mud. With such suitable

stones as we could pick up, we lined the fire place immediately around

the fire, and as far above as we had rocks to do it with. The other half

of the fourth side was left for the door, over which was hung any old

blanket or other cloth that we could beg, borrow or steal.

The log walls done, we dug a deep hole, loosened up the clay at the

bottom, poured in water and mixed up a lot of mud with which we chinked

up the interstices between the logs and covered the wood in the chimney.

The earth that had been thrown up in digging the hole, we now banked up

against the log wall all around, which made it wind proof; and then over

this gem of architecture we stretched our fly. We had no closed

tents--only a fly, a straight piece of tent cloth all open at the sides.

Our fly, supported by a rude pole, and drawn down and firmly fastened to

the top of the log wall, made the roof of the house.

="Housewarming" on Parched Corn, Persimmons and Water=

Then we went out and cut small poles and made a bunk, to lift us off the

ground. Over the expanse of springy poles we spread sprigs of cedar--and

this made a pretty good spring mattress. Last of all, we dug a ditch all

around our house to keep the water from draining down into our room and

driving us out. Then we went in, built a fire in our fireplace, called

in our friends, and had a house-warming. The refreshments were parched

corn, persimmons (which two of us walked two miles to get) and water.

Of the latter, we had plenty in canteens borrowed from the boys. We had

a bully time, and we kept it up late. Then we went to bed in our cosy

bunk and slept like graven images till reveille next morning. Thus we

were housed for the winter--"under our own vine and fig tree," so to

speak.

Most of the other houses were built after the same general style. We

bragged that we had the best house in camp, and were very chesty about

it. Others did likewise.

The men's quarters ready, we at once set to work on stables for the

horses, of which there were about seventy, belonging to the Battery. All

hands were called in to do this work. We scattered through the woods,

cut logs and carried them on our shoulders to the spot selected. We

built up walls around three sides, leaving the fourth or sunny side

open. Then we cut logs into three or four foot lengths and split them

into slabs, and with these slabs, as a rough sort of shingle, covered

the roof and weighted them down, in place, with long, heavy logs laid

across each row of slabs. Then we mixed mud and stopped up the cracks in

the log walls. Altogether, we had a good, strong wind and rain-proof

building, which was an effective shelter for the horses and in which

they kept dry and comfortable through the winter--which was a cold and

stormy one. All the men worked hard, and we soon had the stable

finished, and the horses housed. Thus our building work was done, and

we settled into the regular routine of camp life.

=Camp Duties=

Perhaps a little sketch of our life in winter quarters, how we lived,

how we employed ourselves, and what we did to pass away the time, may be

interesting. I will try to give you some account of all that.

Of course, we all had our military duties to attend to regularly. The

drivers had to clean, feed, water, and exercise the horses, and keep the

stables in order. The "cannoneers" had to keep the guns clean, bright,

and ready for service any minute--also they had to stand guard at the

guns on the hill all the time, and over the camp, at night, to guard the

forage, and look after things generally. We had to drill some every

day--police the camp and keep the roads near the camp in order. To this

day's work we were called, every morning at six o'clock, by the bugler

blowing the reveille. I may mention the fact that Prof. Francis Nicholas

Crouch, the composer of the famous and beautiful song, "Kathleen

Mavourneen," was the bugler of our Battery, and he was the heartless

wretch who used to persecute us that way. To be waked up and hauled out

about day dawn on a cold, wet, dismal morning, and to have to hustle out

and stand shivering at roll call, was about the most exasperating item

of the soldier's life. The boys had a song very expressive of a

soldier's feelings when nestling in his warm blankets, he heard the

malicious bray of that bugle. It went like this:

"Oh, how I hate to get up in the morning;

Oh, how I'd like to remain in bed.

But the saddest blow of all is to hear the bugler call,

'You've got to get up, you've got to get up,

You've got to get up this morning!'

"Some day I'm going to murder that bugler;

Some day they're going to find him dead.

I'll amputate his reveille,

And stamp upon it heavily,

And spend the rest of my life in bed!"

We didn't kill old Crouch--I don't know why, except that he was

protected by a special providence, which sometimes permits such evil

deeds to go unpunished. We used to hope that he would blow his own

brains out, through his bugle, but he didn't--he lived many years after

the war.

=Camp Recreations=

In between our stated duties, we had some time in which we could amuse

ourselves as we chose, and we had many means of entertainment. We had a

chessboard and men--a set of quoits, dominoes, and cards; and there was

the highly intellectual game of "push pin" open to all comers. Some very

skillful chess players were discovered in the company. When the weather

served, we had games of ball, and other athletic games, such as foot

races, jumping, boxing, wrestling, lifting heavy weights, etc. At night

we would gather in congenial groups around the camp fires and talk and

smoke and "swap lies," as the boys expressed it.

There was one thing from which we got a great deal of fun. We got up an

organization amongst the youngsters which was called the "Independent

Battalion of Fusiliers." The basal principle of this kind of heroes was,

"In an advance, always in the rear--in a retreat, always in front. Never

do anything that you can help. The chief aim of life is to rest. If you

should get to a gate, don't go to the exertion of opening it. Sit down

and wait until somebody comes along and opens it for you."

After the first organizers, no one applied for admission into the

Battalion--they were elected into it, without their consent. The way we

kept the ranks full was this: Whenever any man in the Battery did any

specially trifling, and good-for-nothing thing, or was guilty of any

particularly asinine conduct, or did any fool trick, or expressed any

idiotic opinion, he was marked out as a desirable recruit for the

Fusiliers. We elected him, went and got him and made him march with us

in parade of the Battalion, and solemnly invested him with the honor.

This was not always a peaceable performance. Sometimes the candidate,

not appreciating his privilege, had to be held by force, and was

struggling violently, and saying many bad words, during the address of

welcome by the C. O.

I grieve to say that an election into this notable corps was treated as

an insult, and responded to by hot and unbecoming language. One fellow,

when informed of his election, flew into a rage, and said bad words, and

offered to lick the whole Battalion. But what would they have? We were

obliged to fill up the ranks.

After a while it did come to be better understood, and was treated as a

joke, and some of the more sober men entered into the fun, and would go

out on parade, and take part in the ceremony. We paraded with a band

composed of men beating tin buckets, frying pans, and canteens, with

sticks, and whistling military music. It made a noisy and impressive

procession. It attracted much attention and furnished much amusement to

the camp.

=A Special Entertainment=

On proper occasions, promotions to higher rank were made for

distinguished merit in our line. An instance will illustrate. One night,

late, I was passing along when I saw this sight. The sentinel on guard

in camp was lying down on a pile of bags of corn at the forage

pile--sound asleep. He was lying on his left side. One of the long tails

of his coat was hanging loose from his body and dangling down alongside

the pile of bags. A half-grown cow had noiselessly sneaked up to the

forage pile, and been attracted by that piece of cloth hanging

loose--and, as calves will do, took the end of it into her mouth and

was chewing it with great satisfaction. I called several of the fellows,

and we watched the proceedings. The calf got more and more of the coat

tail into her mouth. At length, with her mouth full of the cloth, and

perhaps with the purpose of swallowing what she had been chewing she

gave a hard jerk. The cloth was old, the seams rotten--that jerk pulled

the whole of that tail loose from the body of the coat. The sleeping

guard never moved. We rescued the cloth from the calf, and hid it. When

the sleeper awoke, to his surprise, one whole tail of his coat was gone,

and he was left with only one of the long tails. Our watching group,

highly delighted at the show of a sentinel sleeping, while a calf was

browsing on him, told him what had happened and that the calf had

carried off the other coat tail. He was inconsolable. He was the only

private in the company who had a long-tailed coat and it was the pride

of his heart. There was no way of repairing the loss, and he had to go

around for days, sad and dejected, shorn of his glory--with only one

tail to his coat.

All this was represented to the "Battalion of Fusiliers." Charges were

preferred, and the Court Martial set. The witnesses testified to the

facts--also said that if we had not driven off the calf it would have

gone on, after getting the coat tail, and chewed up the sentinel, too.

The findings of the Court Martial were nicely adjusted to the merits of

the case. It was, that the witnesses were sentenced to punishment for

driving off the calf, and not letting her eat up the sentinel.

For the sentinel, who appeared before the Court with the one tail to his

coat, it was decreed that his conduct was the very limit. No one could

ever hope to find a more thorough Fusilier than the man who went to

sleep on guard and let a calf eat his clothes off. Such conduct deserved

most distinguished regard, as an encouragement to the Fusiliers. He was

promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-General of the Battalion, the highest

rank in our corps. After a while the lost coat tail was produced, and

sewed on again.

=Confederate Soldier Rations=

The one thing that we suffered most from, the hardship hardest to bear,

was hunger. The scantiness of the rations was something fierce. We never

got a square meal that winter. We were always hungry. Even when we were

getting full rations the issue was one-quarter pound of bacon, or

one-half pound of beef, and little over a pint of flour or cornmeal,

ground with the cob on it, we used to think--no stated ration of

vegetables or sugar and coffee--just bread and meat. Some days we had

the bread, but no meat; some days the meat, but no bread. Two days we

had nothing, neither bread nor meat--and it was a solemn and empty

crowd. Now and then, at long intervals, they gave us some dried peas.

Occasionally, a little sugar--about an ounce to a man for a three days'

ration. The Orderly of the mess would spread the whole amount on the

back of a tin plate, and mark off thirteen portions, and put each man's

share into his hand--three days' rations, this was. One time, in a burst

of generosity, the Commissary Department stunned us by issuing coffee.

We made "coffee" out of most anything--parched corn, wheat or rye--when

we could get it. Anything for a hot drink at breakfast! But this was

_coffee_--"sure enough" coffee--we called it. They issued this three

times. The first time, when counted out to the consumer, by the Orderly,

each man had 27 grains. He made a cup--drank it. The next time the issue

was 16 grains to the man--again he made a cup and drank it. The third

issue gave nine grains to the man. Each of these issues was for three

days' rations. By now it had got down to being a joke, so we agreed to

put the whole amount together, and draw for which one of the mess should

have it all--with the condition, that the winner should make a pot of

coffee, and drink it, and let the rest of us see him do it. This was

done. Ben Lambert won--made the pot of coffee--sat on the ground, with

us twelve, like a coroner's jury, sitting around watching him, and drank

every drop. How he could do it, under the gaze of twelve hungry men, who

had no coffee, it is hard to see, but Ben was capable of very difficult

feats. He drank that pot of coffee--all the same!

After this, there was no more issue of coffee. Even a Commissary began

to be dimly conscious that nine grains given a man for a three days'

rations was like joking with a serious subject, so they quit it, and

during that winter we had mostly just bread and meat--very little of

that, and that little not to be counted on.

This hunger was much the hardest trial we had to bear. We didn't much

mind getting wet and cold; working hard, standing guard at night; and

fighting when required--we were seasoned to all that--but you don't

season to hunger. Going along all day with a gnawing at your insides, of

which you were always conscious, was not pleasant. We had more appetite

than anything else, and never got enough to satisfy it--even for a time.

Under this very strict regime, eating was like to become a lost art and

our digestive organs had very little to do. We had very little use for

them, in these days. A story went around the camp to this effect: One of

the men got sick--said he had a pain in his stomach and sent for the

surgeon. The doctor, trying to find the trouble, felt the patient's

abdomen, and punched it, here and there. After a while he felt a hard

lump, which ought not to be there. The doctor wondered what it could

be--then feeling about, he found another hard lump, and then another,

and another. Then the doctor was perfectly mystified by all those hard

places in a man's insides. At last, the explanation came to him: he was

feeling the vertebrae of the fellow's back-bone--right through his

stomach!

I do not vouch for the exact accuracy of all the details of the story,

but it illustrates the situation. We all felt that our stomachs had

dwindled away for want of use and exercise.

=A Fresh Egg=

Another incident, that I can vouch for, showing the strenuous time the

whole army had about food that winter: One day Major-Quartermaster John

Ludlow, of Norfolk, met a Captain of Artillery from his own town of

Norfolk--Capt. Charles Grandy, of the Norfolk Light Artillery Blues. The

Major invited the Captain to dine with him on a certain day. He did not

expect anything very much, but there was a seductive sound in the word

"dining" and he accepted. Grandy told the story of his experience on

that festive occasion. He walked two miles to Major Ludlow's quarters,

and was met with friendly cordiality by his old fellow-townsman, and

ushered into his hut where a bright fire was burning. After a time spent

in conversation, the Major began to prepare for dinner. He reached up on

a shelf, and took down a cake of bread, cut it into two pieces, and put

them in a frying pan on the fire to heat. Then he reached up on the

shelf and got down a piece of bacon--not very large--cut it into two

pieces, and put them in another pan on the fire to fry. Down in the

ashes by the fire was a tin cup covered over--its contents not visible.

The dining table was an old door, taken from some barn and set up on

skids.

When the bread and meat were ready, the Major put it on the table and

with a courtly wave of his hand said, "D-d-draw up, Charley." They

seated themselves. The Major gave a piece of bread and a piece of bacon

to his guest, and took the other piece, of each, for himself. After he

had eaten a while--the Major got up, went to the fireplace and took up

the tin cup. He poured off the water, and, behold, one egg came to view.

This egg, the Major put on a plate and, coming to the table, handed it

to Grandy--"Ch-Ch-Charley, take an egg," as if there were a dish full.

Charley, having been brought up to think it not good manners to take the

last thing on the dish, declined to take the only egg in sight--said he

didn't care specially for eggs! though he said he would have given a

heap for that egg, as he hadn't tasted one since he had been in the

army. "But," urged the Major, "Ch-Ch-Charley, I insist that you take an

egg. You must take one--there is going to be plenty--do take it." Under

this encouragement, Grandy took the egg--while he was greatly enjoying

it, suddenly there was a flutter in the corner of the hut. An old hen

flew up from behind a box in the corner, lit on the side of the box and

began to cackle loudly. The Major turned to Grandy and said, "I-I

t-t-told you there was going to be a plenty. I invited you to dinner

today because this was the day for the hen to lay." He went over and got

the fresh egg from behind the box, cooked and ate it. So each of the

diners had an egg. The incident was suggestive of the situation. Here

was a Quartermaster appointing a day for dining a friend--depending for

part of the feast on his confidence that his hen would come to time. The

picture of that formal dinner in the winter quarters on the Rapidan is

worth drawing. It was a fair sign of the times, and of life in the Army

of Northern Virginia; when it came to a Quartermaster giving to an

honored, and specially invited guest, a dinner like that--it indicates a

general scarceness.

=When Fiction Became Fact=

One bright spot in that "winter of our discontent"--lives in my memory.

It was on the Christmas Day of 1863. That was a day specially hard to

get through. The rations were very short indeed that day--only a little

bread, no meat. As we went, so hungry, about our work, and remembered

the good and abundant cheer always belonging to Christmas time; as we

thought of "joys we had tasted in past years" that did _not_ "return" to

us, now, and felt the woeful difference in our insides--it made us sad.

It was harder to starve on Christmas Day than any day of the winter.

When the long day was over and night had come, some twelve or fifteen of

us, congenial comrades, had gathered in a group, and were sitting out of

doors around a big camp fire, talking about Christmas, and trying to

keep warm and cheer ourselves up.

One fellow proposed what he called a _game_, and it was at once taken

up--though it was a silly thing to do, as it only made us hungrier than

ever. The game was this--we were to work our fancy, and imagine that we

were around the table at "Pizzini's," in Richmond. Pizzini was the

famous restauranteur who was able to keep up a wonderful eating house

all through the war, even when the rest of Richmond was nearly starving.

Well--in reality, now, we were all seated on the ground around that

fire, and very hungry. In imagination we were all gathered 'round

Pizzini's with unlimited credit and free to call for just what we

wished. One fellow tied a towel on him, and acted as the waiter--with

pencil and paper in hand going from guest to guest taking orders--all

with the utmost gravity. "Well, sir, what will you have?" he said to the

first man. He thought for a moment and then said (I recall that first

order, it was monumental) "I will have, let me see--a four-pound steak,

a turkey, a jowl and turnip tops, a peck of potatoes, six dozen

biscuits, plenty of butter, a large pot of coffee, a gallon of milk and

six pies--three lemon and three mince--and hurry up, waiter--that will

do for a start; see 'bout the rest later."

This was an order for one, mind you. The next several were like unto it.

Then, one guest said, "I will take a large saddle of mountain mutton,

with a gallon of crabapple jelly to eat with it, and as much as you can

tote of other things."

This, specially the crabapple jelly, quite struck the next man. He said,

"I will take just the same as this gentleman." So the next, and the

next. All the rest of the guests took the mountain mutton and jelly.

All this absurd performance was gone through with all

seriousness--making us wild with suggestions of good things to eat and

plenty of it.

The waiter took all the orders and carefully wrote them down, and read

them out to the guest to be sure he had them right.

Just as we were nearly through with this Barmecide feast, one of the

boys, coming past us from the Commissary tent, called out to me, "Billy,

old Tuck is just in (Tucker drove the Commissary wagon and went up to

Orange for rations) and I think there is a box, or something, for you

down at the tent."

I got one of our crowd to go with me on the jump. Sure enough, there was

a great big box for me--from home. We got it on our shoulders and

trotted back up to the fire. The fellows gathered around, the top was

off that box in a jiffy, and there, right on top, the first thing we

came to--funny to tell, after what had just occurred--was the biggest

saddle of mountain mutton, and a two-gallon jar of crabapple jelly to

eat with it. The box was packed with all good, solid things to

eat--about a bushel of biscuits and butter and sausage and pies, etc.,

etc.

We all pitched in with a whoop. In ten minutes after the top was off,

there was not a thing left in that box except one skin of sausage which

I saved for our mess next morning. You can imagine how the boys did

enjoy it. It was a bully way to end up that hungry Christmas Day.

I wrote my thanks and the thanks of all the boys to my mother and

sisters, who had packed that box, and I described the scene as I have

here described it, which made them realize how welcome and acceptable

their kind present was--and what comfort and pleasure it gave--all the

more that it came to us on Christmas Day, and made it a joyful one--at

the end, at least.

In regard to all this low diet from which we suffered so much hunger

that winter--it is well worthy of remark that the health of the army was

never better. At one time that winter there were only 300 men in

hospital from the whole Army of Northern Virginia--which seems to

suggest that humans don't need as much to eat as they think they do.

That army was very hungry, but it was very healthy! It looks like cause

and effect! But it was a very painful way of keeping healthy. I fear we

would not have taken that tonic, if we could have helped it, but we

couldn't! Maybe it was best as it was. Let us hope so!

Well, the winter wore on in this regular way until the 3d or 4th of

February, when our quiet was suddenly disturbed in a most unexpected

manner. Right in the dead of a stormy winter, when nobody looked for any

military move--we had a fight. The enemy got "funny" and we had to bring

him to a more serious state of mind, and teach him how wrong it was to

disturb the repose of gentlemen when they were not looking for it, and

not doing anything to anybody--just trying to be happy, and peaceable if

they could get a chance.

=Confederate Fashion Plates=

Leading up to an account of this, I may mention some circumstances in

the way of the boys in the camp. Living the hard life, we were--one

would suppose that fashion was not in all our thoughts; but even then,

we felt the call of fashion and followed it in such lines, as were open

to us. The instinct to "do as the other fellow does" is implanted in

humans by nature; this blind impulse explains many things that otherwise

were inexplicable. With the ladies it makes many of them wear hats and

dresses that make them look like hoboes and guys, and shoes that make

them walk about as gracefully as a cow in a blanket, instead of looking,

and moving like the young, graceful gazelles--that nature meant, and men

want them to look like. Taste and grace and modesty go for nothing--when

fashion calls.

Well, the blind impulse that affects the ladies so--moved us in regard

to the patches put on the seats of our pants. This was the only

particular in which we could depart from the monotony of our quiet,

simple, gray uniform--which consisted of a jacket, and pants and did not

lend itself to much variety; but fashion found a way.

There must always be a leader of fashion. We had one--"The glass of

fashion and the mould of form" in our gang was Ben Lambert. He could

look like a tombstone, but was full of fun, and inventive genius.

Our uniform was a short jacket coming down only to the waist, hence a

hole in the seat of the pants was conspicuous, and was regarded as not

suited to the dignity and soldierly appearance of a Howitzer. For one to

go around with such a hole showing--any longer than he could help

it--was considered a want of respect to his comrades. Public opinion

demanded that these holes be stopped up as soon as possible. Sitting

about on rough surfaces--as stumps, logs, rocks, and the ground--made

many breaks in the integrity of pants, and caused need of frequent

repairs, for ours was not as those of the ancient Hebrews to whom Moses

said, "Thy raiment waxed not old upon thee"--ours waxed very old, before

we could get another pair, and were easily rubbed through. The more

sedate men were content with a plain, unpretentious patch, but this did

not satisfy the youngsters, whose aesthetic souls yearned for "they know

not what," until Ben Lambert showed them. One morning he appeared at

roll call with a large patch in the shape of a heart transfixed with an

arrow, done out of red flannel. This at once won the admiration and envy

of the soldiers. They now saw what they wished, in the way of a patch,

and proceeded to get it. Each one set his ingenuity to work to devise

something unique. Soon the results began to appear. Upon the seats of

one, and another, and another, were displayed figures of birds, beasts

and men--a spread eagle, a cow, a horse, a cannon. One artist depicted a

"Cupid" with his bow, and just across on the other hip a heart pierced

with an arrow from Cupid's bow--all wrought out of red flannel and sewed

on as patches to cover the holes in the pants, and, at the same time,

present a pleasing appearance. By and by these devices increased in

number, and when the company was fallen in for roll call the line, seen

from the rear, presented a very gay and festive effect.

One morning, a General, who happened in camp--the gallant soldier, and

merry Irishman, General Pat Finnegan, was standing, with our Captain, in

front of the line, hearing the roll call.

That done, the Orderly Sergeant gave the order, "'Bout face!" The rear

of the line was thus turned toward General Finnegan. When that art

gallery--in red flannel--was suddenly displayed to his delighted eyes

the General nearly laughed himself into a fit.

"Oh, boys," he cried out, "don't ever turn your backs upon the enemy.

Sure they'll git ye--red makes a divil of a good target. But I wouldn't

have missed this for the world."

The effect, as seen from the rear, was impressive. It could have been

seen a mile off--bright red patches on dull gray cloth. Anyhow it was

better than the holes and it made a ruddy glow in camp. Also it gave the

men much to amuse them.

Ben set the fashion in one other particular--viz., in hair cuts. He

would come to roll call with his hair cut in some peculiar way, and

stand in rank perfectly solemn. Ranks broken, the boys would gather

eagerly about him, and he would announce the name of that "cut." They

would, as soon as they could, get their hair cut in the same style.

One morning, he stood in rank with every particle of his hair cut off,

as if shaved, and his head as bare as a door knob. "What style is that,

Ben?" the boys asked. "The 'horse thief' cut," he gravely announced.

Their one ambition now, was to acquire the "horse-thief cut."

There was only one man in the Battery who could cut hair--Sergeant Van

McCreery--and he had the only pair of scissors that could cut hair. So

every aspirant to this fashionable cut tried to make interest with Van

to fix him up; and Van, who was very good natured, would, as he had time

and opportunity, accommodate the applicant, and trim him close. Several

of us had gone under the transforming hands of this tonsorial artist,

when Bob McIntosh got his turn. Bob was a handsome boy with a luxuriant

growth of hair. He had raven black, kinky hair that stuck up from his

head in a bushy mass, and he hadn't had his hair cut for a good while,

and it was very long and seemed longer than it was because it stuck out

so from his head. Now, it was all to go, and a crowd of the boys

gathered 'round to see the fun. The modus operandi was simple, but

sufficient. The candidate sat on a stump with a towel tied 'round his

neck, and he held up the corners making a receptacle to catch the hair

as it was cut. Why this--I don't know; force of habit I reckon. When we

were boys and our mothers cut our hair, we had to hold up a towel so. We

were told it was to keep the hair from getting on the floor and to stuff

pincushions with. Here was the whole County of Orange to throw the hair

on, and we were not making any pincushions--still Bob had to hold the

towel that way. Van stood behind Bob and began over his right ear. He

took the hair off clean, as he went, working from right to left over his

head; the crowd around--jeering the victim and making comments on his

ever-changing appearance as the scissors progressed, making a clean

sweep at every cut. We were thus making much noise with our fun at Bob's

expense, until the shears had moved up to the top of his head, leaving

the whole right half of the head as clean of hair as the palm of your

hand, while the other half was still covered with this long, kinky, jet

black hair, which in the absence of the departed locks looked twice as

long as before--and Bob did present a spectacle that would make a dog

laugh. It was just as funny as it could be.

=A Surprise Attack=

Just at that moment, in the midst of all this hilarity, suddenly we

heard a man yell out something as he came running down the hill from the

guns. We could not hear what he said. The next moment, he burst

excitedly into our midst, and shouted out, "For God's sake, men, get

your guns. The Yankees are across the river and making for the guns.

They will capture them before you get there, if you don't hurry up."

This was a bolt out of a clear sky--but we jumped to the call. Everybody

instantly forgot everything else and raced for the guns. I saw McCreery

running with the scissors in his hand; he forgot that he had them--but

it was funny to see a soldier going to war with a pair of scissors! I

found myself running beside Bob McIntosh, with his hat off, his head

half shaved and that towel, still tied round his neck, streaming out

behind him in the wind.

Just before we got to the guns, Bob suddenly halted and said, "Good

Heavens, Billy, it has just come to me what a devil of a fix I am in

with my head in this condition. I tell you now that if the Yankees get

too close to the guns, I am going to run. If they got me, or found me

dead, they would say that General Lee was bringing up the convicts from

the Penitentiary in Richmond to fight them. I wouldn't be caught dead

with my head looking like this."

We got to the guns on the hill top and looked to the front. Things were

not as bad as that excited messenger had said, but they were bad enough.

One brigade of the enemy was across the river and moving on us; another

brigade was fording the river; and we could see another brigade moving

down to the river bank on the other side. Things were serious, because

the situation was this: an Infantry Brigade from Ewell's Corps, lying in

winter quarters in the country behind us, was kept posted at the front,

whose duty it was to picket the river bank. It was relieved at regular

times by another Brigade which took over that duty.

It so chanced that this was the morning for that relieving Brigade to

come. Expecting them to arrive any minute, the Brigade on duty, by way

of saving time, gathered in its pickets and moved off back toward camp.

The other Brigade had not come up--careless work, perhaps, but here in

the dead of winter nobody dreamed of the enemy starting anything.

So it was, that, with one brigade gone; the other not up; the pickets

withdrawn, at this moment there was nobody whatsoever on the front

except our Battery--and, here was the enemy across the river, moving on

us and no supports.

In the meantime, the enemy guns across the river opened on us and the

shells were flying about us in lively fashion. It was rather a sudden

transition from peace to war, but we had been at this business before;

the sound of the shells was not unfamiliar--so we were not unduly

disturbed. We quickly got the guns loaded, and opened on that Infantry,

advancing up the hill. We worked rapidly, for the case was urgent, and

we made it as lively for those fellows as we possibly could. In a few

minutes a pretty neat little battle was making the welkin ring. The

sound of our guns crashing over the country behind us made our people,

in the camp back there, sit up and take notice. In a few minutes we

heard the sound of a horse's feet running at full speed, and Gen. Dick

Ewell, commanding the Second Corps, came dashing up much excited. As he

drew near the guns he yelled out, "What on earth is the matter here?"

When he got far enough up the hill to look over the crest, he saw the

enemy advancing from the river, "Aha, I see," he exclaimed. Then he

galloped up to us and shouted, "Boys, keep them back ten minutes and

I'll have men enough here to eat them up--without salt!" So saying, he

whirled his horse, and tore off back down the road.

In a few minutes we heard the tap of a drum and the relieving Brigade,

which had been delayed, came up at a rapid double quick, and deployed to

the right of our guns; they had heard the sound of our firing and struck

a trot. A few minutes more, and the Brigade that had left, that morning,

came rushing up and deployed to our left. They had heard our guns and

halted and came back to see what was up.

With a whoop and a yell, those two Brigades went at the enemy who had

been halted by our fire. In a short time said enemy changed their minds

about wanting to stay on our side, and went back over the river a good

deal faster than they came. They left some prisoners and about 300 dead

and wounded--for us to remember them by.

The battle ceased, the picket line was restored along the river bank,

and all was quiet again. Bob McIntosh was more put out by all this

business than anybody else--it had interrupted his hair cut. When we

first got the guns into action, everybody was too busy to notice Bob's

head. After we got settled down to work, I caught sight of that

half-shaved head and it was the funniest object you ever saw. Bob was

No. 1 at his gun, which was next to mine, and had to swab and ram the

gun. This necessitated his constantly turning from side to side,

displaying first this, and then the other side of his head. One side was

perfectly white and bare; the other side covered by a mop of kinky, jet

black hair; but when you caught sight of his front elevation, the effect

was indescribable. While Bob was unconsciously making this absurd

exhibition, it was too much to stand, even in a fight. I said to the

boys around my gun, "Look at Bob." They looked and they could hardly

work the gun for laughing.

Of course, when the fight was over McCreery lost that pair of scissors,

or _said_ he did. There was not another pair in camp, so Bob had to go

about with his head in that condition for about a week--and he wearied

of life. One day in his desperation, he said he wanted to get some of

that hair off his head so much that he would resort to any means. He had

tried to cut some off with his knife. One of the boys, Hunter Dupuy, was

standing by chopping on the level top of a stump with a hatchet. Hunter

said, "All right, Bob, put your head on this stump and I'll chop off

some of your hair." The blade was dull, and it only forced a quantity of

the hair down into the wood, where it stuck, and held Bob's hair fast to

the stump, besides pulling out a lot by the roots, and hurting Bob very

much. He tried to pull loose and couldn't. Then he began to call Hunter

all the names he could think of, and threatened what he was going to do

to him when he got loose. Hunter, much hurt by such ungracious return

for what he had done at Bob's request, said, "Why, Bob, you couldn't

expect me to cut your hair with a hatchet without hurting some"--which

seemed reasonable. We made Bob promise to keep the peace, on pain of

leaving him tied to the stump--then we cut him loose with our knives.

After some days, when we had had our fun, Van found the scissors and

trimmed off the other side of his head to match--Bob was happy.

=Wedding Bells and a Visit Home=

A few days after this I had the very great pleasure of a little visit to

my home. My sister, to whom I was devotedly attached, was to be married.

The marriage was to take place on a certain Monday. I had applied for a

short leave of absence and thought, if granted, to have it come to me

some days before the date of the wedding, so that I could easily get

home in time. But there was some delay, and the official paper did not

get into my hands until fifteen minutes before one o'clock on

Sunday--the day before the wedding. The last train by which I could

possibly reach home in time was to leave Orange Court House for Richmond

at six o'clock that evening, and the Court House was nineteen miles off.

It seemed pretty desperate, but I was bound to make it. I had had a very

slim breakfast that morning; I swapped my share of dinner that evening

with a fellow for two crackers, which he happened to have, and lit out

for the train.

A word about that trip, as a mark of the times, may be worth while. I

got the furlough at 12.45. I was on the road at one, and I made that

nineteen miles in five hours--some fast travel, that! I got to the depot

about two minutes after six; the train actually started when I was still

ten steps off. I jumped like a kangaroo, but the end of the train had

just passed me when I reached the track. I had to chase the train twenty

steps alongside the track, and at last, getting up with the back

platform of the rear car, I made a big jump, and managed to land. It was

a close shave, but with that nineteen-mile walk behind, and that wedding

in front, I would have caught that train if I had to chase it to

Gordonsville--"What do you take me for that I should let a little thing

like that make me miss the party?"

Well, anyhow, I got on. The cars were crowded--not a vacant seat on the

train. We left Orange Court House at six o'clock P. M.--we reached

Richmond at seven o'clock the next morning--traveled all

night--thirteen hours for the trip, which now takes two and a half

hours--and all that long night, there was not a seat for me to sit

on--except the floor, and that was unsitable. When I got too tired to

stand up any longer, I would climb up and sit on the flat top of the

water cooler, which was up so near the sloping top of the car that I

could not sit up straight. My back would soon get so cramped that I

could not bear it any longer--then I crawled down and stood on the floor

again. So I changed from the floor to the water cooler and back again,

for change of position, all through the night in that hot, crowded car,

and I was very tired when we got to Richmond.

We arrived at seven o'clock and the train--Richmond and Danville

Railroad--was to start for Danville at eight. I got out and walked about

to limber up a little for the rest of the trip. I had a discussion with

myself which I found it rather hard to decide. I had only half a dollar

in my pocket. The furlough furnished the transportation on the train,

and the question was this--with this I could get a little something to

eat, or I could get a clean shave. On the one hand I was very hungry. I

had not eaten anything since early morning of the day before, and since

then had walked nineteen miles and spent that weary night on the train

without a wink of sleep. Moreover, there was no chance of anything to

eat until we got to Danville that night--another day of fasting--strong

reasons for spending that half dollar in _food_. On the other hand, I

was going to a wedding party where I would meet a lot of girls, and

above all, was to "wait" with the prettiest girl in the State of

Virginia. In those days, the wedding customs were somewhat different

from those now in vogue. Instead of a "best man" to act as "bottle

holder" to the groom, and a "best girl" to stand by the bride and pull

off her glove, and fix her veil, and see that her train hangs right,

when she starts back down the aisle with her victim--the custom was to

have a number of couples of "waiters" chosen by the bride and groom from

among their special friends, who would march up in procession, ahead of

the bride and groom, who followed them arm in arm to the chancel.

The "first waiters" did the office of "best" man and girl, as it is now.

I have been at a wedding where fourteen couples of waiters marched in

the procession.

Well, I was going into such company, and had to escort up the aisle that

beautiful cousin, that I was telling you about--naturally I wanted to

look my best, and the more I thought about that girl, the more I wanted

to, so I at last decided to spend that only fifty cents for a clean

shave--and got it. My heart and my conscience approved of this decision,

but I suffered many pangs in other quarters, owing to that long fasting

day. However, virtue is its own reward, and that night when I got home,

and that lovely cousin was the first who came out of the door to greet

me, dressed in a--well, white swiss muslin--I reckon--and looking like

an angel, I felt glad that I had a clean face.

And after the rough life of camp, what a delicious pleasure it was to be

with the people I loved best on earth, and to see the fresh faces of my

girl friends, and the kind faces of our old friends and neighbors! I

cannot express how delightful it was to be at home--the joy of it sank

into my soul. Also, I might say, that at the wedding supper, I made a

brilliant reputation as an expert with a knife and fork, that lived in

the memory of my friends for a long time. My courage and endurance in

that cuisine commanded the wonder, and admiration, of the spectators. It

was good to have enough to eat once more. I had almost forgotten how it

felt--not to be hungry; and it was the more pleasant to note how much

pleasure it gave your friends to see you do it, and not have a lot of

hungry fellows sitting around with a wistful look in their eyes.

Well, I spent a few happy days with the dear home folks in the dear old

home. This was the home where I had lived all my life, in the sweetest

home life a boy ever had. Everything, and every person in and around it,

was associated with all the memories of a happy childhood and youth. It

was a home to love; a home to defend; a home to die for--the dearest

spot on earth to me. It was an inexpressible delight to be under its

roof--once more. I enjoyed it with all my heart for those _few short

days_--then, with what cheerfulness I could--hied me back to camp--to

rejoin my comrades, who were fighting to protect homes that were as dear

to them as this was to me.

I made another long drawn-out railroad trip, winding up with that same

old nineteen miles from Orange to the camp, and I got there all right,

and found the boys well and jolly, but still hungry. They went wild over

my graphic description of the wedding supper. The picture was very

trying to their feelings, because the original was so far out of reach.

=The Soldiers' Profession of Faith=

In this account of our life in that winter camp, it remains for me to

record the most important occurrence of all. About this time there came

into the life of the men of the Battery an experience more deeply

impressive, and of more vital consequence to them than anything that had

ever happened, or ever could happen in their whole life, as soldiers,

and as men. The outward beginning of it was very quiet, and simple. We

had built a little log church, or meeting house, and the fellows who

chose had gotten into the way of gathering here every afternoon for a

very simple prayer meeting. We had no chaplain and there were only a few

Christians among the men. At these meetings one of the young fellows

would read a passage of Scripture, and offer a prayer, and all joined in

singing a hymn or two. We began to notice an increase of interest, and a

larger attendance of the men. A feature of our meeting was a time given

for talk, when it was understood that if any fellow had anything to say

appropriate to the occasion, he was at liberty to say it. Now and then

one of the boys did have a few simple words to offer his comrades in

connection, perhaps, with the Scripture reading.

One day John Wise, one of the best, and bravest men in the Battery,

loved and respected by everybody, quietly stood up and said, "I think it

honest and right to say to my comrades that I have resolved to be a

Christian. I here declare myself a believer in Christ. I want to be

counted as such, and by the help of God, will try to live as such."

This was entirely unexpected. He sat down amidst intense silence. A

spirit of deep seriousness seemed fallen upon all present. A hymn was

sung, and they quietly dispersed. Some of us shook hands with Wise and

expressed our pleasure at what he had said, and done.

This incident produced a profound impression among the men. It brought

out the feelings about religion that had lain unexpressed in other

minds. The thoughts of many hearts were revealed. The interest spread

rapidly; the fervor of our prayer meetings grew. We had no chaplain to

handle this situation, but men would seek out their comrades who were

Christians, and talk on this great subject with them, and accept such

guidance in truth, and duty as they could give. And now from day to day

at the prayer meetings men would get up in the quiet way John Wise had

done, and in simple words declare themselves Christians in the presence

of their comrades. Most of them were among the manliest and best men of

the company; they were dead in earnest, and their actions commanded the

respect and sympathy of the whole camp.

This movement went quietly on, without any fuss or excitement, until

some sixty-five men, two-thirds of our whole number, had confessed their

faith, and taken their stand, and in conduct and spirit, as well as in

word, were living consistent Christian lives. They carried that faith,

and that life, and character, home when they went back after the

war--and they carried them through their lives. In the various

communities where they lived their lives, and did their work, they were

known as strong, stalwart Christian men, and towers of strength to the

several churches to which they became attached. Of that number twelve or

fourteen men went into the ministry of different churches, and served

faithfully to their life's end.

What I have described as going on in our Battery off there by itself at

Morton's Ford, was going on very widely in the Army at large. There was

a deep spiritual interest and strong revival of religion throughout the

whole Army of Northern Virginia during that winter. Thousands and

thousands of those splendid soldiers of the South, became just as

devoted soldiers, and servants of Jesus Christ, and took their places in

His ranks, and manfully fought under His banner, and were not ashamed

to confess the faith of Christ crucified, and to stand for His cause.

The effect of all this was very far-reaching. What these men carried

back home with them wrought a great change in the South--a change in the

attitude of the men of the South toward Christ's religion. There was a

great change in that attitude, from before the war, and afterward,

produced by the war.

I will try to explain what I mean: Before the war, in the South, as I

knew it--in the country neighborhoods, and in the villages, and small

towns--you would find a group of men, often made up of the most

influential, respected, educated, efficient men of that community, who

were not members of any church or professed Christians. These were men

of honor and integrity, respected by all, valuable citizens. They

respected religion, went to church regularly, as became a gentleman, and

gave their money liberally to support the church as a valuable

institution of society. That was, their attitude toward

religion--respectful tolerance, but no personal interest--no need of it.

Their thought, generally unspoken but sometimes expressed, was that

religion was all right for women, and children, and sick or weak men,

but strong men could take care of themselves and had no need of it. And,

of course, the young men coming on were influenced by their example and

thought it manly to follow their example. The argument was specious.

"There is Mr. Blank; he is an upright, good man, and no man stands

higher in the community; he is just as good a man and citizen as any

member of the church. He gets along all right without religion--I won't

bother about it." So he let it alone and went his way. The very virtues

of that group of men were a baleful influence in that community--led

young men into the dreadful mistake that men do not need religion--that

religion is not a manly thing. A good man who is not a Christian does

ten-fold more harm, in a community, to the cause of Christ, and to the

lives of men than the worst, and lowest man in it; so it was here!

When the call to war came, these very men were the first to go. As a

rule they were the leaders, in thought and action, of their

fellow-citizens, and they were high spirited, intensely patriotic, and

quick to resent the invasion of their rights, and their State. In

whole-hearted devotion to the cause, they went in a spirit that would

make them thorough soldiers.

=The Example of Lee, Jackson and Stuart=

Now when these men got into the army the "esprit de corps" took

possession of them. They got shaken down to _soldier_ thoughts, and

judgments. They began to estimate men by their personal value to the

cause that was their supreme concern. In that army, three men held the

highest place in the heart and mind, of every soldier in it--they were

General Lee, Stonewall Jackson and Jeb Stuart--each the highest in his

line. All the army had, for these three men, reverent honor,

enthusiastic admiration, and absolute confidence. We looked up to them

as the highest types of manhood--in noble character, superb genius, and

consummate ability. They were by eminence the heroes--the beloved

leaders of the army. There were many other able, and brilliant leaders,

whom we honored, but these were set apart. In the thoughts, and hearts

of all the army, and the country as well, these three were the noblest

and highest representatives of our cause; and every man did homage to

them, and was proud to do it. But, as was known, with all their high

qualities of genius, and personal character, and superb manhood, each

one of these three men was a devout member of Christ's Church; a sincere

and humble disciple of Jesus Christ; and in his daily life and all his

actions and relations in life, was a consistent Christian man. All his

brilliant service to his country was done as duty to his God, and all

his plans and purposes were "referred to God, and His approval and

blessing invoked upon them, as the only assurance of their success." All

who were personally associated with these men came to know that this was

the spirit of their lives; and many times, in religious services, in

camp, these men, so idolized by the army, and so great in all human eyes

but their own, could be seen bowing humbly down beside the private

soldiers to receive the holy sacrament of the Blessed Body and Blood of

Christ.

Now, when the men, who had been so indifferent to religion at home, as

so unnecessary for them, came up against this fact, and came to look up

to these three men as their highest ideals of manhood, they got an eye

opener. If men like Lee, and Jackson, and Stuart, and others, felt the

need of religion for themselves, the thought would come, "Maybe I need

it, too. No man can look down on the manhood of these men; if they

esteem religion as the crown of their manhood, it is not a thing to be

despised, or neglected, or treated with indifference. It is a thing to

be sought, and found and taken into my life." And this train of thought

arrested the attention, and got the interest and stirred to truer

thoughts, and finally brought them to Christ. Thousands of these men

were led to become devout Christians, and earnest members of the church

through the influence of the three great Christian leaders, and other

Christian comrades in the army.

Now, when these men got back home after the war and the survivors of

those groups got settled back in their various communities, there was a

great difference in the religious situation, from what it had been

before the war. There had taken place a complete change in these men, in

their attitude toward religion, and this wrought a great change in this

respect in their communities, for the returned soldiers of any community

were given a place of peculiar honor, and influence. They had their

record of splendid, and heroic service behind them and they were held

in affectionate, and tender regard--not only by their own families, and

friends, but by all their neighbors and fellow-citizens. What that group

of soldiers thought, and wanted, _went_ in that town, or countryside.

Now, that group of men who set the pace, and made the atmosphere in that

community were Christians. The serious phase of life; the seasoning of

hardships; the discipline; the oft facing of death; the stern habit of

duty at any cost, which they had passed through during the war had made

them very strong men, and very earnest Christians. What they stood for,

they stood for boldly, and outspokenly on all proper occasions. They

were not one whit ashamed of their religion and were ready at all times,

and about all matters to let the world know just where they stood; to

declare by word, and deed who they were, and whom they served.

All this set up before the eyes of that community a very strong,

forcible, manly type of religion. These were not women, and children,

and they were not sick or weak men--they were the very manliest men in

that town, and so were taken and accepted by general consent.

Just think of the effect of that situation upon the boys and young men

growing up in that community. The veteran soldiers, back from the war,

with all their honors upon them--were heroes to the young fellows. What

the soldiers said, and did, were patterns for them to imitate; and the

pattern of Christian life, set up before the youngsters, made religion,

and church membership most honorable in their eyes. They did not now, as

aforetime, have to overcome the obstacle in a young man's mind which lay

in the association of weakness with religion, and which had largely been

suggested to them by the older men, in the former times.

The old Christian soldiers, whom they now saw, set up in them the idea

that religion was the manliest thing in the world, and so inclined them

toward it, and assured the most serious, and respectful consideration of

it. Religion could not be put aside lightly, or treated with contempt as

unmanly, for those veteran heroes were living it and stood for it, and

they were, in their eyes, the manliest men they knew.

Now, this leaven of truer thought about religion was leading society all

through the South; the Southern men and boys everywhere were feeling its

influence, and it was having most remarkable effects. The increase in

the number of men, who after the war were brought into the church by the

direct influence of the returned soldiers, "who had found their souls"

through the experiences of their army life, was tremendous. Those

soldiers did a bigger service to the men of their race by bringing back

religion to them than they did in fighting for them during the war.

Just after the war, in the far harder trials and soul agony of the

Reconstruction days, I think that the wonderful patience, and courage

which resisted humiliation, and won back the control of their States,

and rebuilt their shattered fortunes and pulled their country

triumphantly up out of indescribable disaster, can only be thus really

explained--that those men were "strong and of a good courage" because

"their minds were staked on God."

The history of the Southern people during that epoch is unmatched by the

history of any people in all time. The result they achieved, this was

the reason--beneath the superb "grit" of the Southern people lay deep

the conviction "God is our refuge and strength" and "The God whom we

serve. He will deliver us." It was the spiritual vision of the men of

the South that saved it when it was ready to perish--and let the men of

the South never forget it! Let them give unceasing recognition and

thanks to God, for that great deliverance.

If I have made clear my thought--the connection of the religious revival

in the army with the fortunes of our people at home after the war--I am

glad! If I haven't, I am sorry! I can't say any fairer than that, and I

can only make the plea that was stuck up in a church in the West, in the

old rough days, when a dissatisfied auditor of the sermon, or the

organist, was likely to express his disapproval with a gun. The notice

up in front of the choir read like this: "Please don't shoot the

musician, he's doing his level best"--I make the same request.

But, to return to our muttons! Let us get back to the winter camp at

Morton's Ford.

=Spring Sprouts and a "Tar Heel" Story=

The winter had now worn away and the spring had come. Vegetation began

to show signs of life. Its coming bore us one comfort in one way--among

others. It was not so cold, and we did not have to tote so many logs of

wood to keep up our fires. Down on the river flats, where vegetation

showed sooner than it did on the hills, green things began to shoot up.

Dandelions, sheep sorrel, poke leaves and such, though not used in civil

life, were welcome to us, for they were much better than no salad at

all. The men craved something green. The unbroken diet of just bread and

meat--generally salt meat at that--gave some of the men scurvy. The only

remedy for that was something acid, or vegetable food. The men needed

this and craved it--so when the green shoots of any kind appeared we

would go down on the flats, and gather up all the green stuff we could

find, and boil it with the little piece of bacon we might have. It

improved the health of the men very much.

At this time, there was a North Carolina Brigade of Infantry at the

front furnishing pickets for the river bank. They were camped just back

of our winter quarters. Those fellows seemed to be very specially strong

in their yearning for vegetable diet, so much so that they attracted

our attention. Every day we would see long lines of those men passing

through our camp. They would walk along, one behind another, in almost

unending procession, silent and lonesome, never saying a word and never

two walking together--and all of them meandered along intent on one

thing--getting down to the flats below "to get some sprouts" as they

would say when asked where they were going.

Later on, we would see them in the same solemn procession coming back to

camp--every man with a bunch of something green in his fist.

This daily spectacle of Tar Heels swarming through our camp interested

us; we watched them mooning along. We tried to talk with them, but all

we got from them was, "We'uns is going to git some sprouts. Don't

you'uns love sprouts?"

We did, but we didn't go after them in such a solemn manner. Our

"sprout" hunts were not so funereal a function; rather more jovial, and

much more sociable. Also this devotion to the search for the herb of the

field excited our curiosity. They were all the time craving green stuff,

and going after it so constantly. We had a story going around which was

supposed to explain the craving of a Tar Heel's insides for greens.

This was the story:

One of these men got into the hospital. He had something the matter with

his liver. The doctor tried his best to find out what was the matter,

and tried all sorts of remedies--no results. At last, in desperation,

the doctor decided to try heroic treatment. He cut the fellow open, took

out his liver, fixed it up all right (whatever that consisted in),

washed it off and hung it on a bush to dry, preparatory to putting it

back in place. A dog stole the liver, and carried it off. Here was a bad

state of things--the soldier's liver gone, the doctor was responsible.

The doctor was up against it. He thought much, and anxiously. At last a

bright idea struck him. He sent off, got a sheep, killed it, took out

its liver, got it ready, and sewed it up in that soldier in place of his

own. The man got well, and about his duties again. One day, soon after,

the doctor met him and said with much friendly interest, "Well, Jim, how

are you?"

"Oh, doctor," he replied in a very cheerful tone, "I'm well and strong

again."

The doctor looked at him, and asked him significantly, "Jim, do you feel

_all right_?"

Falling into that characteristic whine, Jim said, "Yes, sir, I am well

and strong, but, Doctor, all the time, now, I feel the strangest

hankering after grass."

That was the sheep's liver telling. Our theory was that all of those

fellows had sheep's livers, and that accounted for the insatiable

"hankering after grass."

I told this story in an after-dinner speech at a banquet some time ago

to a company of twenty-nine female doctors of medicine--trained, and

practicing physicians. They made no protest; listened with unbroken

gravity; accepted it as a narrative of actual occurrence, and looked at

me with wide-eyed interest. When I finished I thought it best to tell

them that it was all a joke. Then they laughed themselves into a fit.

Well, this little account of our doings, and our life in the winter camp

at Morton's Ford--1863-1864--is done. Out of its duties, and

companionships; its pleasures, and its deeper experiences, we Howitzers

were laying up pleasant memories of the camp for the years to come. And

often in after years, when some of us comrades got together we would

speak of the old camp at Morton's Ford.

The spring was now coming on. We knew that our stay here could not last

much longer. How, and when, and where we should go from here, we did not

know. We knew we would go somewhere--that was all. "We would know when

the time came, and 'Marse Robert' wanted us" he would tell us.

That is the soldier's life--"Go, and he goeth; come, and he cometh; do

this, and he doeth it." No choice. Wait for orders--then, quick! Go to

it!

Well we were perfectly willing to trust "Marse Robert" and perfectly

ready to do just what he said. Meantime we take no anxious thought for

the morrow; we go on with our work, and our play--we are "prepared to

move at a moment's warning."