CAMP LIFE AND NEWS-GATHERING.
The story of the Wilderness campaign, during which were fought the
greatest musketry battles in the history of the world, with their
awful slaughter, has been told by hundreds of witnesses, and by
Carleton himself in his books; but the life of the camp and how the
great army was handled, how the news was forwarded, and how Carleton
beat the government couriers and all his fellow historians of the
hour, getting the true report of the awful struggle before the
country, has not been told, or at least, only in part. Let us try to
recall some of the incidents.
In the first place, this was the time of the year when the flies and
manifold sort of vermin, flying, crawling, hopping, hungry, and ever
biting, were in the full rampancy of their young vigor. It was not
only spiteful enemies in human form, that sent crashing shells and
piercing bullets, but every kind of nipping, boring, sucking, and
stinging creatures in the air and on the earth, that our brave
soldiers, and especially our wounded, had to face. Even to the
swallowing of a mouthful of coffee, or the biting of a piece of hard
tack, it was a battle. Flies, above, around, and everywhere, made it
difficult to eat without taking in vermin also. Even upon the most
careful man, the growth of parasites in the clothing or upon the
person was a certainty. Within twenty-four hours the carcass of a
horse, left on the field of battle, seemed to move with new and
multitudinous life suddenly generated. The stench of the great
battle-fields was unspeakable, and the sudden creation of incalculable
hosts of insects to do nature's scavenger work was a phenomenon
necessary, but to human nerves horrible. The turkey-buzzards gathered
in clouds for their hideous banquet.
All this made the work of the surgeons greater, and the sufferings of
the wounded more intense; yet, redeeming the awful sight of torn and
mangled humanity, was the splendid discipline and order of the medical
staff. Upon the first indications of a battle, the regimental wagons
of each corps would be driven up to some real or supposed safe place.
It was the work of but a few moments for the tables to be spread with
all their terrible array of steel instruments, while close at hand
would be the stores of lint, bandages, towels, basins, and all the
paraphernalia which science and long experience had devised. These
diminished, in some measure, the horrors of the battle for at least
the wounded. It was a sublime and beautiful sight, as compared with
the wars of even a century ago, when the surgeon had scarcely a
recognized position in the army. In the very midst of the hell of fire
and flame and noise, the relief parties, with their stretchers, would
go out and return with their burdens. Soon the neighborhood of the
surgeon's wagon looked like a harvest-field with the windrows of cut
grain upon it. Strange as it may seem, there was often more real
danger in this going and coming from rear to front, and from front to
rear, than on the very battle line itself. Many a man preferred to
stand in the fighting files with the excitement and glory, than to get
out into the uncertain regions of wandering balls and bursting shells.
The Carletons, both uncle and nephew, had often, while out
collecting news, to scud from cover to cover, and amid the "zip, zip"
of bullets. Dangerous as the service was, there was little reward to
the eyesight, for the Confederate army, like the Japanese dragon of
art, was to be seen only in bits, here and there.
How easy for us now, in the leisure of abundant time and with all the
fresh light that science has shed upon surgery, and focussed upon the
subject of gunshot wounds, to criticise the surgeons of that day, who,
with hundreds of men each awaiting in agony his turn, were obliged to
decide within minutes, yea, even seconds, upon a serious operation,
without previous preparation or reinforcement of the patient. The
amputation, the incision, the probing had to be done then and there,
on the instant. It is even wonderful that the surgeons did as well as
they did. Often it was a matter of quick decision as to whether
anything should be attempted. One look at many a case was enough to
decide that death was too near. Often the man died in the stretcher;
sometimes, when marked for the operating-table, he was asleep in his
last sleep before his turn came. Surgeons, hospital stewards, nurses,
detailed men, had to concentrate into moments what in ordinary
hospital routine may require hours.
Human nature was reduced to its lowest terms when hunger made the
possessors of a stomach forget whether they were men or wolves. The
heat was so intense, the marching so severe, that many of the men
would throw away blankets, rations, and equipments, and then make up
in camp by stealing. Severe punishment was meted out when ammunition
was thrown away. The debris on the line of march, and the waste, was
tremendous. Only strict military discipline made property respected.
Even then, the new conscript had to look out for his bright and
serviceable musket when the old veteran's arms were lost or out of
order. The newspaper correspondent owning a good horse had to keep
watch and ward, while so many dismounted cavalrymen whose horses had
been shot were as restless as fish out of water. It was hard enough
even for the soldiers to get rations during the Wilderness campaign,
harder often for the men of letters. Had it not been for kind
quartermasters, and the ability of the correspondents to find the
soft side of their hearts, they must have starved. Yet the rapidity
with which soldiers on their forced marches could turn fences into
fires and coffee into a blood-warmer was amazing. The whole process
from cold rails to hot coffee inside the stomach often occupied less
than twenty minutes. In these "ramrod days," "pork roasts"--slices of
bacon warmed in the flame or toasted over the red coals--made, with
hard tack, a delicious breakfast.
Once when the Second Corps had captured several thousand Confederate
prisoners, who were corralled in an open field in order to be safely
guarded, and their commander brought into the presence of General
Grant, the former remarked that his men had had nothing to eat for the
past twenty-four hours. Instantly Grant gave the order for several
wagon-loads of crackers to be brought up and distributed to the
hungry. Thereupon appeared a spectacle that powerfully impressed young
Carleton. The six-muled teams appeared in a few moments and were
whipped up alongside of the Virginia rail fence. Then the stalwart
teamsters, aided by some of the boys in blue, stood beside the wagons
to distribute boxes. Two men, taking each the end of a box in hand,
after two or three preparatory swings, heaved the box full of biscuit
up in the air and off into the field. Within the observation of young
Carleton, no box, while full, ever reached the ground, but was seized
while yet in the air, gripped and ripped open by the men that waited
like hungry wolves. They tore open the packed rows of crackers and
fairly jammed them down their famished mouths, breaking up the hard
pieces in their hands while waiting for their teeth to do its hasty
work. Humanity at its noblest, in Grant's instantly ordering food, and
in its most animal phase of necessity, in the hungry rebels devouring
sustenance, were illustrated on that day.
After work with the pen concerning the great battles in the
Wilderness, Carleton's great question was how to get his letters to
Boston. The first bundle was carried by Mr. Wing, of the New York
_Tribune_, the second by Mr. Coffin's nephew, Edmund Carleton. The
nearest point occupied by the Union army, which had communication with
the North by either boat, mail or telegraph, was Fredericksburg, more
than forty miles to the eastward. To reach this place one must ride
through a region liable at any moment to be crossed by regular
Confederate cavalry, Mosby's troops, or rebel partisans. There were
here and there outposts of the Union cavalry, but the danger, to a
small armed party, and much more to a single civilian rider, was very
great. Nevertheless, young Carleton was given his uncle's letters,
with the injunction to ride his horse so as not to kill it before
reaching Fredericksburg. "The horse's life is of no importance,
compared with the relief of our friends' anxiety; and, if necessary to
secure your purpose of prompt delivery, let the horse die, but
preserve its life if you can."
To make success as near to certainty as possible, young Carleton took
counsel with the oldest and wisest cavalrymen. He then concluded to
take the advice of one, who told him to give his horse a pint of corn
for breakfast and allow the animal plenty of time to eat and chew the
fodder well. Then, during the day, let the beast have all the water he
wanted, but no food till he reached his destination. Fortunately, his
horse, being "lean," was the one foreordained in the proverb for the
"long race." The young messenger lay down at night with his despatches
within his bosom, his saddle under his head, and his horse near him.
The bridle was fastened around his person, and all his property so
secured that the only thing that could be stolen from him without his
being awakened was his hat and haversack,--though this last was under
his saddle-pillow. Nothing else was loose.
The young man rose early. Alas! he had been bereaved indeed. Not only
his hat, but his haversack, with all toilet articles, his uncle's
historic spy-glass, and his personal notes of the campaign, were gone.
While his horse chewed its corn he found a soldier's cap, vastly too
small, but by ripping up the back seam he was able to keep it on his
head and save himself from sunstroke. Mounting his horse, he set out
eastward at sunrise. When some miles beyond the Federal lines, he was
challenged by horsemen whom he found to be of the 13th Pennsylvania
cavalry on outpost duty and just in from a foraging trip. They
hesitated to release him even after examining his passes, but "that
from Butler fetched them." Even then, they did not like him to
proceed, assuring him that it was too dangerous for anybody to cross
such unprotected territory. He would be "a dead man inside of an
hour." However, they examined his horse's shoes, and gave him a strip
of raw pork, the first food he had tasted for many an hour. Finally
they bade him good-by, promising him that he was going "immediately to
the devil." Some miles further on, he saw near him two riders.
Mutually suspicious of each other, the distance was shortened between
the two parties until the character of each was made known. Then it
was discovered that all three were on the same errand, the solitary
horseman for Boston private enterprise, and the two cavalrymen in blue
for General Grant to the Government, were conveying news.
They rode pleasantly together for a few minutes, but when Carleton
noticed that their horses were fat and too well-fed to go very fast,
he bade his companions good-by. He put spurs to his horse. Though it
was the hottest day of the year, he reached Fredericksburg about the
middle of the forenoon, thirsty and hungry, having eaten only the
generous cavalryman's slice of raw pork on the way. He found there a
train loading with the wounded of several days' battle. He at once
began helping to carry the men on the cars. Volunteering as a nurse,
where nurses were most needed, though at first refused by the
surgeons, he got on board the train. From the Sanitary Commission
officers, he received the first "square meal" eaten for many days. At
Acquia Creek, he took the steamboat, and after helping to transfer the
wounded from cars to boat, he remained on board, sleeping on a railing
seat. Next morning he was in Washington, before the newspaper bureaus
were open.
He sent by wire a brief account of the Wilderness battles. At first
the operator was very reluctant to transmit the message, since he was
sure that none had been received by the Government, and he feared
reprimand or discharge for sending false reports. Indeed, this
information sent by Carleton was the first news which either President
Lincoln or Secretary Stanton had of Grant's latest movements.
From the telegraph office, young Carleton went to the Boston
_Journal_ Bureau, on 14th Street. There he had to wait some time,
since Mr. Coffin's successor in Washington, not expecting any tidings,
was leisurely in appearing. By the first mail going out, however, a
"great wad of manuscript," put in envelopes as letters, was posted.
Again the _Journal_ beat even the official messengers and the other
newspapers in giving the truthful reports of an eye-witness. Thus,
Charles Carleton Coffin scored another triumph.
How to get back to the army was now a question for young Carleton. The
orders of the Secretary of War were peremptory that no one should
leave Washington for the front. The correspondents who were there
might stay, but no fresh accessions could be made to the ranks of the
news-gatherers. How, then, could young Carleton pierce through the
hedge of authority?
But the man diligent in business shall stand before kings. Young
Carleton, securing a commission as nurse from Surgeon-General Hammond,
went down to the riverside, and, going on board a steamer arriving
with wounded, he helped to unload its human freight. When the last
man had been carried over the gunwales, young Carleton stayed on
board. When far down the river, on the returning boat, he ceased being
something like a stowaway, and became visible. No one challenged or
disturbed him. At Acquia Creek, he found that General Augur, having
sent all his wounded North, was just abandoning the communication.
Young Carleton then went to Belle Plain, and thence marched three days
with three companies of the Veteran Invalid Corps, and rejoined the
army on its forced march, when Grant moved by the left flank down
towards Petersburg.
Meanwhile, the pride of Mr. Coffin, the journalist, and the
conscience of Mr. Coffin, the man, the uncle, and the Christian, had
been at civil war. He was berating himself for having let his nephew
go on so dangerous an errand. When the news flew round the camp that
"young Carleton's back," Mr. Coffin rushed up to his nephew, wrung his
hand, and cried out, with beaming face, "Ed, you're a brick."