FORGOTTEN HEROES
"There was a little city and few men within it and there came a great
king against it and besieged it and built great bulwarks against it.
Now there was found in it a poor wise man and he by his wisdom
delivered the city, yet no man remembered that same poor man." Thus
wrote the great Solomon, hearing of a deed, the tale of which had come
down through the centuries. The doer of the deed had been long
forgotten.
History is full of memories of brave deeds. The names of the men who
did them have passed away. The deeds live on forever. Like a fleck of
radium each deed is indestructible. It may be covered with the dust and
débris of uncounted years, but from it pulsates and streams forever a
current of example and impulse which never can be hidden, never be
forgotten, but which may flash out ages later, fighting with a
mysterious, hidden inner strength against the powers of fear and of
wrong.
The annals of the Civil War are full of records of forgotten doers of
great deeds, humble, commonplace men and women who suddenly flashed out
in some great effort of duty and perhaps were never heard of again.
Pray God that all of us when the time comes may burst if only for a
moment into the fruition of accomplishment for which we were born and
not wither away like the unprofitable fig-tree which only grew, but
never bore fruit.
In 1862, the battle-hospitals were crowded with wounded and dying men.
The best surgeons of that day had not learned what every doctor knows
now about the aseptic treatment of wounds and conducting of operations.
Accordingly too often even slight wounds gangrened and a terrible
percentage of injured men died helplessly and hopelessly. In the fall
of that year the hospitals at Jefferson were in a fearful condition.
Thousands and thousands of wounded and dying men were brought there for
whom there were no beds. One poor fellow lay on the bare, wet boards,
sick of a wasting fever. He was worn almost to a skeleton and on his
poor, thin body were festering bed-sores which had come because there
was no one who could give him proper attention. From his side he had
seen five men one after the other brought in sick or wounded and
carried away dead. One day an old black washerwoman named Hannah
stopped in the ward to hunt up a doctor for whom she was to do some
work. She saw this patient lying on his side on a dirty blanket spread
out on the boards unwashed and filthy beyond all description with
gaping sores showing on his wasted back. There he lay staring
hopelessly at the body of a man who had recently died next to him and
which the few overworked attendants had not had time to carry out to
the dead-house. Old Hannah could not stand the sight. When she finally
found the doctor she begged him to give her leave to take the man up
and put him in her own bed.
"It's no use, Hannah," said the doctor kindly, "the poor chap is dying.
He will be gone to-morrow. I wish we could do something for him, but we
can't and you can't."
Hannah could not sleep that night thinking of the sick man. Bright and
early the next morning she came down and found him still alive. That
settled it in her mind. Without asking any one's permission, she went
out, looked up her two strapping sons and made them leave their work
and bring her bed down to the hospital. It was covered with coarse but
clean linen sheets and she directed them while they lifted the sufferer
on to the bed and carried him down to her shanty. There she cut away
the filthy shirt which he wore and washed him like a baby with hot
water. Then she settled down to nurse him back to life. Every half
hour, night and day, she fed him spoonfuls of hot, nourishing soup.
That and warm water and clean linen were the only medicines she used.
For a week she did nothing else but nurse her soldier. Several times he
sank and once she thought him dead, but he always rallied and
single-handed old Hannah fought back death and slowly nursed him back
to health. Finally when he was well, he was given a furlough to go back
to his home in Indiana. He tried to persuade Hannah to go back with
him.
"No, honey," she said, "I'se got my washing to do and besides I'm goin'
to try to adopt some more soldiers."
She went with him to the steamboat, fixed him in a deck chair, as he
was still too feeble to walk, and kissed him good-bye and when she left
the man broke down and cried. Old Hannah went back to her shanty and
did the same thing again and again until she had nursed back to life no
less than six Union soldiers. As she was not in active service, the
government never recognized her work and even her last name was never
known, but six men and their families and their friends have handed
down the story of what a poor, old, black washerwoman could and did do
for her country and for the sick and helpless.
The exploit of Lieutenant Blodgett and his orderly, Peter Basnett, was
a brave deed of another kind. He had been sent by General Schofield
during the engagement at Newtonia with orders to the colonel of the
Fourth Missouri Cavalry. As the two rode around a point of woods, they
suddenly found themselves facing forty Confederate soldiers drawn up in
an irregular line not fifty yards away. There was no chance of escape,
as they would be riddled with bullets at such a short range. Moreover
neither the lieutenant nor his orderly thought well of surrendering.
Without an instant's hesitation they at once drew their revolvers and
charging down upon the Confederates, shouted in loud, though rather
shaky voices, "Surrender! Drop your arms! Surrender at once!" The line
wavered, feeling that two men would not have the audacity to charge
them unless they were followed by an overwhelming force. As they came
right up to the lines, eight of the men in front threw down their
muskets. The rest hesitated a minute and then turned and broke for the
woods and the lieutenant and his orderly rode on and delivered eight
prisoners along with their orders.
In the battle of Rappahannock Station, Colonel Edwards of the Fifth
Maine showed the same nerve under similar circumstances. While his
regiment were busy taking a whole brigade of captured Confederates to
the rear, the colonel with a dozen of his men rode out into the
darkness after more prisoners. Following the line of fortifications
down toward the river, he suddenly came out in front of a long line of
Confederate troops lying entrenched in rifle-pits. Like Lieutenant
Blodgett, he decided to make a brave bluff rather than be shot down or
spend weary years in a Confederate prison. Riding directly up to the
nearest rifle-pit where a score of guns were leveled at him, he
inquired for the officer who was in command of the Confederate forces.
"I command here," said the Confederate colonel, rising from the middle
pit, "and who are you, sir?"
"My name is Colonel Edwards of the Fifth Maine, U.S.A.," replied the
other, "and I call upon you to surrender your command at once."
The Confederate colonel hesitated.
"Let me confer with my officers first," he said.
"No, sir," said Colonel Edwards, "I can't give you a minute. Your
forces on the right have been captured, your retreat is cut off and
unless you surrender at once, I shall be compelled to order my
regiment," pointing impressively to the whole horizon, "to attack you
without further delay. I don't wish to cause any more loss of life than
possible."
The Confederate colonel was convinced by his impressive actions and
that there would be no use to resist.
"I hope you will let me keep my sword, however," he said.
"Certainly," said Colonel Edwards, generously, "you can keep your
sword, but your men must lay down their arms and pass to the rear
immediately."
The whole brigade including a squad of the famous Louisiana Tigers were
disarmed and marched to the rear as prisoners of war by Colonel Edwards
and his twelve men. One of these men said afterward, "Colonel, I nearly
lost that battle for you by laughing when you spoke about their
'surrendering to avoid loss of life.'"
The most terrible missile in modern warfare is the explosive shell.
Records show that the greatest loss of life occurs from artillery fire
and not from rifle bullets. In the Civil War these shells were
especially feared. The solid shot and the grape and the canister were
bad enough, but when a great, smoking shell dropped into the midst of a
regiment, the bravest men fled for shelter. The fuses were cut so that
the shell would explode immediately on striking or a very few seconds
afterward. The explosion would drive jagged fragments of iron and
sometimes heated bullets through scores of men within a radius of fully
one hundred yards. No wounds were more feared or more fatal than the
ghastly rips and tears made by the jagged, red-hot fragments of shells.
The men became used to the hiss and the whistle of the solid shot and
the whirling bullets, but when the scream of the hollow shell was heard
through the air overhead, like the yell of some great, fatal, flying
monster, every man within hearing tried to get under shelter.
In 1864, the 101st Ohio Infantry were fighting at Buzzards Roost,
Georgia. Company H was drawn up along the banks of the stream there and
one of the Confederate batteries had just got its range. Suddenly there
came across the woods the long, fierce, wailing scream of one of the
great shells and before the echo had died out it appeared over the tree
tops and fell right in the midst of a hundred men, hissing and spitting
fire. All the men but one scattered in every direction. Private Jacob
F. Yaeger was on the edge of the group and could have secured his own
safety by dodging behind a large tree which stood conveniently near.
Just as he was about to do this he saw that some of the men had not had
time enough to get away and were just scrambling up only a few feet
from the spluttering shell. He acted on one of those quick, brave
impulses which make heroes of men. Like a flash, he sprinted across the
field, tearing off his coat as he ran, wrapped it round the hissing,
hot shell and started for the creek, clasping it tight against his
breast. By this time the fuse had burned so far in that there was no
opportunity to cut it below the spark. His only chance was to get it
into the water before the spark reached the powder below. He reached
the bank of the creek in about two jumps, but, as he said afterward, he
seemed to hang in the air a half hour between each jump. Even as he
reached the bank, he hurled the shell, coat and all, into the deep,
sluggish water and involuntarily ducked for the explosion which he was
sure was going to come. It didn't. The water stopped the spark just in
time and Private Yaeger had saved the lives of many of his comrades.
Of all the prizes which are most valued in war the captured
battle-flags of an enemy rank first. The flag is the symbol of an
army's life. While it waves the army is living and undefeated. When the
flag falls, or when it is captured, all is over. In battle the men
rally around their colors and the flag stands for life or death. It
must never be given up and the one who carries the flag has not only
the most honorable but the most dangerous post in his company. Against
the flag every charge is directed. The man who carries the flag knows
that he is marked above all others for attack. The man who saves a flag
from capture saves his company or his regiment not only from defeat,
but from disgrace.
In the battle of Gettysburg, Corporal Nathaniel M. Allen of the First
Massachusetts Infantry was the color-bearer of his company. On the 2d
of July his regiment had been beaten back under the tremendous attacks
of the Confederate forces. Their retreat became almost a rout as the
men ran to escape the murderous fire which was being poured in upon
them by concealed batteries of the enemy as well as from the muskets of
the advancing infantry. Corporal Allen stayed back in the rear and
retreated slowly and reluctantly so as to give his company a chance to
return and rally. Beyond and still farther back than he, marching
grimly and doggedly from the enemy, was the color-bearer of his
regiment carrying the regimental flag. Suddenly Allen saw him falter,
stop, fling up his arms and fall headlong on the field tangled up in
the flag which he was carrying. There came a tremendous yell from the
advancing Confederate forces as they saw the flag go down. Allen
stopped and for a moment hesitated. It was only his duty to carry and
wave his own colors, but at that moment he saw a squad of gray-backs
start out from the advancing Confederate forces and make a rush to
capture the flag which lay flat and motionless in a widening pool of
the color-bearer's blood. This was too much for Allen. With a yell of
defiance he rushed back, heedless of the bullets which hissed all
around him, and rolling over the dead body of the man who had given his
life for his colors he pulled the regimental flag from under his body,
and started back for the distant Union forces. By this time the
Confederates were close upon him, but his brave deed had not gone
unnoticed. Seeing him coming across the stricken field with a flag in
either hand, the rear-guard of his regiment turned back with a cheer
and poured in a volley into the approaching Confederates which stopped
them just long enough to let Allen escape and to carry back both the
colors.
"What's the matter with you fellows anyway," said Allen, as he reached
the safety of the rear rank; "do you think I'm going to do all the
fighting?"
A storm of cheers and laughter greeted this remark and the rear-guard
stopped. Slowly the others, hearing the cheers, and stranger still, the
laughing, came back to the colors and in a few minutes the line was
again formed and this time the regiment held and drove back the attack
of the Confederates. One man by doing more than his duty had changed a
defeat into a victory.
Sometimes in a battle a man becomes an involuntary hero. In some of
Sienkiwictz's war-novels, he has a character named Zagloba who was
constantly doing brave deeds in spite of himself. In one battle he
became caught in a charge and while struggling desperately to get out,
he tripped and fell on top of the standard-bearer of the other army who
had just been killed. Zagloba found himself caught and entangled in the
banner and finally, as the battle swept on, he emerged from the place
in safety carrying the standard of the enemy and from that day forward
was held as one of the heroes of the army.
At the battle of Chancellorsville Major Clifford Thompson at Hazel
Grove became an involuntary hero and did a much braver deed than he had
intended, although, unlike Zagloba, he had shown no lack of courage
throughout the battle. General Pleasonton was forming a line of battle
along the edge of the woods and was riding from gun to gun inspecting
the line when suddenly not two hundred yards distant a body of men
appeared marching toward them. He was about to give the order to fire
when a sergeant called out to him:
"Wait, General, I can see our colors in the line."
The General hesitated a moment and then turning said, "Major Thompson,
ride out and see who those people are and come back and tell me."
As the major said afterward, he had absolutely no curiosity personally
to find out anything about them and was perfectly willing to let them
introduce themselves, but an order is an order, and he accordingly rode
directly toward the approaching men. He could plainly see that they had
Union colors, but could see no trace of any Union uniforms. When he was
only about forty yards distant, the whole line called out to him:
"Come on in, we're friends; don't be afraid."
The major, however, had heard of too many men being made prisoners by
pretended friends and accordingly rode along the front of the whole
line in order to determine definitely the character of the approaching
forces, fearing that the colors which he saw and which they kept waving
toward him might have been Union colors captured from the Union forces
the day before. Seeing that he did not come closer, one of the front
rank suddenly fired directly at him and then with a tremendous Rebel
yell the whole body charged down upon the Union forces. Thompson turned
his horse to dash back to his own lines, but realized that, caught
between two fires, he would evidently be shot either by his own troops
or by the Rebels behind him. Dashing his spurs into his horse, he rode
like the wind between the two lines, hoping to get past them both
before the final volley came. Fortunately for him both sides reserved
their fire until they came to close quarters although he received a
fusillade of scattered shots all along the line. Just as he rounded the
ends, the lines came together with a crash and simultaneous volleys of
musketry. There were a few moments of hand-to-hand fighting, but the
Union forces were too strong and the Confederate ranks broke and
retreated in scattering groups to the shelter of the woods beyond. The
major reached the rear of his own lines just in time to help drive back
the last rush of the Confederates. A few moments later he saw General
Pleasonton sitting on his horse nearly in the same place where he had
been when he had first sent him on his errand. Riding up to him, Major
Thompson saluted.
"General," he said, "those men were Confederates."
"I strongly suspected it," said the General, "but, Major, I never
expected to see you again, for when that charge came I figured out that
if the Rebs didn't shoot you, we would. You did a very brave thing
reconnoitering the enemies' front like that."
"Well," said the major, "I am glad, General, that it impressed you that
way. It was such a rapid reconnoiter that I was afraid that you might
think it was a retreat."
When Henry C. Foster, who afterward became famous as one of the heroes
of Vicksburg, joined the Union Army, he was the rawest recruit in his
regiment. His messmates still tell the story of how, before the
regiment marched, he was visited by his mother who brought him an
umbrella and a bottle of pennyroyal for use in wet weather and was
horrified to find that soldiers are not allowed to carry umbrellas.
Henry was impatient of the constant and never-ending drilling to which
he was subjected. One day after a trying hour of setting-up exercises,
he suddenly grounded his gun and said engagingly to the captain:
"Say, Captain, let's stop this foolishness and go over to the grocery
store and have a little game of cards."
The captain stared at Foster for nearly a minute before he could get
his breath, then he turned to a grinning sergeant and said:
"Sergeant, you take charge of this young cabbage-head after the regular
drilling is over and drill him like blazes for about three extra
hours," which the sergeant accordingly did.
In spite of his greenness and his peculiarities, however, Henry had
good stuff in him and the making of a brave soldier. He was known as a
dead-shot and a good soldier, although still retaining some of his
peculiarities. Among others he insisted upon wearing a coonskin cap and
was known throughout his company as "Old Coonskin." He soon showed such
qualities of courage and self-reliance that in spite of his early
record he was gradually promoted until by the time his regiment reached
Vicksburg, which the Union Army was then besieging, he was a second
lieutenant. The siege of Vicksburg was a long and tedious affair. The
investing forces did not have sufficient artillery to make such a
breach in the defenses of the Confederates that a successful attack
could be made. The besiegers out in the wet and mud wearied of the slow
process under which the encircling lines were brought closer and closer
and longed for more active operations. Lieutenant Foster especially,
just as formerly he had protested against the interminable drilling,
now chafed against the enforced inaction of the troops. Finally he made
up his mind that he at least would get some interest out of the siege.
As one of the best shots in his regiment, he had no difficulty in being
detailed for sharp-shooting duty. One dark night, loaded with
ammunition and with a haversack of provisions and several canteens of
water, he crawled out into the space between the Union lines and the
defender's ramparts. The next morning, to his comrades' intense
surprise, they found that Old Coonskin had dug for himself a deep
burrow like a woodchuck close to the enemy's defenses and had thrown up
a little mound with a peep-hole. There he lay for three days picking
off the Confederates and scoring each successful shot with a notch on
the butt of the long rifle which he had obtained especial permission to
use. At first the Confederates could not locate the direction from
which the fatal shots kept coming. When they did discover Foster in his
burrow, volley after volley was directed at his refuge, but he kept too
close to be hit and at regular intervals men who showed themselves on
the ramparts were kept dropping before his unerring fire. At the end of
the third day, the Confederates had learned their lesson and there were
no more shots to be had and once more Old Coonskin began to be bored.
It finally occurred to him that if he could in any way gain possession
of a height which would allow him to shoot over the ramparts, he could
make the Confederate position very uncomfortable. There was no tree or
hill, however, near by which would lend itself to any such idea.
Accordingly the third night Foster crawled back again to his regiment
and spent a day in resting and reconnoitering and receiving the
congratulations of the whole regiment for his marksmanship and daring.
The next night was dark and stormy. At daylight the sentries inside the
city were amazed to see a rude structure standing close beside the
fatal burrow. It was in the form of a log-cabin hastily built out of
railroad ties and reinforced with heavy railroad iron and containing
peep-holes so that its occupant could shoot with entire safety. At
first it did not seem to be any more dangerous than the burrow had been
so long as the besieged kept off the breastwork. By the second day,
however, it had grown visibly higher and the third night found it built
up by slow degrees so that it began to look really like a low tower.
Finally it reached such a height that from an upper inside shelf,
protected by heavy logs and planks, Old Coonskin could lie at his ease
and overlook all of the operations inside the city. Then began a reign
of terror for the besieged. They had no artillery and it was necessary
to concentrate an incessant fire on the tower, otherwise the
sharp-shooter within could pick off his men without difficulty. It was
absolutely impossible for the besieged to keep under cover and still
properly man the defenses against an attack. One by one the officers
went down before Old Coonskin's deadly fire and it seemed to be only a
question of time and ammunition before the whole garrison succumbed to
his marksmanship. In the meantime, the besieging lines drew closer and
closer and the never-ceasing artillery fire and incessant attacks
gradually wore down the courage and the resources of the besieged. One
day within an hour eleven men went down before the deadly aim of Old
Coonskin, most of them officers. Suddenly the firing ceased from the
ramparts and slowly and reluctantly a white flag was hoisted, followed
shortly by an envoy to the Union lines with a flag of truce. A
tremendous cheer went up through the weary Union lines. Vicksburg had
fallen, and to this day you never will be able to convince Old
Coonskin's company that he was not the man who, along with Grant,
brought about its surrender.