The events I am about to describe took place at a critical period of
“the war to keep the Union whole,” and cover that date in the career of
the army of the Potomac beginning with Hooker’s flank movement against
Lee, entrenched on the heights of Fredericksburg, and ending with the
disastrous repulse which attended that finely planned, yet poorly
executed, and ill-starred campaign. Of course, I am not writing history,
except in a small way; nor do I essay to describe in detail or with
accuracy the events in question. My purpose is to give my own
observations and experiences, mainly from memory, reinforced by a few
scraps and half-illegible memoranda saved from the accidents by flood
and field.
I was a participant in many of the earlier battles fought by the army of
the Potomac; but my opportunities for acquiring accurate information
touching the general aspects of the field were necessarily limited to
that part of it within my own immediate range of vision, and even
here—so rigidly did our commanders aim to reduce us to mere
automatons—we were often in the dark as to the meaning of this or that
movement. I strove hard to master the situation, but not until the war
closed and the reports of commanders were given to the public, did I
have other than a very indefinite conception of much that transpired
about me. Why we made this or that change of front; why we were kept for
hours in line of battle beneath a broiling sun with no enemy in sight;
why we were rushed from one point to another in an apparently hap-hazard
manner, enduring fatigue and hunger and subsisting upon wormy
“hardtack;” why we were pushed against impregnable positions, when a
flank movement seemed to our inexperienced eyes the proper thing to
do—now fighting, now building corduroy roads, digging rifle-pits or
supporting batteries in our rear, which did more execution upon us, by
reason of defective ammunition, than upon the enemy—concerning all these
points, and many more we were anxious to be informed, but not one atom
of information could we get.
“Ours not to inquire why,
Ours but to do and die.”
Was this reticence in pursuance of the mistaken theory that machine
soldiers are best? Or was it because “some one had blundered,” and
ignorance or incapacity, or something still worse, could be the more
easily concealed? Whatever the reason, the fact remains that to the rank
and file much of the campaigning done up to 1863–64 seemed to them worse
than needless;—and looking back over that period with the light of
history thrown upon it, I am not prepared to say the rank and file were
mistaken in their estimate. I was impressed then, and the impression has
never been effaced, that the reticence observed toward the men in the
ranks touching what was going on about them, was a grievous error on the
part of our commanders. It is a question, certainly, whether it would
not have been better to have kept the “boys” informed of the real
military situation and of what they were expected to achieve. The belief
that much of the hardship endured was the result of blundering generals,
or, worse, of criminal indifference, did much to unman our soldiers and
cause them to lose faith and hope. Our volunteers were not machine
soldiers, as some of the West Pointers seemed to presume, but patriotic,
thinking and observing men who could fight best when they fought
understandingly. I am told that the rebel commanders pursued a different
policy, and although their soldiers were mentally inferior to ours, kept
them apprized of the general situation and of what they must do to
accomplish the end sought. Who shall say how many of the confederate
victories may be accredited to this fact, if it is a fact? But our
commanders, instead of trusting their men, either kept them in utter
ignorance of movements or foolishly deceived them. How well I remember
at the battle of Gaines’s Hill, where Jackson thrashed Porter so
soundly, and Sykes’s regulars failed to stand their ground, that the
story was industriously circulated along the thinned but unbroken ranks
of Bartlett’s Brigade, “McClellan’s in Richmond, boys. One more effort
and the day is ours!” And Meagher’s Irish Brigade, hastening to our
relief on the run, took up the cry and put on so determined a front that
Jackson’s veterans halted and reformed, giving our officers time to
re-establish their broken lines and hold their ground until night came
down and afforded them an opportunity to withdraw to the left bank of
the Chickahominy,—not to enter Richmond, but to begin that celebrated
“flank movement” which ended at Harrison’s Landing. Again, at second
Bull Run, when, after dawdling along all day on the road from Alexandria
to Centreville, with the sounds of conflict in our front (making a long
two hours’ rest at Annandale, and then marching at full speed in a hot
sun), we reached Centreville, we were told that Pope had whipped
Jackson, and that Lee with his whole army was in full retreat. But when
we reached Bull Run, “Linden saw another sight.” Heavens, what a
stampede! McDowell’s and Sigel’s corps in disastrous retreat,—cavalry,
artillery, infantry, ammunition and baggage wagons in one confused,
struggling mass, intent upon reaching the heights of Centreville. Our
corps (Franklin’s, 6th) had just halted to rest, as the stragglers came
into view. Deploying, we stopped the rout, and ended the retreat.
Seizing the infantry stragglers, we placed them in our own ranks until
our brigade swelled to twice its usual size. Night closed in, and we
were marched to the front across Cub Run, and ordered to hold our
position at all hazards. In that march every straggler deserted! Poor
fellows, who could blame them? Had they been killed then and there who
could have accounted for them? Most of them returned to their own
regiments and thereafter did good service no doubt. Panics are liable to
seize upon the best of troops. I cite these instances as partial
corroboration of my point. What wonder if our troops came to distrust
all reports and to depend only upon established facts. But perhaps our
commanders were right in concealing information from the army in
general, and Moore may have hit the nail on the head when he wrote:
“A captain has been known to think,
Even colonels have been heard to reason;
And reasoners whether clad in pink,
Or red or blue, are on the brink,
Nine cases out of ten—of treason.”
At any rate they conducted the war in harmony with such a belief.
One battle only did I witness from the vantage ground of a
non-combatant, the first Fredericksburg fight, and I found it vastly
more interesting and conducive to personal ease and safety, if less
glorious. But this is not what I started out to tell the readers of this
Magazine. I am to relate my experience during that memorable episode
referred to in my opening paragraph. I must say at the outset that it
was an exceedingly checkered episode, so far as my memory serves me, for
within the time outlined I ran the gamut of a soldier’s
emotions—anxiety, uncertainty, fear, hope, the thrill of victory
succeeded all too quickly by the blackest despair; for success was
followed by repulse, and from an elated victor I became almost in a
twinkling, a captive in the hands of as ragged and as dirty a lot of
Johnny Rebs as ever fought with a courage worthy of a better cause,—a
part of Wilcox’s Alabama brigade, McLaw’s division. But I must not
anticipate.
During the winter of 1862–63, our brigade lay encamped near White Oak
church, a locality about equi-distant, if my memory serves me, between
Falmouth on the Rappahannock and Belle Plain on the Potomac. It had had
ample time to recuperate from the fatigue of the “mud march,” as
Burnside’s second futile attempt to dislodge Lee from his entrenchments
about Fredericksburg, was facetiously termed, and as spring opened the
routine of life in cantonment was relieved by parades, reviews,
inspections, drills, and, occasionally, target practice. Meantime Hooker
had superceded Burnside in chief command, and a new and more vigorous
life had been infused into all branches of the service. This was
particularly true of the cavalry, which had fallen into general
disfavor. Under Hooker’s discipline it became very effective. The
high-sounding grand divisions had been broken up, and the over-cautious,
phlegmatic Franklin, relieved. With other changes, came Sedgwick to the
command of our corps—a great improvement in some respects on Franklin.
The cool and sagacious Slocum, so long at the head of the red-cross
division, had been promoted to the command of a corps, and Gen. Brooks,
as brave, perhaps, but a far less skilful soldier, had succeeded him,
having been promoted from the Vermont brigade. Gen. Joe Bartlett of New
York, commanded our brigade—a fine officer, and a lion in battle. A
brave man, too, was our Colonel, but deficient in tactical skill. He
might not “set a squadron in the field,” but he could face the enemy’s
line of battle without flinching. In action he was the embodiment of
pluck, and at such times he looked as if he might be the very
“——Colonel
Who galloped through the white infernal powder cloud.”
in continental days. But he did not appear to advantage on parade, being
undersized and awkward gaited, with a shrill, piercing voice, not unlike
that of the late Isaac O. Barnes, or the irrepressible Mel. Weston, and
totally indifferent to all the niceties of drill so pleasing to the
holiday soldier. On one occasion he forgot his place at a Brigade dress
parade, and was then and there rebuked sharply by the general. Meeting
the latter at headquarters the same evening, where a “reception” to the
officers of the brigade was in full career and good fellowship, aided by
copious draughts of “commissary,” abounded, the Colonel extended his
hand and piped out in a high key which attracted the attention of all
present: “Gineral, I’m not much at drill I confess, but I’ve got a
hell-fired stomach for a fight!”
On the morning of the 28th of April, 1863, our regiment was ordered on
picket duty, but scarcely had we relieved the old picket guard when
orders came to return to camp, strike tents, and prepare to move at once
in heavy marching order. This meant work, but was an agreeable change. I
had only joined my regiment the day previous, after a brief leave of
absence, and was resplendent in a new uniform, sword, etc. Of course I
packed the uniform away, and left it in care of the sutler, while I
donned a knit blouse, and with a due regard for sharpshooters of which
the Confederacy had, as it always seemed to me when on the skirmish
line, more than its share, put myself in condition for serious work,
having nothing in the way of wearing apparel save my side-arms to
indicate military rank. Meantime a great change had been effected in our
winter quarters. The tents had been removed from the log huts to which
they had served as roofs and windows, and now the bare interiors, with
the debris strewn about, and broken chimneys and blackened walls alone
remained. A more dismal or melancholy sight than a deserted cantonment
cannot be conceived. “Warm work ahead, boys,” gaily and cheerily
remarked our jovial, stout-hearted adjutant, as he rode up to the head
of the regiment. It proved to be particularly hot for him, for he
received a wound in his head, in the charge on Marye’s Heights, that he
will carry to his grave, and which ended his military career, but not
his usefulness; for he is now a popular clergyman, a true soldier of the
cross, settled in Philadelphia, I believe. Our progress was slow, and
darkness intervened just as we reached a ravine leading down to the
narrow valley which skirts the river on that side. We bivouacked in our
tracks, not being allowed to kindle fires. Back over the route we had
come could be heard the rumble of artillery wagons and the tramp, tramp,
of marching columns. In front, silence reigned. Orders are issued in a
low tone; and that stern composure which soldiers assume when about to
encounter the enemy was apparent in the bearing of all. The officers
gather around their adjutant, who is a favorite at brigade and division
headquarters, to learn his views touching the movement. He thinks we are
in for a fight, and gives his opinion as to Hooker’s intentions. He is
sanguine of success.—We have hardly closed our eyes in sleep, when some
one calls out in a voice seemingly loud enough for the rebel pickets to
hear, “Where is Colonel Blank?” “Here, sir,” responds that officer,
rubbing his eyes. “What’s wanted?” “Gen. B. directs me to say that you
are to march your regiment to the bank of the river, form in line of
battle, and await further orders. You are to move expeditiously, with as
little noise as possible, following the pontoons.” The order is obeyed;
the regiment marching away in almost spectral silence. Debouching from
the ravine, the darkness deepens, for a dense fog hangs over the valley
of the Rappahannock like a pall. We file past the pontoon train, from
which the engineer corps are detaching the boats, silently and with all
the celerity possible—and stand upon the river’s brink. In our rear come
other regiments, until our whole brigade is closed in line five
regiments deep.—It was a critical time. I recall it well. The silence
was almost oppressive; orders were given in low tones, and nothing but
the rattle of accoutrements broke the silence. The fog resembled a
mirage. Objects a little way off took on gigantic proportions. I
remember that a pontoon boat, borne on stout shoulders to the river’s
brink, resembled the immense hulk of a ship as it loomed into view,
while at the distance of a few feet men took on colossal dimensions.
Meantime we are tolled off in detachments to occupy the pontoons, along
with the engineers who are to do the navigation, and our orders are to
form instantly on reaching the other shore, dash forward and capture the
enemy’s picket line, or whatever force may be there to oppose us. At
length there are sounds of commotion on the other side. The Johnnies
suspect something. Splash! goes a pontoon into the water, followed by a
deep curse from the officer in charge, brave old Gen. Benham, who cannot
restrain his rage over the carelessness of his men. Meanwhile the fog
has been gradually rising, and the gray of dawn appears. More stir on
the other side, a rattling of equipments, hurried commands—then a sharp
challenge, (some of our scouts are nearly over), followed by a single
musket discharge, then a volley, and the whistle of bullets.
Instinctively we do them low obeisance; the lines waver for an instant,
then firmness and silence. So heavy a fire was not anticipated. It told
of a large reserve which must have been brought up in expectation of an
attack. All hope of a surprise was over. “Will the pontoons never be
launched?” Yes, Benham has done his duty, and into them we scramble and
push off, each boat for itself. The stream is narrow at this point, but
we are not swift enough to check another volley, which being better
directed than the first, killed and wounded a number of our boys in the
boats. Almost at the same instant our pontoon touches the shore. There
is a rush, a charge, a brief struggle, and that picket guard is _hors du
combat_. Quickly deploying on the bank we advance, but the enemy retires
more quickly;—and we have established a firm foothold, the pontoon
bridge is laid, and the whole corps is streaming across as the morning
sun rises above the horizon. The fog still clings, however, to the
rising ground on which Franklin fought at the first battle of
Fredericksburg, and we move with due caution, skirmishers well out, not
knowing what sort of a reception Stonewall Jackson, whose corps is known
to occupy the wooded heights beyond, may have in store for us. But no
serious opposition is offered after the affair of the pickets, and
gradually we occupy most of the ground previously held by the centre of
Franklin’s grand division. The fog lifts at last, and the sight revealed
is a picturesque one. Before us, a level plain, extending on the right
to the suburbs of Fredericksburg, and on the left, cut with ravines and
hillocks somewhat, for a long distance. Back of us, the river; fronting,
on either hand, the plain ending in a range of wooded hills,
semicircular in shape, and dotted with fortifications. The enemy’s
picket line is well out upon the plain but touching the river above us
near the city. Extending our left it soon came in contact with Reynolds’
corps, which had effected a crossing a mile or two lower down, after a
sharp artillery fight in which the enemy showed superior metal, but was
obliged to retire after the infantry got over. Midway from the river to
the range of hills, and parallel with the former, is a deep ravine where
partial shelter from the concentric fire from the artillery posted on
Marye’s Heights on the right and on the hills in front, was afforded
Franklin’s troops in the previous battle. A few artillery shots are
fired, soon after establishing our lines, and then all becomes quiet.
What does this inaction portend? Evidently, Lee is acting on the
defensive, and waiting for the development of Hooker’s strategy. He does
not have long to wait. Before us is the whole rebel army. Will it swoop
down upon us before Hooker can develop his left and crush us? This is
the conundrum with which we wrestle, as the hours wear away, varying it
with a conjecture as to whether we shall be ordered to assault the
enemy, in his chosen position, against which Burnside had thrown the
flower of his army only to be hurled back discomfited. Another artillery
duel between Reynolds and Jackson later in the day closes the fighting,
and a night of repose follows. The succeeding day proved to be one of
quiet, also, but there was a constant movement of troops in our rear on
the heights of Falmouth, the line of march being directly up river.
“You see them on their winding way,
About their ranks the sunbeams play.”
That night our regiment went on picket. Never shall I forget it. Strict
orders had been received, prohibiting fires, or conversation above a
whisper, and requiring the most vigilant watchfulness to prevent
surprise, as the enemy in heavy force was directly in our front. Our
eyes were kept constantly on the rebel sentinels moving ghost-like upon
their beats. A dense fog settled down, cold and damp. The hours seemed
leaden. The suspense became intense, unbearable. Suddenly a tremor
sweeps along the line. Our boys are doubly alert. What does it mean? A
message comes down the front line—“The enemy are advancing. Hold your
ground until the reserves are formed, then rally upon them!” With
muskets firmly grasped the Union pickets await the onset. A night attack
is always dreaded by soldiers, and nothing is more trying to the nerves
of veterans than the expectation of a conflict with an unseen foe. But
our boys do not flinch; they feel the responsibility imposed upon them
and resolve to do their duty. Minutes go by, and still no advance,
although the weird line of sentinels has been succeeded by a line of
battle. Momentarily we expect to see a sheet of flame burst from that
compact mass, the components of which are indistinguishable in the fog
and darkness, although hardly six rods distant. But it comes not. The
mass recedes and fades out, leaving the sentinels pacing their posts,
and we now know that the movement was only a reconnaissance. Morning
dawns at length, and we are relieved without firing a shot. As we gain
the shelter of the ravine near the bank of the river, we notice that
Reynolds has recrossed with his whole corps and is marching in the
direction taken by the main army. Looking toward the rebel position on
our left, dark masses of men are seen moving over the hills, as if in
retreat. Here again we have food for speculation. Has Hooker, whose guns
are now heard on the right, outflanked the enemy? Later on we learned
that these troops were Stonewall Jackson’s rear guard, that intrepid
commander being then in the process of executing that famous flank
movement which put the 11th corps to rout and turned a Union success
into a Confederate victory, the most signal ever achieved by its armies.
About noon our troops made a demonstration, driving back the enemy’s
pickets, and later in the day rifle-pits were dug under cover of army
blankets hung up as if to dry—a device so simple as to deceive the
Confederates, for otherwise, being commanded by their guns, it could not
have been effected without serious loss.
The next day (Saturday, May 2), was comparatively quiet, although far to
the right could be heard the deep, yet muffled sound of artillery
firing, telling that Hooker was engaged. We made demonstrations all
along our front, but did no real fighting. During the night, the firing
on the right became very heavy,—and I was called into line at about 2 a.
m., to go through ere another chance to sleep was afforded me, the most
exciting experiences of my life. We were marched to the front, and
posted in a ravine. With the first streaks of dawn came sounds of
musketry firing on our right. It was the Light Division in the streets
of Fredericksburg. Marching by the left flank we emerge from the ravine
and take a position on the left, the second, and third and light
divisions of our corps extending to the right. As we leave the ravine
the enemy opens a heavy fire upon our devoted regiment, the hills on our
front and right being aflame with the flashes of the “red artillery.” We
advance rapidly, our general leading; our batteries gallop to the rising
ground, and open on the enemy’s guns posted near the railroad embankment
and which are doing the most execution. Our guns are splendidly served,
and soon the rebel battery in front and its infantry supports are seen
making quick time for the fortifications in the woods at the base of the
hill. Now the guns on the hills redouble their fire, and the din is
terrible. Men are falling at every step, and so fierce is the concentric
artillery fire of the Confederates that our batteries have to be
withdrawn. Not so the infantry. It is our part to keep the rebel force
in front employed while the divisions on our right storm Marye’s
Heights. So we keep steadily on until a ravine is reached running at
right angles with the one we have left, and leading nearly up to the
rebel entrenchments. The air is full of screaming shot and whistling
shell, and as we near the entrance to the ravine, which is filled with a
thick undergrowth of trees and bushes, our boys are ready to insist that
at least five hundred rebel cannon have the range and are peppering us
accordingly. Through the hell of fire we go, marching by the left flank
and closing up our ranks with each breach, and into the ravine from
which the enemy’s sharpshooters are seen to scamper like so many rats,
as much to escape the range of their own cannon as that of our musketry,
for we had not as yet fired a shot.—Here, by hugging the steep sides, we
were partially sheltered and within half rifle practice of the foe
posted behind their breastworks at the base of the hill. A brisk
fusilade was kept up, and although we were unsupported and “in the air”
we kept the Johnnies so busy that they did not attempt a sortie. By this
time, also, the batteries on Marye’s Heights, which had enfiladed us,
had as much as they could do nearer home, for Howe and Newton had begun
their advance. It being deemed useless to attempt to do more than keep
the enemy in our front employed, our regiment was withdrawn from the
ravine and the Parrotts were again opened on the position, which we had,
supposed was to be stormed.—“The war which for a space did fail,” now
opens furiously on our right, and we watch the advance of the light
division with interest, although our regiment is still exposed to a
galling fire from riflemen behind the railroad embankment.—The spectacle
was a thrilling one. The 6th corps batteries were playing upon the
heights, with might and main, and up the steep ascent our brave boys
were climbing with all speed. Our hearts were in our throats as we
watched. Could the heights be stormed? Could Sedgwick with 10,000 men do
what Burnside failed to do with ten times that number? Our Colonel, who
has been watching the conflict through his field-glass, electrifies us
at last by exclaiming, “The heights are ours, boys!” “Our flag is
there!” Such a cheer as went up must have astonished our friends just
opposite. A rebel brigade, which had left the entrenchments near our
front and was making all speed to succor its friends, suddenly halted,
then taking in the situation turned about and ran back again, its pace
being accelerated by shots from cannon just taken. The victory was ours
thus far, but at what a cost! It was a brief triumph, alas! for disaster
had overtaken Hooker, and he was a beaten general at that moment. We
knew it not, however. Contrariwise it was announced that Hooker had been
even more successful, and that Lee’s routed army was in rapid retreat on
Richmond. Joy filled our hearts, even though we mourned the death of
many brave comrades whose last roll call on earth had been answered that
morning. Hence, when orders came for our brigade to fall in and take the
lead in the pursuit on our side, they were obeyed with alacrity, and up
and over the battle-stained heights we marched, munching our hardtack as
we went, and out upon the Chancellorsville pike, driving the enemy
before us like chaff before the wind. Two miles out, a battery opened
upon us, but we took little notice, pushing our skirmish line rapidly
forward. It was a fatal discharge, however, to an officer on Brooks’
staff, who fell from his horse, nearly decapitated by a shell.—One of
our batteries is hurried to the front and a single discharge causes the
enemy to retire on the double quick. We reach Salem church, nearly
exhausted by our rapid marching, hoping for rest. But the worst is yet
to come. Our skirmish line is held at bay. It cannot advance, and our
brigade is formed for a charge—my own regiment, through the negligence
of some one, going into the fight in heavy marching order, with
knapsacks strung, and blankets strapped. Meeting a heavy fire of
musketry at the edge of a piece of woods, the brigade halts. But Gen.
Brooks, who has orders to effect a junction with Hooker, and deeming the
enemy in front to be the same we have been driving, orders another
advance. Into the woods we go to be met by a terrific fire. We charge
and drive the foe from his breastworks, but can go no further. Heavily
reinforced he advances with yells. There is a continuous roll of
musketry. The Pennsylvania regiments on our right and left give ground.
We are outflanked and enfiladed. Then comes the order to fall back. It
must be done quickly if we would not be entirely cut off from the second
line. Burdened as many of our men are by their knapsacks, and fatigued
by the march, they can not run. Such is my condition. Although with only
a blanket to carry, I am quite used up physically. The double-quick is
beyond my powers, and with every disposition in the world to run I
cannot to save my life. Suddenly, one leg refuses to move, and I fall. A
call to my men is unheard, or if heard, unheeded. I try to regain my
feet, but cannot. My leg seems paralyzed. Am I hit? wounded? A brother
officer sees me; hears my call for assistance; and proffers aid; helps
me to my feet, and I stagger along for a few paces. Meantime, we have
been left far in the rear and are between two fires. The air is laden
with missiles. It is madness to proceed, and so we both hug the ground.
Doubtless our lives are saved by this device, but, although we had not
the faintest idea then that such was the case, it involved our capture
and imprisonment. “The combat deepens.” The din is awful. Line after
line of Lee’s veterans surges forward; they intermingle; halt, yell,
fire; then rush on like a mob. It is not until they have fairly run over
us that we realize our position—that capture is inevitable. Two lines
pass us unnoticed, when a squad of skirmishers who have hung on our
flank come up and demand our surrender. There is no alternative, and
that brand-new blade goes into the hands of a rebel sergeant whose
straight, black hair runs up through a rent in his hat like a plume. We
are taken to the rear amid a rain of shot from our batteries, three men
helping me along and two keeping close guard over my companion. They
seemed in a hurry to get out of range, and glad of the opportunity our
capture afforded them of retiring with eclat from the strife. Soon we
came upon Gen. Wilcox and staff nicely ensconced in a position not
accessible to Yankee bullets. He questioned us, but not getting
satisfactory replies, sent us still further to the rear (after his
Adjutant-General had purchased my sword of the hatless sergeant), where
we were placed under guard near a field hospital. Here I found, upon
examination, that I was not injured, but that my inability to walk
without help was due to fatigue and a slight abrasion on the hip,
occasioned probably by a spent ball. We were courteously treated by our
guards but could get no food, Stoneman’s raid having sadly interfered
with the rebel commissariat. Next day we were taken to Spottsylvania
court-house where we met nearly half of the 11th corps and learned for
the first time the disaster that had befallen “Fighting Joe” Hooker. Of
the kindness of one of my captors, Billy Peyton of Memphis, Tenn., but a
member of the 9th Alabama, and his peculiarities, I should like to
speak, but this sketch has grown on my hands, and I am compelled to omit
an account of my first visit to Richmond, introduction to Major Turner,
and incarceration in Libby. Should this sketch please the readers of
this Magazine, I may essay another describing my prison life, and how
near I came to being annihilated by a fierce Virginia home guard officer
who commanded the escort which conducted the detachment of prisoners, of
which I made one, to the flag of truce boat on the James, going by the
way of Petersburgh.
_MANNERS AND CUSTOMS IN HOPKINTON—No. 2._