Drum Taps in Dixie
[Illustration: THE AUTHOR--A WAR-TIME PHOTOGRAPH.]
DRUM TAPS IN DIXIE
MEMORIES OF A DRUMMER BOY
1861-1865
BY DELAVAN S. MILLER
Watertown, N. Y.
Hungerford-Holbrook Co.
1905
Copyrighted 1905
By DELAVAN S. MILLER
Published December, 1905
HUNGERFORD-HOLBROOK CO.
WATERTOWN, N. Y.
_Affectionately dedicated to my Wife and Children._
Preface
A chance meeting with a comrade who was instrumental in saving from
capture a piece of artillery at the second battle of Bull Run suggested
one of the several sketches grouped together in this volume.
Memory awakened furnished material for those that followed, each article
recalling faces, forms, scenes and incidents from out of the misty past.
“Awake but one, and lo!
What myriads rise!”
The writer has enjoyed his reminiscing. It has been a labor of love, so to
speak, enabling him in a measure to live the old days over again.
The articles have been written at odd times after business hours, and
should not be scrutenized too closely from a literary standpoint.
The writing of the memories of a drummer boy has been a source of pleasure
and rest to the writer, who sincerely hopes that the reading of them may
not weary those who, in _their_ hours of rest, may scan these pages.
DELAVAN S. MILLER.
Prelude--The Drum’s Story
Yes, I am a drum, and a very old drum at that. My leather ears are twisted
and brown. My shiny sides are scratched and marred. My once beautiful
white head is patched and blood-stained. Yet, I am loved and tenderly
cared for; have my own cosy corner in the attic and am better provided for
than many of the brave men who fought for the Union. So I am content. I
have lived my life. Was ever ready for duty. Made lots of noise. Have led
men on the march and in battle. Now I am laid aside, growing old like all
the boys of ’61.
Drum Taps in Dixie.
CHAPTER I.
OFF FOR THE WAR.
When the news was flashed across the country that Fort Sumter had been
fired upon the writer was a 12-year-old boy residing in West Carthage. The
events of those days stand forth in his memory like the hillcrests of a
landscape.
The shot electrified the north, and the martial current that went from man
to man was imparted to the boys. Favorite sports and pastimes lost their
zest. Juvenile military companies paraded the streets every evening and
mimic battles were fought every Saturday afternoon.
The flag lowered over Fort Sumter was unfurled everywhere. Flags cost
money in those days, too, but they were flung to the breeze from the tops
of churches, school houses, business places and the homes of the rich and
the poor. I used to go up on the roof of my home nearly every day to count
the new banners.
The rendezvous for the boys of our neighborhood was Jim Corey’s blacksmith
shop. Jim was a typical “village blacksmith” with a hearty greeting for
every one, old and young. The boys could always count on Jim’s sympathy if
they had a stone bruise, got a licking at home or lacked ten cents of the
price of a circus ticket.
Corey’s shop was also a favorite meeting place for the men. Here they
would assemble after supper and discuss the all-absorbing topic, the war.
One of the most regular in attendance was “Wash” Hopkins, as he was
familiarly called. A particular nail keg with a piece of buffalo skin
thrown over the end was the seat always reserved for him. He usually
allowed the others to do the talking, but when he had anything to say it
was right to the point.
Almost everybody was of the opinion that the South was putting up a big
game of bluff and that the affair would blow over quickly.
On one occasion those gathered in the blacksmith shop had been discussing
the situation and were pretty unanimous that the rebellion would be
crushed out in sixty days. “Wash” roused himself and quietly remarked:
“Guess you’d better make it ninety, boys.”
At another time a young man was telling those assembled that he had
enlisted in a company of sharpshooters; that they were going to pick off
the rebel officers and artillerymen as fast as they showed themselves,
which would demoralize the troops and send them flying from the field.
“That’s all right,” says “Wash,” “but what do you suppose the other
fellows are going to do while you’re shooting at them? Perhaps they may
have sharpshooters, too.”
How little I thought in those early days of the war that Corey and I would
be soldiering in the same company and regiment a few months later.
I recall the thrilling war meetings that were held in the churches and
school houses. There was scarcely a place in the county where there was a
store and postoffice that did not have its war meeting each week. It is
worthy of mention that the most enthusiastic speakers on such occasions
were eager to enlist--others. There comes to my mind the names of several
who were always urging others to enlist, but who stayed at home and coined
money while others fought, and after the war labored to have refunded to
them by the taxpayers the money that they had expended for a substitute.
Carthage sent volunteers promptly in response to Lincoln’s call, and a few
days after the fall of Sumter about two dozen young men left to join the
old 35th New York infantry.
There was no railroad to Carthage in those days, and they rode away in
wagons drawn by four horses. The scene comes before me as I write. The sad
partings, the waving banners, the cheers of the multitude who had gathered
to see them off to the war. Those were anxious, exciting days that the
present generation know but little about.
Among that party of first volunteers was a favorite cousin of the writer
who was scarcely seventeen years old. The one thing above all others that
I wished as I saw him ride away was that I was old enough to go, too.
Patriotism ran high in Carthage, and the town sent more than its share of
volunteers in the early days of the war before there were any big bounties
and when the pay was $11 per month.
One bright morning in the fall of 1861 a motherless lad of less than
thirteen saw his father go away with a company of men that had been
recruited for the Morgan Flying Artillery, then being organized at Staten
Island, in New York harbor. He wanted to go with his father, but the
suggestion was not listened to.
After the regiment was sent to Virginia Capt. Smith of the Carthage
company returned home after more men. He brought a letter to the little
lad from his father and, patting the boy on his head, asked him in a
joking way how he would like to be a soldier. This gave the boy an
opportunity that he was wanting, and he pleaded with the officer to take
him back with him. The mother was dead, the home was broken up; the little
fellow argued that he would be better off with his father.
The tender hearted captain sympathized with the boy, but said he did not
know what he could do with such a little fellow. The boy would not be put
off, however. He had inherited persistency from his Scottish ancestors,
and after much importuning the captain said that he did not know how it
could be managed, but he would try to take the boy back with him.
In March, 1862, when two months past thirteen years old, the one of whom I
write started for the war with a squad of recruits in charge of Sergt.
Wesley Powell. Strange to relate, this same Powell, two years and a half
later, had charge of a detachment of soldiers carrying rations to their
comrades on the firing line in front of Petersburg, when a shell burst so
close to them that several were stunned, although not seriously injured,
and among them was the boy who went to the war with the sergeant so long
before.
A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SOLDIER.
Forty-two years and over have not dimmed the recollections of the day when
the start was made for the war. The boy got up bright and early and went
all around among his neighboring playmates and bade them good-bye. Didn’t
he feel important, though?
The party rode to Watertown in wagons, and after a supper at the old
American hotel, boarded a train for New York. It was the first ride on the
cars for our young volunteer.
The boy might live to be one thousand years old, but he could scarcely
forget Broadway as it appeared to him that spring day in 1862.
He remembers that the next day when they were on a train passing through
New Jersey, a party of boys from a military school boarded the car. They
were dressed in natty new uniforms, of which they were evidently very
proud. Sergt. Powell wore the regulation artillery uniform of that period,
which was quite stunning with the red facings and brass epaulets, and a
hat of black felt caught up at the side and ornamented with a black plume.
Powell got into conversation with the school boys and finally brought them
over to where his party was seated and said: “I want to have you meet a
little boy who, although he is not in uniform, is going to be a real
soldier.”
If there are any old veterans reading this, they will have most pleasant
recollections and ever feel grateful to the good people of Philadelphia
for the treatment they received whenever they passed through the city
going to or from the war. No boy in blue was ever allowed to pass through
the city without being well fed and comfortably cared for, if he remained
there over night. Our party passed the night there and took an early train
for Washington.
Baltimore had earned an unenviable reputation by its hostility to the
northern soldiers and there was always apprehension that a train bearing
any soldiers might be stoned or fired upon. Sergt. Powell was quite a
joker and he had worked upon the fears of the party in his charge so much
that two or three were badly frightened when the train pulled into the
city. The reception was in marked contrast with that in Philadelphia, but
the passage through Baltimore was without incident.
From Baltimore to Washington there was abundant evidence that the field of
operations was not far distant. The railroad was heavily guarded, and
camps of soldiers were frequently seen. The boy who two days before had
left a quiet country town had to pinch himself occasionally to see if he
were really awake and that it was not all a dream.
Washington swarmed with soldiers. Troops were camped right in the heart of
the city. Heavily laden wagons with the wheels in mud and ruts clear up to
the hubs were pulled through Pennsylvania avenue by six and eight mule
teams. The capitol and the Washington monument were then unfinished.
Our party made a short stay in the city and took boat for Alexandria, an
old-time southern town with hordes of negroes, slave pens and other
reminders of the ante-bellum days.
It was a three mile walk to the forts occupied by the Second New York
Heavy Artillery. The regiment that afternoon was practicing firing the big
cannons in Fort Worth. There were some 32 and 64 and two 100-pounders in
the fort, and the small boy who had never heard any ordnance except an
old moss-back cannon at a Fourth of July celebration remembers that the
cold chills went creeping up his back as the party drew near the fort, for
the earth fairly trembled when the big “dogs of war” barked. The father
had not been notified that his son was coming to join him, and
consequently you may be sure that he was more than surprised when he saw
an officer leading by the hand a little lad whom he supposed was so far
away.
The father was a man of few words--“what couldn’t be cured must be
endured,” so he brushed two or three tear drops away and went back to the
command of his gun squad and the boy sat down on a pile of cannon balls,
smelled burning powder and heard the roar of the big guns until he was not
sure but that he would prefer to be back in York state.
This was in the early days of the war and there was not much system about
anything. Probably if it had been a year later and the boy had had to pass
a regular examination and muster he would have been sent home. But he,
with the rest of the recruits, was merged into the company without any
formalities. It did puzzle the captain, though, to know what to do with
the youngster, and one day when the regiment was out for inspection the
colonel said to Capt. Smith: “Mein Gott, captain! pe you taking
soldiers from the cradles?”
[Illustration: SERGT. LOTEN MILLER Father of Author.]
Smith said: “I know I have got a number of quite young soldiers, colonel,
but you will find that Co. H will keep its end up with any organization in
the regiment.”
The first night in camp the boy did not sleep well. The artillery practice
in the fort after his arrival and the thunder of the 32 and 64-pounders
and the smell of the burning powder weakened his boyish enthusiasm
somewhat. And then the bed he had to sleep on was something different from
what he had been accustomed to. So after the bugles had sounded “lights
out” he lay awake a long time, listening to the singing of the
whippoorwills and thought of the great change that had come into his life
in so short a time, and wondered if the realities of a soldier’s life
would meet his expectations.
A NIGHT ALARM.
Suddenly like a clap of thunder from a clear sky came the report of a
musket outside the fort. The bugles sounded the alarm, and the drummers in
the neighboring camps rattled off the “long roll” with a recklessness
characteristic of youth.
“Turn out! Turn out! Turn out!” the bugles sounded. “Fall in! Fall in!
Fall in!” yelled the orderly sergeants, and, half dressed, the men were
marched into the fort and stationed at the guns.
The commotion soon subsided and there was not a sound except for the
neighing of the horses in the cavalry camps and the whinnering of the
mules of the wagon train, and after a couple of hours’ waiting the men
were marched back to their company streets. In the morning it was learned
that the alarm was occasioned by the attempt of a detachment of Mosby’s
men to steal some horses from a cavalry camp.
These midnight excursions of the famous Confederate “Rough Rider” were of
frequent occurrence during the first two years of the war.
THE FIRST UNIFORM.
The young recruit’s first uniform was a bad fit. The coat sleeves and
pants were several inches too long, but a camp tailor fixed them and the
first day the boy wore the suit he did as every other volunteer before him
had done, went and posed for a “tintype” before a background representing
various scenes of military life. Some of the specimens of the
photographer’s art in those days were enough to make a horse laugh.
The Second New York had been organized as a light artillery regiment and
were then known as the “Morgan Flying Artillery,” so called in honor of
Gov. Morgan, but only one company got their guns and horses when it was
decided that no more light batteries were wanted. So the balance of the
regiment was turned into heavy artillery (heavy infantry.)
A DRUMMER BOY.
The change called for fifers and drummers instead of buglers, and the
Jefferson county boy was the first drummer the regiment had, his drum
being a present from the officers at Fort Worth.
A full regimental drum corps was soon organized, and right here it may be
proper to say that an old army drum corps in the sixties could make music.
A boy would not “pass muster” in those days unless he could do the double
and single drag with variations, execute the “long roll,” imitate the
rattle of musketry, besides various other accomplishments with the sticks.
And when a dozen or more of the lads, with their caps set saucily on the
sides of their heads, led a regiment in a review with their
get-out-of-the-way-Old-Dan-Tuckerish style of music, it made the men in
the ranks step off as though they were bound for a Donnybrook fair or some
other pleasure excursion.
THE FIRST DRUM.
It is with feelings of real tenderness that I write of my first drum. It
was none of the common sort such as furnished by Uncle Sam, but was the
best that money could buy, and was a gift from the officers at Fort Worth
in the spring of 1862. A requisition for instruments was a long time in
being filled, owing to the vast amount of red tape in use, so the
officers at our fort presented me with a drum.
How well I remember the day when I accompanied Capt. Joslin to Washington,
and he, taking me into a large music store on Pennsylvania avenue, ordered
the clerk to let me have the best drum in the store.
How anxious I was to get back to our camp in Virginia so I could test it,
and how my heart went pit-a-pat, as, alone, I marched with my new drum
down the line at dress parade the next day. Several months later my
precious drum was put out of action by a piece of a rebel shell at Bull
Run and was among the trophies gathered up by the confederates in the
stampede that followed.
Its loss I regretted exceedingly, for its equal in tone and other good
qualities I never tapped the sticks to again. It was a beauty, too; and
was my first drum.
DRUMMERS’ DUTIES.
It is hardly to be wondered at that the drummer boys of the 60s got to be
very proficient in the handling of the sticks, for when in camp they were
having practice from early morn until late at night, and many a time they
had to get out in the night and beat the “long roll” for ten or fifteen
minutes.
They were the early risers of the camps, too, for at daybreak the fifers
and drummers of a regiment would all assemble and sound the reveille,
which was several minutes exercise of the most vigorous kind.
The following verses on the reveille were written by a soldier, Michael
O’Connor, a sergeant in the 140th New York, and have been pronounced by
competent critics as among the “finest lyric lines in the language.”
SONG OF THE DRUMS.
“The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse!
The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,
And the sleepy mist on the river lies,
Though the east is flushed with crimson dyes.
Awake! Awake! Awake!
O’er field and wood and brake,
With glories newly born,
Comes on the blushing morn,
Awake! Awake!”
“You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night.
You have basked in your sweetheart’s smiles so bright;
Come part with them all for a while again--
Be lovers in dreams; when awake be men.
Turn out! Turn out! Turn out!
The east is all aglow,
Turn out! Turn out!”
“From every valley and hill there come
The clamoring voices of fife and drum;
And out in the fresh, cool morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.
Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!
Every man in his place.
Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!
Each with a cheerful face.
Fall in! Fall in!”
The next duty of the fifers and drummers was to sound the sick call. The
boys made up some appropriate verses which I cannot recall except one
line:
“Come and get your quinine, quinine, quinine.”
The drummers were active participants in the guard mounting exercises
which took place about 9 o’clock in the morning, and usually there was
from one to two hours’ practice among the musicians in the forenoon, which
was repeated in the afternoon unless there was a battalion drill, in which
case they took part in the manœuvres of the troops.
Their next duty was at dress parade, where they took a prominent part in
what is the most pleasing and spectacular affair of the day.
At 9 o’clock they assemble again and beat the tattoo for the evening roll
call, and fifteen minutes later taps are sounded and the day’s duties are
ended.
In a camp there were always some heavy sleepers and it was the business of
the drummers in beating the morning reveille to make noise enough to awake
them. Many a time have I seen a fellow rush out of his tent attired in
nothing but shirt, drawers and cap and take his place in the ranks hardly
in time to answer “here” when his name was called.
THE MUSIC OF THE DRUMS.
Ringing with a siren’s song,
Throbbing with a country’s wrong,
Making patriots brave and strong,
Foes must die or yield.
Calling out the new-born day,
Marking each night’s gentle sway,
Ready whate’er comes.
Calls to duty, calls to play,
Calls for rest and calls for fray
Rolling, roaring all the day,
The Music of the Drums.
Fife and drum have been heard in every camp and upon all of the
battlefields of the world. And for a marching column there is nothing like
martial music of the good old-fashioned kind, such as inspired the
continental heroes at Lexington, Yorktown and Bunker Hill, and rallied the
boys of ’61, and later led them in all the marches through the South.
Martial music seems to have gone out of fashion in these up-to-date days,
and what little there is, is but a poor apology, with the bugle blasts
interjected between the rub-a-dub-dubs of the drummers who hardly know
their a b c’s about snare drumming.
I have heard but one good drum corps since the war, and that was at the G.
A. R. gathering at Buffalo a few years ago. An old time drum corps, who
styled themselves the “Continentals” were present. It was composed of
veterans over 70 years of age, and, say, they could double discount any
other organization present.
Many of the crack brass bands of the country were there, but they were not
in it with the old martial band. Their music--mind the expression,
“music”--caught on with all the swell people of the city who thronged the
camp waiting for an opportunity to hear them, and the veterans went wild
as they heard again the reveille and tattoo and the old familiar strains
of “Yankee Doodle,” “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” “Rory O’More,” “The
Campbells Are Coming,” “Hail to the Chief,” and many other reminders of
the old days.
TWO AMBITIONS.
Two boys when coming home from the war were talking over what they were
going to do. One whom we will call Joe said he was going to have all of
the strawberry shortcake he wanted, and then he was going to have mother
make some of the good old-fashioned flap-jacks that he liked so well. “I
am going to have her make them the full size of the round griddle, and as
she bakes them I’m going to spread them with butter and shaved up maple
sugar until the pile is a foot high and then I’ll sit down and have all
the pancakes I want for once. What are you going to do, Bill?”
“Me? I’m going to go to every dance, minstrel show, singing school and
revival meeting I can hear of in forty miles, and I’m going home with
every pretty girl I get a chance to. And another thing I’m going to do,
I’ll sit up nights and burn a light until I get an all fired good ready to
go to bed. And I’m goin’ to hire a fifer and drummer to come and play in
front of our house every mornin’.”
[Illustration: DRUM CORPS OF THE 2ND NEW YORK HEAVY ARTILLERY.]
“Why, Bill, what in thunder you goin’ to do that for? I should think that
you’d had enough of fifin’ and drummin’ for awhile.”
“Well,” says Bill, “I’m goin’ to do it, and I’m goin’ to have them play
the reveille good and strong for fifteen minutes, and then I’m goin’ to
shove up the chamber window and throw my bootjack at ’em, and yell: ‘To
h--l with your reveille.’”
RIVAL DRUM CORPS.
The first two years of the war we were brigaded with a certain
Massachusetts regiment that was about as fine a body of men as I ever saw
together. In fact they looked like a picked lot of soldiers so near of a
height were they all.
Their drum corps was a good one, too, but of course the boys of the Second
New York thought they were a little better than the Bay State fellows,
consequently quite a little rivalry existed between the organizations, and
when the regiments were out for a review or brigade drill the stalwart
drummers from down East would always try to drown out the lads of the
Second Heavy. They were all full grown men while our drum corps was made
up of boys all under eighteen years of age. Their music was always of the
“When the Springtime Comes, Gentle Annie,” and “Chunks of Pudding and
Pieces of Pie,” style, played in 6-8 time, just suited to the stalwart men
in their ranks; while ours was more of the “Rory O’More,” “Garry Owen” and
“Get-out-of-the-way-Old-Dan-Tucker” sort, which we played 2-4 time, better
adapted to the quick-stepping New Yorkers behind us. We had some dandy
uniforms, too, and I know we were a trim-looking lot in our close-fitting
jackets with plenty of brass buttons and red trimmings, and “McClellan
caps” setting saucily on the side of our heads. Harry Marshall, our drum
major, was one of the handsomest young fellows that ever led a drum corps
down the line on dress parade; and was as good and pure as handsome. He
handled his baton with a skill and grace of manner that would have
captivated all the pretty girls of a town if we could have marched through
its principal street. And when it came to beating a drum he was what the
small boys of today would call a “corker.”
Harry was a dandy and no mistake, and when we led the Second Heavy in a
review we knew that we were doing it about right.
One day when we were at Arlington the general commanding the brigade
ordered the troops out for brigade drill, review, etc. His family and
some friends were visiting him and he wished to show the men off to his
guests. We went through various brigade evolutions, followed by
exhibitions in skirmish drill by detachments from the regiments. The
officer who commanded the detachment from the Second New York was Captain
Barry, a beau ideal of a soldier, who met his death at Petersburg later in
the war. (By the way, I never saw Col. James R. Miller out with old “C”
company but what I was reminded of Capt. Barry, both in his looks and
soldierly bearing.)
Capt. Barry had the skirmish business down fine and he took Harry Marshall
with his drum, and walked out in front of the general and put his men
through the various movements for half an hour or more and his commands
were not heard only by our drum major, who tapped them out on his drum.
It captivated the general and his guests and when the squad returned to
their place with the regiment the ladies in the general’s party clapped
their hands and waved their handkerchiefs.
The closing event of the day was the marching in review of the different
regiments, and again our boys received a recognition from the reviewing
party that must have made the Massachusetts men’s eyes green with envy.
Our regiment was the last to pass, and when we came opposite of the
general, we wheeled out and played as the men marched by, and then fell in
at the rear of the column, and just as we were marching off the field the
general’s young daughter, a miss in her teens--came cantering towards us,
and riding up to Harry handed him a beautiful silk flag about three feet
long mounted on a dainty light staff such as is used for the headquarters
guidons. Harry waved a graceful acknowledgement with his baton and the
blushing girl rode back to the reviewing party.
MUFFLED DRUMS.
In the fall of 1862, Jimmie, one of the drummer boys of the Second New
York, sickened and died. He had been a slender little fellow, and the Bull
Run campaign was too much for him. He lingered along for weeks in the
hospital and when he realized that he must answer the last roll call he
wished the surgeon to send for his comrades of the drum corps. It was his
wish that we should stand at parade rest in the aisle between the cots.
From under his pillow he took a little Bible and opening it at the 23d
Psalm handed it to Harry Marshall, our drum major, and motioned for him to
read the beautiful words. Need I say that there were no dry eyes? And I
think from that moment life to most of the boys present had a more serious
meaning.
The next Sabbath afternoon with muffled drums and slow, measured tread, we
escorted his remains to a little knoll ’neath a clump of pines near
Arlington. The chaplain said “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to
dust.” A volley was fired over the grave, our drums unmuffled and back to
camp we went, beating a lively quickstep.
“Fold him in his country’s stars,
Roll the drums and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death be mocking folly!”