INCIDENTAL TO BULL RUN.
THE CAPTURE OF UNCLE HAWLEY.
Henry Hawley was his name, but the boys of Company H always called him
“Uncle,” and so he appears on our company record.
Hawley was not cut out for a soldier--in fact he was several sizes too
large. His corpulency made him appear rather ludicrous when he tried to
line up with the slender youths of the company on dress parade.
Tom Murphy, the orderly sergeant, was always yelling out “right dress
there, Hawley.”
One Sunday morning the regiment was being inspected by an Irish major and
as he came to Hawley he looked him over and remarked that he didn’t know
what the h--l anybody was thinking of to enlist a man of his build, and he
should think the best thing to do with him was to send him home. “All
right, sir,” says Hawley, “I’ll go today, if you please.”
The man was a natural wit and an adept in the use of sarcasm, and had a
way of talking back to his superiors that usually put the laugh on them.
The truth is the boys of ’61 didn’t stand much “putting on airs” by the
officers, and if one did make a show of his authority the men made life
miserable for him.
Hawley was finally made to earn his $11 a month (that was our munificent
pay then) by doing duty as company cook, a position he filled with credit
to himself and satisfaction to his boarders. He was not content to serve
up “salt hoss” and boiled beef in the easy manner of most army cooks, but
was ever fixing us a nice treat of hash or an “Irish stew” with dumplings,
and Hawley’s dumplings became famous throughout the Second Heavy.
Evenings we used to gather around the cook house and listen to Hawley’s
impersonations of Shakespearean characters, in which he was very clever,
and from Shakespeare he would turn to the Bible, with which he was
exceedingly familiar.
When we went to the front Hawley left his camp kettles behind and
shouldered a musket. On the retreat from Bull Run Hawley became played out
and he declared he could go no further. The boys urged him to keep along
with them and not get captured, but Hawley said if they wanted him they
would have to take him, which they did and got an elephant on their hands
too. Hawley’s account of his experience with the rebels was very funny.
They found him lying by the roadside and ordered him to get up and go
along with them. He told them he could not march another step, and if they
wanted him to go to Libby prison they would have to furnish a conveyance.
The rebel officer coaxed, swore and threatened, but all to no purpose.
Hawley would not budge an inch. Finally a horse was brought and he was
told to mount. Hawley declared he could not and then the officer directed
some of the men to assist him, and two guards were ordered to walk by the
side of the horse and hold him on. Hawley’s comments about the
razor-backed horse and other sarcastic remarks made sport for all except
the officer in charge, who threatened more than once to gag his tormentor.
The Confederates probably thought the best thing to do was to get Hawley
off their hands, so after keeping him in captivity a couple of days they
paroled him and sent him inside our lines instead of to Andersonville
prison, where so many of his comrades had to go, many never to return.
FINISHED HIS SMOKE IN LIBBY.
An incident of the stampede from Manassas illustrates how unconcerned some
are amidst danger and excitement. Jimmy West, a little Irishman of our
company, was a character and an inveterate smoker and never lost a chance
to indulge himself. After the retreat was well under way, Jimmy bethought
himself of his pipe and tobacco, but a match was lacking and none of his
nearby comrades had one, so he yelled out to our first sergeant, at the
head of the company:
“I say there, orderly, hev’ you a bit of a match about ye?”
“To thunder with your pipe, Jimmy,” responded Sergt. Murphy. “You better
be using your short legs pretty lively or you’ll be smoking in Libby
prison tomorrow evening,” and sure enough Jimmy was among those captured.
The most ludicrous incident connected with the Bull Run affair occurred
near Fairfax Court House when we supposed we were safe from the
Confederate cavalry.
Between Centreville and Fairfax we passed the 14th Massachusetts, that had
formed a line of battle across the turnpike to arrest the pursuing
Confederates.
We breathed somewhat easier after we had put the troops between us and our
pursuers.
The day was an intensely hot one, and the hundreds of horses galloping
over the turnpike, hauling the heavy wagons, raised clouds of dust that
were nearly suffocating, so when we crossed a little stream of water most
of the teamsters halted in a large field near by for the purpose of
refreshing and resting their exhausted steeds.
The two boys got out of the wagon, stretched their legs and with many
others went over to the creek for a wash up.
Among the bathing party were William McNeil and “Hod” Clair of our
company, who had made the retreat from Bull Run, one mounted on a mule
with nothing but a halter and the other on the confiscated horse of some
officer who had been killed in the battle.
While we were splashing the water and having as much sport as any party of
youngsters ever did in an old fashioned “swimmin’ hole” in their school
boy days, somebody shouted “The rebs are coming,” and sure enough there
was a squadron of Confederate cavalry coming at a gallop down a cross road
about a mile away. You may be sure that there was some right-smart
hustling.
Some grabbed a blouse, cap or shirt while others buckled on their
equipments in undress uniform.
My partner and I saved our clothing, but deferred dressing until we were
safely in our wagon with Charley Rogers urging his four horses to their
utmost speed.
Hod Clair made a most comical figure on the horse, dressed in nothing but
his cap, blouse and cuticle, and the officer’s sword dangling against his
naked left leg.
IN AFTER YEARS.
A quarter of a century had elapsed after the disbandment of our regiment
before I saw the comrade who rode with me from Bull Run. I sat writing at
my desk one afternoon when I heard some one asking up in the front part of
the store if “Del” was in.
The familiarity with which the questioner handled my name excited my
curiosity and looking up I beheld two rather seedy looking individuals
with hats in hand elbowing their way down through the store.
The one in advance was apparently a stranger. His companion, however, was
a resident of the city, a veteran of my regiment, who bore the scars of
battle on his body.
He returned home from the war to learn that while he was away fighting the
battles of his country one of the stay-at-homes had been making love to
his wife. She went west with her paramour, and the veteran laid down under
the load and let the battle of life go against him. He was no common bum,
however, if he did try at times to drown his misery in strong drink. He
kept pretty clear of evil and low-down associations, even if he had
dropped below the level of respectable people. The veteran was a man of
intelligence and spent much time with good reading, and it was my pleasure
for many years to keep him pretty well supplied. Strange to relate, a
publication that was his especial favorite was the old “Christian Union,”
now known as the “Outlook.” Of course he held me up now and then for the
loan of a dime or quarter. If I hesitated about going into my pocket, he
had a way of looking up and reminding me that it was “Just for old
acquaintance sake.” Perhaps it would have been better to have refused him,
but I had not the heart to say no to one who had blackened his coffee pail
over the same campfire with me, had carried part of my traps on many weary
marches and had touched elbows with my father on the fighting line. I
cannot forget such things and would not if I could.
As the two approached me they halted, saluted, and the old “vet” gave me
two or three sly winks, as much as to say, I’ll bet you a “V” you can’t
tell who I have here.
I was puzzled, but instinctively felt it was one of the old Co. H. The man
had evidently seen better days. He carried his hat in his hand like a
well-mannered man, and there were other unmistakable traces of birth and
good breeding.
We looked hard at each other. A twinkle came into a pair of black eyes
that had once been the handsomest I ever saw in a man’s head. A smile
hovered around his mouth, and then out of the misty past came my companion
of that memorable ride of long ago. I reached out my hand and said, “It’s
George,” and I believe he was more pleased than as if I had handed him a
hundred-dollar greenback, which is saying a good deal, for it was plainly
evident that his finances were low.
It was the old story. A young man, the son of an officer of our regiment
who had been the leading merchant of--well, a smart town not a hundred
miles from Watertown, well educated, with prospects in life that were the
best, and now the follower of a circus. Always going somewhere and never
getting anywhere was the way he put it. Still, my comrade.
I think he held my hand five minutes, and memories of other days were
kindled anew. He had forgotten nothing. It was safely stored away in
memory and the meeting had tapped it.
Graphically he portrayed the incidents of our Bull Run ride to the
amusement of clerks and customers. All at once he recalled that he was in
the presence of ladies, and bowing and smiling he gallantly tiptoed his
way to the front part of the store and apologized for forcing an old
soldier’s story upon them.
No one could have done it with more ease and grace, for, as I have stated,
George’s early associations had been of the best. His family was in the
swell set of the town in which they lived, and his father was a gentleman
of the old school and noted for his polished manners.
“You see, ladies,” said he, “I haven’t been in your beautiful city since
war times until this morning. Struck town with Barnum & Bailey’s greatest
aggregation on earth.”
“Perhaps traveling with a circus does not meet your approval. I like it,
though. Something like soldiering. Always under marching orders. Plenty of
fresh air and one never sleeps so good as he does on the ground with only
a strip of canvas between him and the heavens.
“When the band is playing and them Wild West fellows are galloping around
the ring with the scabbards of their sabres clanging against the
stirrup-irons, I just close my eyes and imagine I am with the old second
corps again and Gen. Hancock is riding down the lines.
“Suppose you have all heard about the general? Handsomest man and greatest
fighter that ever straddled a horse.
“The general and the second corps never missed a fight. Yes, we were with
them through it all.
“Gettysburg? Sure! Rube, here, got a couple of bullet holes when we were
beating back Pickett’s men that afternoon. The general went down that day,
too, and I can shut my eyes and see it all and hear the cheers of the
Irish brigade boys when they realized that the battle was won.
“Beg pardon, ladies, but I am in something of a reminiscent mood today,
being as I met an old comrade. We have been holding a little reunion. Yes,
took a little something in honor of the event.
“‘Del’--er Mr. Miller--was with us from start to finish. Wasn’t much of
him but his drum and grit. Legs so short the boys had to carry him across
all the creeks. He stuck though and tapped ‘lights out’ down side of
Lee’s ‘last ditch’ at Appomattox.”
* * * * *
That evening the two veterans of the old second corps partook of the best
that the Woodruff house could give and smoked several of Nill & Jess’
Pinks at the expense of one who was glad to do it, “Just for old
acquaintance sake.”
WAR IS HELL.
To fully appreciate Gen. Sherman’s definition of war, one needs to be at a
field hospital on the outskirts of some great battlefield where the
ghastly surroundings of death and suffering are more terrible than on the
battlefield itself.
The day after our retreat from Bull Run our regiment was ordered to
proceed by train to Fairfax station, where all the wounded were sent for
transportation to Washington. We rode on the top of freight cars, every
man with a loaded musket ready to shoot any of Mosby’s men who might try
to wreck the train. The cars were filled with cots, stretchers, blankets
and other supplies for the wounded.
The night was a dark and rainy one, and as we jumped off the cars at the
station, which was located in some dense woods, we saw the horrors of war
spread out on every side. Acres of ground were covered with bleeding,
mangled soldiers, who but a short time before had stood amid the storm of
shot and shell, now just as bravely enduring suffering.
The surgeons and their assistants at the amputating tables with coats off
and shirt sleeves rolled up, their hands red with blood, worked swiftly to
save life, for it is the “first aid” to the wounded that counts.
The spectacular effect was heightened by piles of blazing pitch pine
knots, torches and lanterns suspended from the limbs of trees, which
imparted a strange wierdness to the scene.
All night long the interminable trains of ambulances and wagons from the
battlefield came bringing their loads of sufferers with the smoke of
battle upon them. Many were so exhausted that it was necessary to give
them stimulants before they could be lifted from the wagons.
The United States Sanitary and Christian commissions were represented by a
large number of workers. Women of culture and refinement, from some of the
best families in the land, were cutting off the blood-drenched clothing,
bathing and bandaging shattered limbs, giving nourishment to the fainting,
speaking comforting words and listening to the messages of the dying; and
all this going on within the sound of rattling musketry and booming
cannon, for it was the night of the fight at Chantilly, when Gen. Jackson
attempted to flank Pope’s army and reached a point not far from Fairfax
court house.
Our regiment stood in line in a wheat field, just outside of the woods, a
good part of the night with the rain falling in torrents and heaven’s
artillery vieing with that of the forces engaged.
A drummer boy of our company who had lost his drum at Manassas, was
carrying a musket that night and stood in the ranks with his father who
was a sergeant in the same command. I need hardly say that the events of
that night are graven as with an iron pen on his memory.
The authorities at Washington were fearful of risking any more fighting so
near the capital and Gen. Pope was ordered to withdraw his army within the
defenses of Washington and the wounded were hurried away from Fairfax
station in every kind of conveyance, even hacks and carriages being sent
out from Washington.
Our regiment remained until the last wounded man had been sent forward and
then set fire to the immense quantities of supplies stored there, to
prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy.
Our casualties in the second Bull Run affair were comparatively small, we
being engaged only in the first encounter at Manassas Junction, which was
merely preliminary to the great battle.
Gen. Stuart’s cavalry did, however, manage to take as prisoners about two
hundred of the regiment.