FROM HARPER'S FERRY TO FREDERICKSBURG
We remained on Bolivar Heights, at Harper's Ferry, without further
special incident until the 31st of October, 1862. In the mean time
Lieutenant-Colonel Wilcox had been promoted to colonel to fill the
vacancy caused by the death of Colonel Oakford at Antietam. Major
Albright had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel and the senior captain,
Shreve, Company A, had been made major. Colonel Wilcox was on his back
with a severe case of typhoid fever, and Lieutenant-Colonel Albright had
been some ten days absent on sick leave, during which time Major Shreve
had been in command. Lieutenant-Colonel Albright, hearing of the
probable movement of the army, rejoined us in time to take command as we
bade farewell to Harper's Ferry. To show how little a soldier can know
of what is before him, I note the fact that we had just completed fixing
up our quarters for cold weather at Camp Bolivar. This involved
considerable labor and some expense. My diary records the fact that I
had put up a "California stove" in my tent. This, if I remember rightly,
was a cone-shaped sheet-iron affair, which had a small sliding door and
sat on the ground, with a small pipe extending through the canvas roof
just under the ridge-pole to the rear. It cost, I think, about four
dollars, and required some skill in "setting up," chiefly in fixing the
pipe so that it would not tumble about one's ears with every blast of
wind that shook the tent, and in windy weather would at least carry some
of the smoke outside. A special course of engineering was almost needed
to be able to properly handle those stoves. A little too much fire, and
you had to adopt Pat's remedy when Biddy's temper got up--sit on the
outside until it cooled down. Too little was worse than none, for your
tent became a smoke-house. On the whole, they were much like the goose
the aforesaid Pat captured and brought into camp, "a mighty unconvanient
burr'd, a little too big for one and not big enough for two."
This fixing up of quarters had been done in contemplation of remaining
here through the winter, and we had taken our cue from like actions of
our brigade officers, who were supposed to know something about the
movements of the army. When we got orders on the 29th of October to
prepare for the march, I was assured by the adjutant-general of our
brigade that it was nothing more than a day's reconnoissance, and that
we were certainly not going to move our quarters. He knew as much about
it as I did. Within an hour after this order another came directing us
to move in heavy marching order, with three days' rations and sixty
rounds of ammunition. And so we moved out of Harper's Ferry on the 31st
of October, leaving our fixed-up quarters, with my four-dollar stove, to
Geary's division, which succeeded to our camp.
We crossed the Shenandoah on a pontoon bridge and skirted the mountain
under Loudon Heights over the same route south that we had taken on our
way in from the Leesburg raid. We marched very leisurely, making during
the first four days only about twenty-five miles, to a village bearing
the serious (?) name of Snickersville. Here we had the first evidence of
the presence of the enemy. We were hurried through this village and up
through the gap in the mountain called "Snicker's Gap" to head off the
rebels. We soon came on to their scouts and pickets, who fled
precipitately without firing a gun. Part of our division halted on the
top of the gap, while a couple of regiments skirmished through the woods
both sides of the road down to the foot of the mountain on the other
side. The enemy had taken "French leave," and so our men returned and
our division bivouacked here for the night.
We now learned that these giant armies were moving south in parallel
columns, the mountain separating them. At every gap or pass in the
mountain a bristling head or a clinched fist, so to speak, of one would
be thrust through and the other would try to hit it. This was our
mission, as we double-quicked it through this gap. When we got there the
"fist" had been withdrawn, and our work for the time was over. But our
bivouac here--how beautiful it was! The fields were clean and green,
with plenty of shade, for right in the gap were some good farms. Then
the cavalry had not cleaned the country of everything eatable, as was
usual, they being always in the advance. There was milk and bread to be
had, and somehow--I never dared to inquire too closely about it--some
good mutton came into camp that night, so that we had a splendid
breakfast next morning. Some fine honey was added to the bill of fare.
The man who brought in the latter claimed that a rebel hive of bees
attacked him whilst on picket duty, and he confiscated the honey as a
measure of retaliation.
But the special feature that makes that camp linger in my memory was the
extraordinary beauty of the scene in the valley below us when the
evening camp-fires were lighted. We were on a sort of table-land two or
three hundred feet above the broad valley, which widened out at this
point and made a most charming landscape. As the darkness drew on the
camp-fires were lighted, and the scene became one of weird, bewitching
beauty. Almost as far as the eye could reach, covering three and
possibly four square miles, were spread out the blazing camp-fires of
that mighty host of our "Boys in Blue." No drums were beaten and the
usual retreat call was not sounded, but the thousands of camp-fires told
of the presence of our men. A martial city was cooking its evening
coffee and resting its weary limbs in the genial camp-fire glow, whilst
weary hearts were refreshed with the accompanying chat about friends and
dearer ones at home. The scouting "Johnny Rebs" (and there were no doubt
plenty of them viewing the scene) could have gotten from it no
comforting information to impart as to our numbers. Most of the Army of
the Potomac, now largely augmented by new regiments, was there, probably
not less than one hundred thousand men. It was a picture not of a
lifetime, but of the centuries. It made my blood leap as I realized that
I was looking down upon the grandest army, all things considered, of any
age or time. Its mission was to save to liberty and freedom the life of
the best government the world ever saw. In its ranks was the best blood
of a free people. In intelligence it was far superior to any other army
that ever existed. Scholars of all professions, tradesmen and farmers,
were there, fighting side by side, animated by the same patriotic
impulse. I said to myself, it is impossible that that army should be
beaten. It is the strong right arm of the Union, and under God it shall
assuredly deal the death-blow to the rebellion. This it certainly did,
though at a fearful cost, for it was fighting the same blood. The
inspiration of that scene made me glad from the bottom of my heart that
I had the privilege of being just one in that glorious army. After forty
years, what would I take for that association with all its dangers and
hardships? What for these pictures and memories? They are simply
priceless. I only wish I could so paint the pictures and reproduce the
scenes that they might be an inspiration to the same patriotism that
moved this mighty host.
One of our grizzly-headed "boys," after forty years, tells the following
story of his experiences on a foraging expedition from the camp. Three
of them started out after beef. Some young steers had been seen in the
distance. They reached the field, a mile or more from camp. They found
the game a mighty vigorous lot of young steers, and their troubles began
when they tried to corral any one of them. Both ends seemed to be in
business at the same time, whilst a tail-hold proved to have more
transportation possibilities than they had ever dreamed of. Coaxing and
persuasion proved utter failures, for the bovines seemed to have the
same prejudices against our blue uniforms their owners had, and it would
not do to fire a gun. However, after two hours of the hardest exercise
they ever had, they succeeded in "pinching" their steer with nose, horn,
and tail-holds. Neither of them had ever undertaken to butcher a beef
before, and a good-sized jackknife was all they had to work with. But
beef they came for and must have, and one was selected to do the trick.
Here again they counted without their quarry. The latter evidently
objected to being practised on by novices, for as the knife entered his
neck he gave a jump which somehow nearly severed the would-be butcher's
thumb. Nevertheless, he completed his work without a word, and the
animal was skinned and divided. Just as they had him down a field
officer rode almost on to them. They felt sure that their "fat was in
the fire," for the officer--probably the field officer of the
day--certainly saw them and saw what they were doing. But he turned and
rode away without saying a word. It was evidently one of those things he
did not want to see. Well, the fun was not yet over. They backed their
beef to camp, and this was about as uncomfortable a job as they ever
had. No more tired trio ever rolled themselves in blankets than they
were that night. But there was compensation. They had an abundant supply
of "fresh" on hand and their sleep was sweet. Alas for the uncertainties
of camp life. Notwithstanding they took the extra precaution to roll
their several portions in their coats and placed them under their heads
for pillows, some "sons of Belial" from an adjacent regiment who had
discovered them bringing their "game" into camp actually stole every
ounce of the beef out from under their too soundly sleeping heads during
the night and made off with it. After all their labor and trouble
neither of them had a taste of that beef. Their nostrils were regaled
with the savory fumes of the cooking meat. They had no difficulty in
discovering where it was. Indeed, the whelps who stole it rather paraded
their steal, knowing that the mouths of our men were sealed. They simply
could not say a word, for marauding was punishable with death. The worst
of the escapade was that the poor fellow whose thumb had been so nearly
severed was made a cripple for life. He was never able to do another
day's duty, and to shield him the other two--be it said to their
everlasting honor--performed his picket duty in addition to their own
until he was discharged.
My diary notes the fact that Fitz-John Porter's corps passed us just
before night, and I saw its commander for the first time. He was a
small, slender, young-looking man, with full black whiskers and keen
black eyes. He was dressed very modestly and wore the usual high black
slouch hat, with a much battered gold-tassel band. A pair of silver
stars on his shoulder, much obscured by wear and dust, indicated his
rank of major-general.
The next day, November 3, was cold and chilly and we were early on the
march, still southward. We had now exhausted our supply of rations, and
at a temporary halt wagon-loads of hardtack and pork were driven along
our company lines and boxes of the bread and barrels of pork dumped out,
and the men told to fill their haversacks. Barrel heads and boxes were
soon smashed with the butts of guns and contents appropriated, each man
taking all he would. Many a fine piece of the pork marched away on a
bayonet, ready for the noon-day meal. I filled my own saddle-bags, as
did the rest of us officers, preferring to take no further chances on
the grub question.
We bivouacked about four o'clock, after a thirteen-mile march in a raw
and very chilly air. Just going into bivouac I saw Major-General John F.
Reynolds, who met such a tragic death at Gettysburg the next July. His
corps--the First--was in the advance of ours. Our regiment was marching
at the head of our brigade column. Lieutenant-Colonel Albright was
temporarily absent and I was directing the column. General Reynolds's
corps had passed into the field to the left and were already in bivouac;
the other troops of our division were not visible at this point, and I
was hesitating what direction to give the column. General Reynolds was
sitting on his horse looking at us, evidently with much interest, and
noticing my dilemma, rode up to my assistance at once. Addressing me as
adjutant, he said: "Part of your corps has moved in yonder," pointing
out the place. "If I were you I would go in here and occupy this field
to the right in column of divisions, and you may say General Reynolds
advised this, if you please." His manner and way of doing this little
service were so pleasant that he captured me at once. Had he chosen to
do so, he could have given me orders, as the senior officer present, but
with a gentle courtesy he accomplished his purpose without that, and to
reassure me gave his name and rank in this delicate way. I shall never
forget his pleasant smile as he returned my salute after thanking him
for his suggestion. He was a superb-looking man, dark complexioned,
wearing full black whiskers, and sat his fine horse like a Centaur,
tall, straight, and graceful, the ideal soldier. I do not remember to
have ever seen this remarkable officer again. He was one of the few
great commanders developed by the war. A quiet, modest man, he yet
possessed a very decisive element of character, as illustrated by the
following incident related to me by my friend Colonel W. L. Wilson,
assistant adjutant-general of one of the divisions of Reynolds's corps,
and shows his unwearied vigilance and his indefatigable capacity for
work. The corps was in the presence of the enemy, an attack was deemed
highly probable. Night had brought on a storm of rain and intense
darkness. General Reynolds had given the proper officers very explicit
instructions about locating his picket lines, and Colonel Wilson,
knowing the critical nature of the work and his division chief's anxiety
over it, about midnight went out over their part of the line to make
doubly sure that everything was right. Among the first persons he
encountered after reaching the outposts was General Reynolds, all alone,
making his way over the line in that drenching rain, to be assured that
the pickets were properly posted and doing their duty. Here is Colonel
Wilson's account of the colloquy that ensued: "Who are you, sir? Where
do you belong? What are you doing here?" he volleyed at me savagely.
Being apparently reassured by my reply, he continued in a less
peremptory tone, "Who ordered that line? How far out is it?" Receiving
my reply, he exclaimed, "Push it out, push it out farther!" "How far,
General?" I ventured to ask. "Push it out until you feel something!"
This was Reynolds.
We continued our march down what I was told was the valley of the
Catochin. November 5 found us near Upperville, where we bivouacked
alongside an old graveyard, our head-quarters being established inside
the enclosure, to get the protection of its stone wall from the cold
wind that was blowing. The temperature had fallen during the past
twenty-four hours, so that it was now decidedly chilly--good for
marching, but cold in bivouac. My notes say that I was chilled through
until my teeth chattered; that I slept in the hollow made by a sunken
grave to get warm; that my dreams were not disturbed by any
unsubstantial hobgoblins of the defunct member of an F. F. V. whose
remains might have been resting below me. The letters F. F. V. meant
much in those war days. They stood for "First Family of Virginia," an
expression much in use by her slave-proud aristocracy, and, of course,
much satirized by us of the North. On this day we passed several very
handsome mansions with their slave contingents. One old "daddy"
volunteered the information that his "Mars was a pow'ful secesh;" that
he had three sons in the rebel army. My diary notes with indignation
that these rich plantations were carefully guarded by our cavalry to
prevent our soldiers entering to get water as they passed. They would
doubtless have helped themselves to other things as well, especially
things eatable, but the owners were rebels and deserved to have their
property taken, we all felt.
The orders against marauding were punctuated by a striking example this
day. The cavalry orderly of the general commanding our division, riding
back to head-quarters after delivering a batch of orders, among them
another on this hated subject, carried a pair of handsome turkeys
strapped to his saddle. It is safe to say that entire flock came into
our camp that night, and turkey was served at breakfast to some of the
rank and file as well as to the general. Verily, "consistency thou art a
jewel."
From Upperville we moved by easy marching down to Warrenton. The weather
had grown much colder. On the 8th of November there was a fall of rain,
succeeded by snow, and we marched in a very disagreeable slush. The
bivouac in this snow was most trying. The result for myself was a severe
attack of fever and ague. I had been much reduced in flesh from the
fatigue and nervous strain of the strenuous life of the past two months.
This attack prostrated me at once. I was placed in an ambulance, being
unable to ride my horse. The shaking and jolting of that ambulance ride
were something fearful. I can now sympathize with the wounded who were
compelled to ride in those horrible vehicles. They were covered wagons,
with seats on each side, and made with heavy, stiff springs, so as to
stand the rough roads, which were frequently cut through the fields.
This night General Kimball had me brought to his head-quarters, a brick
farm-house, for shelter. It was a kindness I greatly appreciated. The
next night our chaplain succeeded in getting me into a farm-house some
little distance from the regiment. He secured this accommodation on the
strength of Freemasonry. The owner's name I have preserved in my diary
as Mr. D. L. F. Lake. He was one of Mosby's "cavalry," as they called
themselves. We in our army called them "guerillas." They were the terror
of our army stragglers. They were "good Union men" when our army was
passing, but just as soon as the army had passed they were in their
saddles, picking up every straggler and any who may have had to fall
behind from sickness. In that way they got quite a few prisoners. This
man did not hesitate to tell us the mode of their operations. He said
his farm had been literally stripped of hay, grain, and cattle by our
cavalry under General Stoneman. All he had left was one chicken. This
his wife cooked for the chaplain and me. He brought out Richmond papers
during the evening and freely discussed the issues of the war with the
chaplain. I was too ill to pay much attention to what was said, only to
gather that his idea of us Northern people was that we were a miserable
horde of invading barbarians, destined to be very speedily beaten and
driven out. He admitted, however, that in financial transactions he
preferred "greenbacks" to the Confederate scrip, which I thought rather
negatived his boasted faith in the success of the Confederacy. His wife,
who had, not many years gone, been young and pretty, occasionally chimed
in with expressions of great hate and bitterness. Perhaps the latter was
not to be wondered at from their stand-point, and they had just now
ample grounds for their bitter feelings in the fact that they had just
been relieved of all their portable property by the Union forces. He had
receipts for what Stoneman had taken, which would be good for their
market value on his taking the oath of allegiance. But he said he would
die rather than take that oath, so he considered his property gone. He
no doubt thought better of this later on, and probably got pay for his
stuff. His kindness to me on the score of our fraternal relations was
generous to the full extent of his ability, and showed him to be a true
man, notwithstanding his "secesh" proclivities. It was a great favor,
for had I been compelled to remain out in that rough weather sick as I
was, the consequences must have been most serious. On leaving I tried to
pay him in gold coin for his hospitality, but he firmly declined my
money, saying: "You know you could not have gotten into my house for
money. Pay in like manner as you have received when opportunity
affords." For this fraternal hospitality I shall always remember my
"secesh" Masonic brother with gratitude, for I feel that it saved my
life.
Another terrific day in that awful ambulance brought me to Warrenton,
where I got a room at a so-called hotel. Here, upon the advice of our
surgeon, I made application for leave of absence on account of sickness.
The red tape that had to be "unwound" in getting this approved and
returned almost proved my ruin. Captain Archbald was taken sick at this
time, and his application for a like leave accompanied mine. The corps
surgeon, Dr. Dougherty, called with our surgeon to examine us at the
hotel, and said he would approve both applications; that it would be but
a day or so before our leaves would be ready and returned to us. The
next day orders for the army to move were issued, and we saw our men
marching away. It made my heart ache not to be in my place with them. I
was, however, barely able to sit up, so that was out of the question.
Now another possibility confronted us, namely, being picked up and
carried off as prisoners by my late host's comrades, Mosby's guerillas.
The army was evidently evacuating Warrenton and vicinity, and unless our
leaves of absence reached us within a very few hours we would be
outside of the "Union lines" and transportation to Washington
unobtainable, for the railroad trains did not pretend to run beyond the
Union lines. The next day came, the last of our troops were moving out,
and our leaves had not come. Captain Archbald and I resolved that we
must cut that "red tape" rather than take the chances of going to
Richmond. This we did by securing suits of citizens' clothes and making
our way as citizens through the lines to Washington. From there we had
no difficulty in reaching home in uniform. At Washington I wrote Colonel
Albright of our dilemma and the way we had solved it, and asked that our
leaves of absence be forwarded to us at Scranton. They came some two
weeks later. Had we remained at Warrenton, they would never have reached
us, unless in a rebel prison. Yet I suppose we had committed an offence
for which we could have been court-martialled.
I should have mentioned that just at the time I was taken sick, on the
9th of November, whilst the army was approaching Warrenton, the order
relieving General McClellan from the command of the Army of the Potomac
was issued. He was ordered to report to his home in Trenton, N. J., on
waiting orders. Great was the consternation among the veterans of that
army on his retirement, for they really had a strong attachment for
"Little Mac," as they fondly called him. He took his leave in an
affectionate order, recounting the heroic deeds of this noble army. This
was followed by a grand review, accompanied by battery salutes, and the
military career of General George B. McClellan passed into history.