THE WINTER AT FALMOUTH
Our brigade was now commanded by Lieutenant-Colonel Marshall, Tenth New
York Volunteers, who was the senior officer present for duty, Colonels
Kruger, First Delaware, and McGregor, Fourth New York, being absent on
account of wounds received at Fredericksburg, and Colonel Wilcox, of our
regiment, absent, sick. I mention this to show how the exigencies of the
service thrust upon junior officers the duties and responsibilities of
much higher grades. Here a lieutenant-colonel was discharging the duties
appertaining to a general; sergeants frequently commanded companies,
whilst a captain in command of a regiment was not an infrequent thing.
These junior officers performing the duties of higher grades got no more
compensation than the pay of their actual rank. On the 24th of January,
Colonel Wilcox sent in his resignation, and Lieutenant-Colonel Albright
was commissioned colonel. Major Shreve was promoted to be
lieutenant-colonel, and I had the honor to receive the rare and handsome
compliment of an election to the office of major, although, being a
staff-officer, I was not in the regular line of promotion.
Sergeant-Major Clapp succeeded to my position as adjutant, and Private
Frank J. Deemer, Company K, who had been a clerk in my office, was
appointed sergeant-major. Just at this time I had a somewhat singular
experience. I had received a three-days' leave of absence with
permission to visit Washington on business for the officers. This detail
I mention because no leaves of absence other than for sickness or
disability were obtainable at this time, except on urgent business for
the officers of a regiment, and for but one officer to a regiment, and
three days was the limit. To get to Washington--only about sixty miles
away--I had to start from camp before daylight in the morning, ride
three miles to the railroad in a heavy, springless army wagon, across
fields and over rutted roadways that were barely passable, the jolting
of which was almost enough to shake one's bones loose; then ride twenty
miles in a freight car, perched on whatever truck one could get a seat
on, thence by boat to Washington. The morning was exceptionally cold and
I had to leave without breakfast; the result was I caught a severe cold,
and when I reached my destination I was suffering terribly from an
attack of dysentery. I was barely able to get to the Ebbitt House, the
clerk of which seeing my plight summoned a physician, who had me sent to
the Seminary Hospital for Officers at Georgetown. Here I received most
excellent care.
This institution was for officers only. There must have been upward of
two hundred sick and wounded officers there at that time. It was under
strict military rules. The surgeon in charge was its commanding officer,
as absolute as though a general commanding a division in the field. When
I reached the hospital I was registered, put to bed, and all clothing
and personal effects taken from me. A warm bath followed with the
assistance of a stalwart nurse and medicines were administered, and I
soon found relief in a refreshing sleep. A couple of days later I had a
remarkable visit. I was not allowed to sit up yet, but a fine-looking
old gentleman, wearing the insignia of a major-general, appeared at my
cot and extended his hand. His face was an exceedingly kind one and his
voice, if possible, more so. His hair was white and he had the
unmistakable appearance of advanced age, though he stood fully six feet
high and was still square and unbent in form. He proceeded to say he had
learned that a young officer bearing the name of Hitchcock had been
taken suddenly very ill and sent to this hospital, and inasmuch as his
name was Hitchcock, he was doubly interested to know, first how I was,
and second who I was. My visitor was none other than Major-General
Hitchcock, military attache of President Lincoln's cabinet and the first
general commissioner for the exchange of prisoners of war. I think he
was a retired regular army officer called from his retirement to special
service as military adviser of the president and now in charge of the
bureau for the exchange of prisoners of war. His call was very pleasant,
and I learned from him that all of our name in this country were
distantly related. That two brothers came to this country with the
Regicides and settled, one in New Hampshire, the other at New Haven. He
was of the former stock, whilst I was from the latter. On retiring he
bade me call on him when well. I greatly regret I never had the
opportunity of returning his gracious visit. On the cot next mine lay an
officer convalescing from a wound received at Fredericksburg. I have
forgotten his name, but we soon became well acquainted, and he proved a
valuable and companionable acquaintance. He was the best posted man in
military tactics I ever met, and was thoroughly familiar with all its
branches from the school of the soldier to the grand tactics of a
division. It was very profitable pastime for me to go over the tactics
under his instruction, he illustrating each battalion movement by the
use of matches on the coverlets of our cots. In that way I learned the
various tactical movements as I had never been able to do before, and it
was of immense value to me, having now been promoted to the position of
a field-officer. This hospital was no better and in no wise different
from those for private soldiers, except that we were charged a per diem
for board, whereas there was no charge for the privates. I thought I
could return at the end of a week, and asked to be discharged, but was
rather curtly informed by the surgeon in charge that when the time came
for my discharge he would inform me.
The papers now contained rumors of another movement on foot, and, of
course, I was very anxious to return. A few days later, after an
examination, the doctor gave me my discharge. It was now ten days since
I had left camp on a three-days' leave, but my discharge from the
hospital operated as an extension, and I had no difficulty in getting
transportation and passes through the lines to rejoin my regiment. I
performed my errands for the officers of the regiment, which consisted
in getting various articles for their comfort, and in several cases a
bottle of something to "keep the cold out." As I write, I have before
me, in perfect preservation, all the official papers covering that trip.
Here are copies of the papers required to get back to the regiment. They
will give an idea of the conditions, getting in and out of Washington
at that time, as well as of the load I had to carry back:
HEAD-QUARTERS MILITARY DISTRICT OF WASHINGTON,
WASHINGTON, D. C., January 22, 1863.
Lieutenant F. L. Hitchcock, 132d P. V., with servant, has
permission to proceed to Falmouth, Va., for the purpose of
rejoining his regiment, and to take the following articles for
officers and men: (1) one drum, (3) three express packages, carpet
sack containing liquors, (1) one box of provisions, (1) one box of
clothing. Quartermaster please furnish transportation.
By Command of Brigadier-General Martindale, Military Governor of
Washington.
JOHN P. SHERBURNE,
_Assistant Adjutant-General_.
No. 247.
ASSISTANT-QUARTERMASTER'S OFFICE, SIXTH STREET WHARF,
WASHINGTON, D. C., January 23, 1863.
Pass on government boat to Aquia Creek, three boxes and one drum,
liquors and sutlers' stores strictly excluded.
For Adjutant F. L. Hitchcock, 132 Pa. Vols.
J. M. ROBINSON,
_Captain and A. Q. M._
The word liquors above is erased with a pen. It is difficult at this day
to realize that Washington was surrounded with a cordon of sentries. All
places of entrance and exit were under the strictest military
surveillance. General Martindale, as its military governor, was supreme
in authority. No one could come or go, and nothing be taken in or out,
without his permission.
The servant included in the above pass was a "contraband," picked up in
Washington for the trip. There were hundreds of them clamoring for an
opportunity to get down to the army. They were glad to do all one's
drudgery for the chance of going, for once there, plenty of jobs could
be found, besides the excitement and attractions of "Uncle Sam's" army
were to them irresistible. I reached camp early in the evening and
delivered my supplies, the officers being promptly on hand to receive
them. The return of an officer from "civilization" was an event of no
ordinary moment, and I had many calls that evening. The following
anecdote of Major-General Howard was told that evening, apropos of the
delivery of the "commissions" I had brought. The general was well known
to be uncompromising in his opposition to the presence of liquor of any
kind in camp, or elsewhere, and especially among the members of his
official family. Yet shortly after the battle of Fredericksburg, one of
his staff had a present of a bottle of "old Rye." He put it away until
some time during the general's absence he could safely bring it out and
treat his fellow-members of the staff. The opportunity came one day when
his chief announced his absence at army head-quarters for a couple of
hours, and mounted and rode away. The hidden treasure was brought out
and due preparation made for the delectation of all hands, and he was in
the act of pulling the cork in front of his tent, when, suddenly hearing
the clatter of horse's hoofs, he looked up just in time to see the
general returning for a forgotten paper. He had barely time to swing the
bottle behind his heels as he closed them in the position of a soldier,
and arose and respectfully saluted. The position and salute were
strictly according to army regulations, but with a general's own staff
such formality was not usual. The general evidently caught the
situation, for he was tantalizingly deliberate in acknowledging the
salute, and finally remarked, with a twinkle in his eye, looking him
full in the face: "Mr.----, your position is faultless and your
punctiliousness in saluting truly admirable. Were you getting it ready
to send to the hospital? Very commendable, indeed; it will do so much
good." And to the hospital, of course, it had to go, much to the chagrin
of all the staff.
The event of special interest at this time was the movement later known
as the "mud march." Troops had for three days been moving up the river,
destination, of course, unknown to us, but now they were returning, a
most sorry, mud-bedraggled looking crowd. We were glad enough not to
have been with them. Our corps had been for a week under marching
orders, to move at a moment's notice, but the final order never came,
and we were spared this experience. Whatever the movement was designed
to be, it was defeated by plain, simple MUD. It should be spelled in the
largest capitals, for it was all-powerful at this time. Almost
immediately after the movement began, it commenced to rain heavily. The
ground was already soggy from previous rains, and it soon became a vast
sea of mud. I have already spoken of Virginia mud. It beggars
description. Your feet sink into it frequently ankle deep, and you lift
them out with a sough. In some places it seemed as bottomless as a pit
of quicksand. The old-established roads were measurably passable, but,
as I have heretofore explained, most of the troops had to march directly
across the fields, and here it proved absolutely impossible to move the
wagon-trains and artillery any distance. This was the main reason why
the movement had to be abandoned. I saw many wagons down over their
hubs, stalled in the mire. And the guns and caissons of a battery of
artillery were stalled near our camp, and had to be abandoned for the
time. The horses were saved from miring with great difficulty. A few
days later the guns and caissons were hauled out with ropes.
There were dead mules and mired and broken wagons all along the route of
the marching troops. The number of animals that perished in this futile
march must have run up into thousands, killed by exposure over pulling
or miring. It should be understood that when the army moves, and the
mule trains of ammunition and rations are ordered to move, they must go
as long as it is physically possible, mule or no mule. The lives of a
thousand mules, more or less, is nothing compared with the necessity of
having ammunition and rations at the proper place at the required time.
I saw one mule team stalled in one of these sloughs. The heavy wagon was
down so that the box was in the mud and the four mules were wallowing in
a death struggle to get out. Harness was cut and they were freed, all to
no purpose. Their struggles had made the slough like a stiff pudding,
which was apparently bottomless; the more they struggled the deeper they
got. Finally a chain was hooked about the neck of one of the leaders and
fastened to another wagon and the mule hauled out, but with a broken
neck. The experiment was repeated in a modified way with the other
leader, now over back in the mire, but with no better results. The
others had ceased to struggle and were slowly sinking, and were
mercifully killed and allowed to bury themselves in the mire, which they
speedily did. It may be asked why more civilized methods were not
employed to extricate these valuable animals. Why fence rails or
timbers were not placed under them as is usual? The answer is, there was
not a fence rail nor anything of that nature probably within ten miles.
Everything of this kind had long ago been used for fire-wood for the
soldiers' cooking. And as for timbers there probably was not a stick
nearer than Aquia Creek, more than ten miles away. Again it may be
wondered why the chain was not passed around the mule's body rather than
his neck. Simply because the former was impossible without running the
risk of miring the driver in the slough, and he was not disposed to run
any risk of that kind. Had this been practicable, it is doubtful if the
result would have been any better, for without padding the chains would
have killed or mangled the mule, and there were no means at hand for
that purpose. The destruction of this class of property, always very
severe under favorable circumstances in the army, was during this mud
movement simply appalling. The loss of one or more mules meant an
abandonment of the wagon and its contents to the weather in many
instances, and the same was true where a team was mired.
The rebels were evidently interested observers of this mud march, for
their pickets taunted ours with such questions as "How d'ye like
Virginia mud?" "Why don't you 'uns come over?" "How are you, mud?" etc.,
and they put up rude sign-boards on which were scrawled in large
letters, "Burnside stuck in the mud!" "Burnside's name is Mud!" etc.
[Illustration: MAJOR FREDERICK L. HITCHCOCK
132D P. V.
A year later Colonel 25th U. S. C. T.]
The "mud march" had evidently settled it that there would be no further
attempt to move until better weather conditions prevailed, which could
not reasonably be looked for before April, and so we settled down for
a winter where we were, back of Falmouth. The several corps were spread
out, occupying an area extending from within three miles of
Fredericksburg, nearly down to the Potomac. Our corps, the Second, was
located nearest to the latter city, and our picket lines covered its
front to Falmouth and some miles up the river. Our division, the Third
(French's), had the line from the railroad bridge at Fredericksburg to
Falmouth, something over two miles. Being now a field-officer, my name
was placed on the roster of picket field-officers of the day. My first
detail on this duty came almost as soon as my commission. My duties had
hitherto been confined almost exclusively to the staff or executive
business of the regiment. Further than making the necessary details of
officers and men for picket duty, I had never had anything to do with
that branch of the service. I had, therefore, only a smattering
knowledge of the theory of this duty. It may well be judged, therefore,
that I felt very keenly this lack, when I received my order to report
for duty as division field-officer of the day, the following morning.
Here I was suddenly confronted with the responsibility of the command of
the picket forces covering the dividing line between the two hostile
armies. A demonstration of the enemy was to be looked for any moment,
and it was most likely to occur on our front. I had hoped to have a few
days to study up and by observing its practical work get some little
idea of my new duties. But here was the detail, and it must be obeyed.
It should be explained that the picket line consists of a cordon of
sentinels surrounding the army, usually from two to three miles from
its camp. Its purpose is to watch the enemy, and guard against being
surprised by an attack. Except for this picket line, the main body of
troops could never sleep with any degree of safety. To guard against
attacks of the enemy would require it to remain perpetually under arms.
Whereas with its picket lines properly posted it may with safety relax
its vigilance, this duty being transferred to its picket forces. This
picket service being a necessity of all armies is a recognized feature
of civilized warfare. Hence, hostile armies remaining any length of time
in position near each other usually make an agreement that pickets shall
not fire upon each other. Such agreement remains in force until a
movement of one or the other army commences. Notice of such a movement
is, of course, never given. The other party finds out the fact as best
it can. Frequently the withdrawal or concealment of the picket line will
be its first intimation. Ordinarily, picket duty is not only of the very
highest responsibility, but an exceedingly dangerous duty. Until
agreements to cease picket-firing are made, every sentinel is a
legitimate target for the sentinels or pickets of the enemy, hence
extreme vigilance, care, and nerve are required in the performance of
this duty.
The picket line in the presence of the enemy is generally posted in
three lines,--viz., First, the line of sentries; second, the picket
supports, about thirty yards in rear of the sentries, and third, the
guard reserves, about three hundred yards farther in the rear, depending
upon the topography of the country. Each body constitutes one-third of
the entire force, _i.e._, one-third is constantly on duty as sentinels,
one-third as picket supports, and one-third as grand reserves. The
changes are made every two hours, usually, so that each sentry serves
two hours on "post" and four hours off. The latter four hours are spent
half on grand reserve and half as picket supports. The supports are
divided into companies, and posted in concealed positions, near enough
to the sentry line to be able to give immediate support in case of
attack, while the grand reserves, likewise concealed, are held in
readiness to come to the assistance of any part of the line. Ordinarily
this part of the picket force is able to sleep during its two hours of
reserve service. The supports, however, while resting, must remain alert
and vigilant. It being the duty of the picket-line to prevent a
surprise, it must repel any sort of attack with all its power. In the
first instance the sentinel must promptly challenge any party
approaching. The usual formula is: "Halt! Who comes there?" The
approaching party failing to obey the command to halt, it is his duty to
fire at once, even though he be outnumbered a hundred to one, and it
cost him his life. Many a faithful sentinel has lost his life in his
fidelity to duty under such circumstances. For although the picket is
there to prevent a surprise, the attacking party is equally bent on
getting the advantage of a surprise, if possible, and many are the ruses
adopted to capture sentinels before they can fire their guns. He must
fire his gun, even though he be captured or run through with a bayonet
the next instant. This gives the alarm, and the other sentries and
picket supports open fire at once, and the reserves immediately join
them, if necessary, to hold or impede the progress of the enemy. It is
thus seen that in case of an attack the picket force finds itself
maintaining a fight possibly against the whole opposing army, or
whatever the attacking force may be. Fight it must, cost whatever it
may, so that time may be gained to sound the "long roll" and assemble
the army. Many of our picket fights were so saucy and stubborn that the
attacks were nipped in the bud, the enemy believing the army was there
opposing them. In the mean time, mounted orderlies would be despatched
to army head-quarters with such information of the attack as the officer
of the day was able to give.
Having now given some idea of picket service, I return to my own first
experiences as field-officer of the day. I was fated to have several
rather singular experiences on that first day. The first occurred in
connection with my horse. I mounted and started for division
head-quarters, about a half-mile away, in ample time to reach there a
little before the appointed time--eight o'clock, but reaching the outer
edge of our camp my horse balked, and in answer to my efforts to move
him began to kick, rear, and plunge. He tried to throw me, and did
nearly everything except roll over. Every time I headed him forward, he
would wheel around and start back for his stable. I coaxed him, then
tried the spur, all to no purpose. I was losing valuable time, besides
having a very uncomfortable kind of a fight on hand. I realized I must
make him obey me or I could never handle him again. An orderly from
General French came galloping over with the expected peremptory message.
One minute's delay with him was almost a capital offence. I could only
return word that I was doing my best to get there. The general and his
staff then rode over to see my performance. He reassured me with the
remark, "Stick to him and make him obey you, or kill him." Well, it took
just about one hour to conquer him, at the end of which time I had
ploughed up several acres of ground, my horse was in a white lather, and
I was in the same condition. When he quit, he did so at once, and went
on as cleverly as though nothing had happened. The cause of this freak I
never understood, he never having done so before, and never did again.
[Illustration: DON AND I
And a glimpse of the camp of Hancock's Division, Second Army Corps, back
of Falmouth, Va., winter of 1862-3. See page 171]
May I digress long enough to speak a little more of this remarkable
horse. Dr. Holland says there is always hope for any man who has heart
enough to love a good horse. Army life was well calculated to develop
the sterling qualities of both man and beast. Hence, I suppose every man
who had a good horse could safely regard him as "most remarkable." How
many such have I heard cavalrymen talk about, descanting on the
"remarkable" qualities of their half-human favorites, whilst the tears
wet their cheeks. I had named this splendid animal "Don Fulano," after
that superb horse in Winthrop's "John Brent," not because he was a
magnificent black charger, etc.; on the contrary, in many respects he
was the opposite of the original Don Fulano. Raised upon an unromantic
farm near Scranton, an unattractive yellow bay, rather too heavy limbed
and too stockily built to be called handsome, yet powerful, courageous,
intelligent (he could almost talk), high spirited, with a heavy, shaggy
mane and forelock, through which gleamed a pair of keen, fierce eyes, he
had many of the qualities which distinguished his noble prototype. He
had not the high honor to die carrying a slave to liberty, but when the
final accounts come to be squared up in the horses' heaven, it is
possible that the credit of having passed unflinchingly through the
battles of Fredericksburg and Chancellorsville, and of having safely
carried a wounded soldier off each field may prove to be a little
something in favor of my splendid "Don." As a saddler, he came to me
practically unbroken. He was sold from the farm because he would jump
all fences, yet under the saddle, when I took him, he would not jump the
smallest obstacle. This is really as much of an art on the part of the
rider as with the horse. An unskilled rider is liable to seriously
injure both the horse and himself in jumping. If he is unsteady, the
motion of the horse as he rises to make his leap is liable to pitch him
over his head. On the other hand, if he clings back, a dead weight in
his saddle, he is liable to throw the horse backward. I have seen both
done. The secret of successful jumping is to give the horse his head as
he rises, feel your knees against his sides firmly, rising with him as
he rises and be again in your seat before his feet reach the ground.
This helps him and saves both a killing jounce. I finally trained him so
that as a jumper he was without a peer in our part of the army. I have
had the men hold a pole fully a foot higher than my head, as I stood on
the ground, and have jumped him back and forth over it as readily as
cats and dogs are taught to jump over one's arm. And the men insisted
that he cleared the pole at least a foot each jump.
This jumping of horses was considered quite an accomplishment in the
army, it being often a necessity on the march in getting over obstacles.
One day I saw our general's son, a young West Pointer, attached to his
father's staff, trying to force his Kentucky thoroughbred to jump a
creek that ran past division head-quarters. The creek was probably ten
to twelve feet wide and, like all Virginia creeks, its banks seemed cut
vertically through the soil and the water at the edges was about a foot
deep. After repeated trials the best the young man's horse could do was
to get his forefeet on the opposite bank. His hindfeet always landed in
the water. Mr. West Pointer was way above noticing in any way a poor
volunteer plebeian like myself mounted on an old plug like Don. But Don
had taken in the situation as well as I, and when I said, "Come, Don,
let's us try it," he just gathered himself and sailed over that creek
like a bird, landing easily a couple of feet on the other side, and
swung around for another try. The young fellow gathered up his
thoroughbred and with an oath of disgust retired. Don and I became great
friends, and after our fight, above mentioned, in all our practice
jumping or on the march, or riding about, I never had occasion to use
the spur,--indeed, I seldom wore one. A simple "Come, Don," and he was
quick to obey my every wish. He was kind and tractable with others, but
it was a singular fact that, as for jumping or any other favors, he
would do nothing for anybody but me, not even for my man who took care
of him. Others, including horse-trainers, repeatedly asked to try him,
thinking they could improve his work, but he drew the line on all; not
even a little jump would he make for any of them. I had been jumping
him, one day, to the delight and admiration of the men. Among them was a
horse-trainer of the Fourth New York, who asked the privilege of trying
him. He mounted and brought him cantering up to the pole as though he
was going over all right, but instead of making the leap he suddenly
whirled, almost dumping the trainer, to the infinite amusement of the
men; nor could he induce him to make the leap. I mounted again and he
went over, back and forth, without the slightest hesitation. I brought
him home from the war, and it was a great grief to me that I was unable
to keep him as long as he lived. I secured him a good home, where he
lived to a dignified old age. One of my household gods is a photograph
of Don and myself, with a section of the camp of Hancock's division of
the Second Corps for a background, taken at this time, whilst we lay
back of Falmouth.
My second adventure that first day on picket duty occurred shortly after
I reached the head-quarters of the picket at the Lacey House, directly
opposite the city of Fredericksburg. I had seen the new line posted and
the old line relieved, when a grizzly bearded old gentleman rode up and
inquired for the "Officer of the day." His dress was exceedingly plain.
He wore a much-battered slouch hat down over his eyes, and on the
shoulders of his blouse, scarcely discernible, was what had been the
silver stars of a brigadier-general. I answered his inquiry by saluting,
and then recognized General Alfred Sully, long famed as an Indian
fighter before the war. He introduced himself as "Corps officer of the
day" and my superior officer for this tour of picket duty. The peculiar
thing about his presence was his treatment of me. He evidently saw that
he had a greenhorn on hand, for the first question he fired at me was,
"How many times have you served as picket officer of the day?" I
candidly replied that this was my first experience. "Your knowledge of
the duties of officer of the day is somewhat limited?" I admitted the
fact. "That is all right," said he with a pleasant smile. "You are just
the man I want. You shall remain with me all day, and I will teach you
all there is about it." I shall never forget that day's experience with
this splendid old officer. I rode with him over the whole corps line in
the morning, and after that he made his head-quarters at the Lacey House
with me. Our division front, said he, is where an attack is most to be
looked for, and then he went over it carefully with me, pointing out the
most probable points of attack and how they should be met; what to do at
this point and that, and so on, in a most intelligent and entertaining
manner gave me the practical idea of a picket defence, out of his long
and ample experience as a regular army officer. It was just what I
needed and was of the greatest value to me. It was practical experience
under a superb instructor. If all the regular army officers I came in
contact with had been as kind and considerate as this superb Indian
fighter, I should have been equally grateful. Unfortunately, this was
not the case. My experience in this respect may have been exceptional,
but the instance above narrated is the one solitary case in which my
duties brought me in contact with regular army officers that I did not
receive a rebuff, frequently most brutal and insulting. Doubtless the
lack of knowledge of army customs and routine on the part of us
volunteer officers was calculated to try their patience, for they
occupied all the higher executive staff positions, and routine business
of all kinds had to pass their scrutiny.
But what were they given West Point education and training at the public
expense for if not to impart it to those who should be called to fill
volunteer positions in times of the country's need? And how should a
volunteer, called into the service of his country without a particle of
military education, be expected to understand the interminable routine
of army red tape? I will dismiss this digression with a single instance
of my experience in seeking information from one of the younger West
Pointers. It occurred while I was still adjutant and shortly before my
promotion. Some special detailed report was called for. There were so
many of these wanted, with so many minute and intricate details, that I
cannot remember what this particular one was, but they were enough
almost to drive a man to drink. This one, I remember, utterly stumped
me, and I rode over to Captain Mason, assistant adjutant-general of our
brigade, a thoroughly competent officer, for information. He looked at
it a moment, then said: "It beats me; but go down to corps head-quarters
and you will find Lieutenant----, a regular army officer, whose business
it is to give just such information as you require." I rode there at
once and inquired for Lieutenant----, as directed. The reply was, "Here
he is. What in h----l do you want?" Not specially reassured by this
inquiry, I handed him the paper and made known my wishes for
information. He literally threw it back at me with the reply, "Go to
h----l and find out." I replied that from his manner of speech I appeared
to be pretty near there now. I went back to Captain Mason and recounted
my experience, to his intense disgust, but that was all that ever came
of it. We volunteers learned to avoid a regular officer, especially of
the young West Point type, as we would a pestilence.
Returning now to my picket duties of that day, a third incident occurred
in the afternoon. The captain of the picket came into our office at the
Lacey House with the information that there was a hail from the opposite
bank of the river with a flag of truce--a small white flag. We all
rushed out, and General Sully directed the captain to take a corporal's
guard--a corporal and four men--from his reserve, and go down to the
water's edge under a like flag and inquire what was wanted. This
formality, he said, was necessary to properly recognize their flag of
truce, and to guard against a possible fake or bit of treachery. The
reply from the other side was that a young woman in Fredericksburg was
exceedingly desirous of reaching her home some distance within the Union
lines, and would the Union commander receive a communication upon the
subject. General Sully replied that he would receive their communication
and forward it to head-quarters, whereupon an orderly was sent over in a
boat with the communication. He was unarmed, as were those who rowed him
over. The letter was despatched to army head-quarters, whilst the
orderly and his boatmen were detained at the landing under guard of our
detail. They sat down and in an entirely easy and friendly way chatted
with our guard. One would not have believed that these men would shed
each other's blood instantly the little white flag was lowered. Yet such
was the fact. A half-hour brought a reply to the communication. We, of
course, saw neither their letter nor the reply, but my lady was
immediately brought over and escorted by a mounted guard to army
head-quarters, an ambulance being utilized for the purpose. She was
really a very pretty young woman, and evidently a thorough lady, though
a spirit of hauteur made it apparent she was a Southerner through and
through. She maintained a perfect composure during the formality of her
reception into our lines, for the officer from the rebel lines who
escorted her required a receipt from the officer who had been sent down
from head-quarters to receive her; and the appearance of a pretty woman
in our lines was so unusual an event that Uncle Sam's boys may have been
pardoned if they were all anxious to get a square view of the charming
vision. This receipt had to be made in duplicate, one for each army,
both officers, as well as the young woman, attesting it with their
signatures. General Sully more than half suspected she was a rebel spy.
If she was, they wisely chose a beauty for the work.