THE WINTER AT FALMOUTH--CONTINUED
During the remainder of the winter at Falmouth, I was on as
field-officer of the day about every fifth day, so that I was much of
the time at the Lacey House, and on the picket-line described in the
foregoing chapter. The scenes here enacted constituted my chief
experience at this time. The Lacey House was famous during the war as
being the head-quarters of either the picket lines between the two
armies or of commanding officers of portions of both so frequently that
it deserves more than a passing notice. It was a large old-time brick
mansion, beautifully situated on the bank of the Rappahannock, just
opposite Fredericksburg, and was, at the outbreak of the war, the
private residence of Colonel Lacey, who was at the time I write a
colonel in the rebel army. The house was very large; its rooms almost
palatial in size, had been finished in richly carved hardwood panels and
wainscoting, mostly polished mahogany. They were now denuded of nearly
all such elegant wood-work. The latter, with much of the carved
furniture, had been appropriated for fire-wood. Pretty expensive fuel?
Yes, but not nearly so expensive as the discomfort of staying there
without a fire, with the temperature just above the freezing-point, and
your feet and body wet through from the rain and slush of the storm
outside, in which you were doing picket duty. The only other fuel
obtainable was a few soggy green logs; whether these had been cut from
the old shade trees surrounding its ample grounds or not I do not know.
I more than suspect they had, but the only way they could be made to
burn in the old-fashioned open fireplaces was to assist the flames with
an occasional piece of dry wood, the supply of which, as long as it
lasted, was from the panels, wainscoting, and furniture of the house.
Later on the interior doors, all of heavy, elegant hardwood and finished
in keeping with the other appointments of the place, had to go. This may
seem at this distance as vandalism pure and simple. But if the would-be
critic will place himself in the shoes of the soldier doing picket duty
that winter, with all its hardships, and then remember that Colonel
Lacey, the owner of the place, was not only in active rebellion against
the government we were fighting to maintain, but was a colonel
commanding a rebel regiment as a part of that great rebel army encamped
not a rifle-shot away, which made it necessary for us to do this picket
duty, he may reach the same conclusion as did our men, that it was not
worth while to freeze ourselves in order to preserve this rebel's
property. The large and ample grounds had been laid out with all the
artistic care a landscape gardener could bestow upon them. Rare plants,
shrubs, and trees from all over the world had been transplanted here in
great variety. They were now feeling the bitter blight of war. Army
wagons and artillery had made sad havoc of the beautiful grounds, and
such of the rare trees and shrubbery as interfered with a good vision of
the operations of the rebels in and around Fredericksburg had been
ruthlessly removed, and this included the larger part of them.
The Christian Commission had its head-quarters in one wing of the house
during this winter. It was presided over by Mrs. John Harris, of
Philadelphia, a most benevolent and amiable elderly lady. She was
assisted by two or three young women, among whom was a daughter of
Justice Grier, of the United States Supreme Court. These ladies were
engaged in distributing supplies of various kinds, furnished by this
association, to the sick and wounded soldiers in the various hospitals.
They had an ambulance at their disposal, and one or two orderlies
detailed to assist them. Their work was most gracious and helpful, and
they were entitled to the greatest credit for their hard and
self-sacrificing labors. The red flag of the hospital floated over them,
and such protection as it afforded they had; but it may be well
understood that this location between two hostile armies, with active
hostilities likely to be resumed any moment, and in the midst of a
picket force keenly on the alert night and day, was not likely to be
selected as a sanitarium for cases of nervous prostration. The men on
picket had reason to remember Mrs. Harris, for those located at the
Lacey House daily partook of her bounty in the way of hot coffee, and
frequently a dish of good hot soup; and the officers stationed there,
usually three or four, were regularly invited to her table for all
meals. These invitations were sure to be accepted, for they afforded an
opportunity for a partially civilized meal. Her meals were always
preceded by a "grace" said by herself, while breakfast was followed by a
worship service, at which a chapter from the Bible was read and prayer
offered by her. These prayers I shall never forget--their sweet
fervency, in which the soldiers came in for a large share of her earnest
requests. This large-hearted, motherly little woman made a host of
friends among the boys in blue that winter. But her motherly kindness
was occasionally taken advantage of by some of those sons of Belial. One
of them told this story of his former tour of duty: The weather was
beastly uncomfortable, from rain and snow making a slush and mud,
through which they had tramped until thoroughly soaked. They concluded
they must have some hot whiskey punch. Mother Harris, they knew, had all
the necessary ingredients, but how to get them was the question. One of
them feigned a sudden attack of colic, and was all doubled up on the
floor, groaning piteously. Mother Harris was told of it. Of course, she
rushed in to render assistance. In reply to her inquiries, the rascal
could think of but one thing that would help him, and that was whiskey.
A bottle was instantly produced, and a dose administered which gave
partial relief; and now if he only had some hot water he was sure it
would relieve him. A pitcher of steaming hot water was immediately sent
in. Then it was found that the strong liquor nauseated him, and one of
the other scamps suggested that perhaps a lemon would relieve that, and
a nice lemon was instantly produced. They had plenty of sugar
themselves, and so from good Mother Harris's benevolent provision for
the colic these rascals deliberately brewed a pitcher full of excellent
hot whiskey punch. They had to invent a number of additional lies to
keep her out of the room, but they were equal to it. She sent her
orderlies in, one after the other, to inquire how the patient was
progressing, and the boys secured a proper message back by letting them
in for a swig. I hope the good old lady never discovered the fraud. I am
sure she would not have believed anybody who might have undertaken to
enlighten her, for her confidence in her "boys in blue" was so
unbounded.
Almost every tour of picket duty revealed some new incident. Our pickets
were now posted in full view of those of the enemy, and the river was so
narrow that conversation between the pickets could be carried on without
difficulty. Peremptory orders were issued forbidding our pickets from
replying, or in any manner communicating with them, but it required the
greatest care and vigilance on the part of all the officers of the
picket to enforce this order. One of their sentries would hail one of
ours with some friendly remark, and it was difficult to suppress the
desire to reply. If a reply was not forthcoming, a nagging ejaculation,
calculated to provoke, would follow, such as, "What's the matter, Yank,
are ye deaf?" "Maybe ye are afeared o' those d----d officers." "We 'uns
don't give a d---- for our officers," and so volley after volley would
follow, whilst poor Yank had to continue silently walking his beat.
Sometimes the "Johnny" would wind up with a blast of oaths at his silent
auditor. Frequently our men would reply if they thought no officer was
near to hear; they seemed to feel that it was only decent to be
courteous to them. Strange as it may seem, there was a strong
disposition to fraternize whenever opportunity offered on the part of
the men of both sides. This was manifested daily on this picket-line,
not only in talk across the river, but in communication by means of
miniature boats. Our men were generally short of tobacco, and the
Johnnies had an abundance of this article of the very best quality; on
the other hand, our men were "long" on coffee, of which commodity they
were "short." So "Johnny" would fix up a trade. "Say, Yank, if I send
you over a boat-load of 'backy,' will ye send her back filled with
coffee?" If he got an affirmative reply, which he often did, he would
place his little boat in the stream with its rudder so fastened that the
current would shoot it across a hundred yards or so further down. Yank
would watch his opportunity, get the boat, take out its precious cargo
of tobacco, reload it with coffee, reverse the rudder, and send it back
to "Johnny," who was watching for it further down the stream. Newspapers
soon were called for by "Johnny," and became a regular part of the cargo
of these boats, for the rebels were wild to get our papers. The exchange
of coffee and tobacco was a comparatively harmless matter and would
probably have been winked at, but the sending of our Northern papers
into their line, containing news of every movement of our forces, was a
thing that must be prohibited. A large part of the special instructions
of all picket officers related to the suppression of this traffic.
Scarcely a day passed that we did not confiscate one or more of these
boats. The tobacco our men were allowed to take, but the boat and all
rebel newspapers had to be sent to army head-quarters. Some of these
miniature boats were marvels of beauty, and showed mechanical skill in
construction of the highest order. Others were rude "dugouts." They were
generally about thirty inches long, six to ten inches wide, and about
six inches deep. They were therefore capable of holding quite a
quantity. It was a traffic very difficult to suppress, for our men
wanted the tobacco and were unwilling to take that without sending back
the proper _quid pro quo_. I doubt if it was ever altogether stopped
that winter. The desire for tobacco on the part of our men was so great
that they would break over, and some of the subordinate officers
participated in it. These exchanges generally took place in the very
early dawn, when the officer of the day and the officers of the picket
were not supposed to be around. The officer of the day was required to
make the "rounds" of his picket-line once after midnight, and then if
everything was all right he could rest, his officers of the picket being
responsible to him for their respective sections of the line. What is
known in army regulations as the "grand rounds," a ceremonial visiting
of the line by the officer of the day, accompanied by a sergeant and
detail, was omitted on the picket-line as too noisy and ostentatious. In
its place the officer of the day went over his line as quietly as
possible, assuring himself that each man was in his proper place and was
alert and doing his duty.
The sleepy time was from two o'clock A.M. until daylight, and this was
the time I found it necessary to be on the line. It took from two to
four hours to get over the entire line and visit every sentry. The line,
as I have stated heretofore, extended from the railroad bridge at
Fredericksburg to the village of Falmouth, a distance of two and a half
to three miles. In the daytime I could ride over it comfortably, but in
the night I had to take it on foot. When these were dark as ink, and
rainy, and the ground was slushy and muddy, as it usually was at that
time, it was not a very agreeable duty. However, my duty was so much
lighter than that of the men (who, though they were only two hours on
post at a time, were out in the storm all the while), that I could not
complain. The fidelity of our men to duty under these trying
circumstances was most remarkable. Twice only that winter did I find a
man sleeping on post. In both of these cases the delinquent was scarcely
more than a boy, who I really believed told the truth when they said
they sat down because unable to stand up any longer, and, of course,
instantly fell asleep. I had them relieved and sent back to camp, and
did not report their offence.
A disagreeable duty I had to perform occurred one morning just at break
of day. I had just returned from my trip over the line and was about
entering the Lacey House, when I noticed a man running down towards the
water's edge on the other side of the river. On these night tours of
duty I wore a large cavalry overcoat with a long cape, which thoroughly
concealed my rank and sword. I stepped out to the top of the bank to see
what this man was doing, and he hailed me with: "Hello, Yank. I am going
to send ye over a nice boat, with tobacco and newspapers. Look out and
get her, and send her back with coffee and newspapers, and don't let any
of your d----d officers get hold of it. If they catch ye they'll raise
h----l with you, and swipe the whole business." I did not say a word, but
quietly walked down to where I saw the boat would touch the shore and
waited for it. In the mean time he kept up a running fire of admonitions
like the above, chiefly directed to the need of watching against the
vigilance of our d----d officers. I picked up the boat, took it up the
bank, and then threw my coat open, disclosing my sword and my sash as
officer of the day. Oh! the profanity and billingsgate that followed
beggars description. I thought I had heard swearing before, but never
anything to touch this fellow, and I really could not blame him very
much. He had simply hailed the wrong man. The man he thought he was
hailing, seeing my presence, kept out of the way. The boat was a little
beauty, one of the handsomest I ever saw. It contained five or six
pounds of the best Virginia plug tobacco and several newspapers from
Richmond. I would have been glad to have kept the boat as a souvenir,
but had to despatch it to head-quarters with all its contents at once.
Of course I never saw it again.
The "Johnnies" were not without their fun, as well as our boys. Several
times I was saluted by their pickets as officer of the day. Army
regulations require the sentry nearest the picket reserve, on seeing the
officer of the day approach, to call out, "Turn out the guard, officer
of the day." Thereupon the officer of the picket parades his reserves,
which presents arms and is then inspected by the officer of the day. The
red sash worn crosswise over the shoulder is the insignia of the officer
of the day. Several times that winter, as I was riding along our line, a
rebel sentry yelled, "Turn out the guard, officer of the day," and a
sergeant paraded his guard, faced towards me across the river, and
presented arms. Of course, I lifted my cap in acknowledgment of the
compliment, even though it was a bit of deviltry on their part. This
indicated a grave want of discipline on the part of their troops. I am
sure such an act would not have been thought of by our men.
General Burnside was relieved from command of the army on the 26th of
January, 1863, and was succeeded by Major-General Joseph Hooker.
"Fighting Joe," as he was familiarly called, was justly popular with the
army, nevertheless there was general regret at the retirement of
Burnside, notwithstanding his ill success. That there was more than the
"fates" against him was felt by many, and whether under existing
conditions "Fighting Joe" or any one else was likely to achieve any
better success was a serious question. However, all felt that the new
commander had lots of fight in him, and the old Army of the Potomac was
never known to "go back" on such a man. His advent as commander was
signalized by a modest order announcing the fact, and matters moved on
without a ripple upon the surface. Routine work, drills, and picket duty
occupied all our time. Some of our men were required to go on picket
duty every other day, so many were off duty from sickness and other
causes. Twenty-four hours on picket duty, with only twenty-four hours
off between, was certainly very severe duty, yet the men did it without
a murmur. When it is understood that this duty required being that whole
time out in the most trying weather, usually either rain, sleet, slush,
or mud, and constantly awake and alert against a possible attack, one
can form an idea of the strain upon physical endurance it involved.
The chief event preceding the Chancellorsville movement was the grand
review of the army by President Lincoln and staff. The exact date of
this review I do not remember, but it occurred a short time before the
movement upon Chancellorsville. Owing to the absence of Colonel Albright
and the illness of Lieutenant-Colonel Shreve, the command of the
regiment devolved upon me, and I had a funny experience getting ready
for it. As a sort of preliminary drill, I concluded I would put the
regiment through a practice review on our drill grounds. To do this
properly, I had to imagine the presence of a reviewing officer standing
before our line at the proper distance of thirty to forty yards. The
ceremony involved opening the ranks, which brought the officers to the
front of the line, the presenting arms, and dipping the colors, which
the reviewing officer, usually a general, acknowledged by lifting his
hat and gracefully bowing. I had reached the point in my practice drill
where the "present arms" had been executed, and the colors lowered, and
had turned to the front myself to complete the ceremony by presenting
sword to my imaginary general, when lo! there rose up in front of me, in
the proper position, a real reviewing officer in the shape of one of the
worst looking army "bums" I ever saw. He assumed the position and
dignified carriage of a major-general, lifted his dirty old
"cabbage-leaf" cap, and bowed up and down the line with the grace and
air of a Wellington, and then he promptly skedaddled. The "boys" caught
the situation instantly and were bursting with laughter. Of course I
didn't notice the performance, but the effort not to notice it almost
used me up. This will illustrate how the army "bummer" never let an
opportunity slip for a practical joke, cost what it might. This fellow
was a specimen of this genus that was ubiquitous in the army. Every
regiment had one or more. They were always dirty and lousy, a sort of
tramp, but always on hand at the wrong time and in the wrong place. A
little indifferent sort of service could be occasionally worked out of
them, but they generally skulked whenever there was business on hand,
and then they were so fertile of excuses that somehow they escaped the
penalty and turned up again when the "business" was over. Their one
specialty was foraging. They were born foragers. What they could not
steal was not to be had, and this probably accounts in a measure for
their being endured. Their normal occupation was foraging and,
incidentally, Sancho Panza like, looking for adventure. They knew more
of our movements, and also of those of the enemy, than the commanding
general of either. One of the most typical of this class that I knew was
a young fellow I had known very well before the war. He was a shining
light in society, occupying a high and responsible business position.
His one fault was his good-fellowship and disposition to be convivial
when off duty. He enlisted among the first, when the war broke out in
1861, and I did not see him again until one day one of this genus
"bummer" strayed into our camp. He stuck his head into my tent and
wanted to know how "Fred Hitchcock was." I had to take a long second
look to dig out from this bunch of rags and filth my one-time Beau
Brummel acquaintance at home. His eyes were bleared, and told all too
surely the cause of the transformation. His brag was that he had skipped
every fight since he enlisted. "It's lots more fun," he said, "to climb
a tree well in the rear and see the show. It's perfectly safe, you know,
and then you don't get yourself killed and planted. What is the use,"
he argued, "of getting killed and have a fine monument erected over you,
when you can't see it nor make any use of it after it is done? Let the
other fellows do that if they want to. I've no use for monuments." Poor
fellow, his cynical ideas were his ruin. Better a thousand times had he
been "planted" at the front, manfully doing his duty, than to save a
worthless life and return with the record of a poltroon, despised by
himself and everybody else.
This review by President Lincoln and the new commander-in-chief, General
Hooker, was, from a military, spectacular point of view, the chief event
of our army experience. It included the whole of the great Army of the
Potomac, now numbering upward of one hundred and thirty thousand men,
probably its greatest numerical strength of the whole war. Deducting
picket details, there were present on this review, it is safe to say,
from ninety thousand to one hundred thousand men. It was a remarkable
event historically, because so far as I can learn it was the only time
this great army was ever paraded in line so that it could be seen all
together. In this respect it was the most magnificent military pageant
ever witnessed on this continent, far exceeding in its impressive
grandeur what has passed into history as the "great review," which
preceded the final "muster out" at the close of the war in the city of
Washington. At the latter not more than ten thousand men could have been
seen at one time, probably not nearly so many, for the eye could take in
only the column which filled Pennsylvania Avenue from the Capitol to the
Treasury Building. Whereas, upon our review the army was first drawn up
in what is known as three lines of "masses," and one glance of the eye
could take in the whole army. Think of it! One hundred thousand men in
one sweep of vision! If the word "Selah" in the Psalm means "stop!
think! consider!" it would be particularly appropriate here.
A word now about the formation in "lines of masses." Each regiment was
formed in column of divisions. To those unfamiliar with military terms,
I must explain that this very common formation with large bodies of
troops consists in putting two companies together as a division under
the command of the senior officer, thus making of a regiment of ten
companies a column of five divisions, each two-company front. This was
known as "massing" the troops. When so placed in line they were called a
line of "masses;" when marching, a column of "masses." It will be seen
that the actual frontage of each regiment so formed was the width of two
companies only, the other eight companies being formed in like manner in
their rear. Now imagine four regiments so formed and placed side by
side, fronting on the same line and separated from each other by say
fifty feet, and you have a brigade line of masses. The actual frontage
of a brigade so formed would be considerably less than that of a single
regiment on dress parade. Now take three such brigades, separated from
each other by say fifty feet, and you have a division line of masses.
Three divisions made up an army corps. The army was formed in three
lines of masses, of two corps each, on the large open plain opposite
Fredericksburg, to the south and east of where the railroad crossed the
river. Each of these lines of masses contained from seventy to eighty
regiments of infantry, besides the artillery, which was paraded on the
several lines at different intervals. I do not remember seeing any
cavalry, and my impression is that this branch of the service was not
represented. Some idea may be formed of the magnificence of this
spectacle when I state that each of these lines of masses was more than
a mile in length, and the depth of the three lines from front to rear,
including the spaces between, was not less than four hundred yards, or
about one-fifth of a mile. Each of the regiments displayed its two
stands of silk colors, one the blue flag representing the State from
which it came, the other the national colors. There were here and there
a brace of these flags, very conspicuous in their brilliant newness,
indicating a fresh accession to the army, but most of them were tattered
and torn by shot and shell, whilst a closer look revealed the less
conspicuous but more deadly slits and punctures of the minie-balls.
Now place yourself on the right of this army paraded for review and look
down the long lines. Try to count the standards as the favoring wind
lifts their sacred folds and caressingly shows you their battle scars.
You will need to look very closely, lest those miniature penants, far
away, whose staffs appear no larger than parlor matches protruding above
lines of men, whose forms in the distance have long since merged into a
mere bluish gray line, escape your eye. Your numbering will crowd the
five hundred mark ere you finish, and you should remember that each of
these units represented a thousand men when in the vigor and enthusiasm
of patriotic manhood they bravely marched to the front. Only a fifth of
them left? you say. And the others? Ah! the battle, the hospital, the
prison-pen, the h-ll of war, must be the answer.
How can words describe the scene? This is that magnificent old battered
Army of the Potomac. Look upon it; you shall never behold its like
again. There have been and may yet be many armies greater in numbers,
and possibly, in all the paraphernalia of war, more showy. There can
never be another Army of the Potomac, with such a history. As I gazed up
and down those massive lines of living men, felt that I was one of them,
and saw those battle-scarred flags kissed by the loving breeze, my blood
tingled to my very finger-tips, my hair seemed almost to raise straight
up, and I said a thousand Confederacies can't whip us. And here I think
I grasped the main purpose of this review. It was not simply to give the
President a sight of his "strong right arm," as he fondly called the
Army of the Potomac, nor General Hooker, its new commander, an
opportunity to see his men and them a chance to see their new
chief,--though both of these were included,--but it was to give the army
a square look at its mighty self, see how large and how strong it really
was, that every man might thereby get the same enthusiasm and
inspiration that I did, and know that it simply could not be beaten. The
enemy, it is not strange to say, were intensely interested spectators of
this whole scene, for the review was held in full view of the whole of
their army. No place could have been chosen that would better have
accommodated their enjoyment of the picture, if such it was, than that
open plain, exactly in their front. And we could see them swarming over
Marye's Heights and the lines to the south of it, intently gazing upon
us. A scene more resplendent with military pageantry and the
soul-stirring accessories of war they will never see again. But did it
stir their blood? Yes; but with bitterness only, for they must have seen
that the task before them of successfully resisting the onslaughts of
this army was impossible. Here was disclosed, undoubtedly, another
purpose of this grand review, viz., to let the enemy see with their own
eyes how powerful the army was with which they had to contend.
A remarkable feature of this review was the marvellous celerity of its
formation. The various corps and subdivisions of the army were started
on the march for the reviewing ground so as to reach it at about the
same time. It should be remembered that most of them were encamped from
four to eight miles away. Aides-de-camp with markers by the score were
already in position on the plain when the troops arrived, so that there
was almost no delay in getting into position. As our column debouched
upon the field, there seemed an inextricable mass of marching columns as
far as the eye could see. Could order ever be gotten out of it? Yet,
presto! the right of the line fell into position, a series of blue
blocks, and then on down to the far left, block after block, came upon
the line with unerring order and precision, as though it were a long
curling whiplash straightening itself out to the tension of a giant
hand. And so with each of the other two lines. All were formed
simultaneously. Here was not only perfection of military evolution, but
the poetry of rhythmic movement. The three lines were all formed within
twenty minutes, ready for the reviewing officers.
Almost immediately the blare of the trumpets announced the approach of
the latter, and the tall form of the President was seen, accompanied by
a large retinue, galloping down the first line. Our division was formed,
as I recollect, in the first line, about three hundred yards from the
right. The President was mounted on a large, handsome horse, and as he
drew near I saw that immediately on his right rode his son, Robert
Lincoln, then a bright-looking lad of fourteen to fifteen years, and
little "Tad" Lincoln, the idol of his father, was on his left. The
latter could not have been more than seven or eight years old. He was
mounted on a large horse, and his little feet seemed to stick almost
straight out from the saddle. He was round and pudgy, and his jolly
little body bobbed up and down like a ball under the stiff canter of his
horse. I wondered how he maintained his seat, but he was really a better
horseman than his father, for just before reaching our regiment there
was a little summer stream ravine, probably a couple of yards wide, that
had to be jumped. The horses took it all right, but the President landed
on the other side with a terrific jounce, being almost unseated. The
boys went over flying, little "Tad" in high glee, like a monkey on a
mustang.
Of course, a mighty cheer greeted the President as he galloped down the
long line. There was something indescribably weird about that huzzah
from the throats of these thousands of men, first full, sonorous, and
thrilling, and then as it rolled down that attenuated line gradually
fading into a minor strain until it was lost in the distance, only to
reappear as the cavalcade returned in front of the second line, first
the faintest note of a violin, then rapidly swelling into the full
volume, to again die away and for the third time reappear and die away
as the third line was reviewed. The President was followed by a large
staff dressed in full uniform, which contrasted strongly with his own
severely plain black. He wore a high silk hat and a plain frock coat.
His face wore that peculiar sombre expression we see in all his
photographs, but it lighted up into a half-smile as he occasionally
lifted his hat in acknowledgment of the cheering of the men.
About one hundred yards in rear of the President's staff came the new
commanding general, "Fighting Joe." He was dressed in the full uniform
of a major-general, and was accompanied by his chief of staff, Seth
Williams--he who had held this position under every commander of the
Army of the Potomac thus far--and a large and brilliant staff. There
must have been fully twenty officers of various ranks, from his chief of
staff, a general, down through all grades to a lieutenant, in this corps
of staff officers. It was the first time I had seen General Hooker to
know him. His personal appearance did not belie his reputation. He had a
singularly strong, handsome face, sat his superb horse like a king,
broad-shouldered and elegantly proportioned in form, with a large, fine
head, well covered with rather long hair, now as white as the driven
snow and flowing in the wind as he galloped down the line, chapeau in
hand; he was a striking and picturesque figure. It was evident the head
of the army had lost nothing in personal appearance by its recent
change. The same cheering marked the appearance of "Fighting Joe" which
had greeted the President, as he and staff galloped down and up and
down through the three long lines.
Both reviewing cavalcades moved at a brisk gallop, and occupied only
about twenty minutes covering the three miles of lines; and then the
President and staff took position, for the marching review, some
distance in front and about midway of the lines. Instantly the scene was
transformed. The first line wheeled into column by brigades successively
and, headed by General Hooker and staff, moved rapidly forward. There
were but few bands, and the drum corps had been consolidated into
division corps. On passing the President, General Hooker took position
by his side and remained throughout the remainder of the ceremony. The
troops marched in columns of masses, in the same formation they had
stood in line; that is, in column of two companies front and only six
yards between divisions. This made a very compact mass of troops, quite
unusual in reviews, but was necessary in order to avoid the great length
of time that in the usual formation would have been required for the
passing of this vast body of men. Yet in this close formation the
balance of the day was nearly consumed in marching past the President.
It must have been a trying ordeal to him, as he had to lift his hat as
each stand of colors successively dipped in passing. Immediately on
passing the President, the several brigades were wheeled out of the
column and ordered to quarters. I remember that we returned to our camp,
over a mile distant, dismissed the men, and then several of us officers
rode back to see the continuation of the pageant. When we got back the
second line was only well on its way, which meant that only about half
the army had passed in review. We could see from fifteen to twenty
thousand men in column--that is to say, about one army corps--at a time.
The quick, vigorous step, in rhythmical cadence to the music, the fife
and drum, the massive swing, as though every man was actually a part of
every other man; the glistening of bayonets like a long ribbon of
polished steel, interspersed with the stirring effects of those historic
flags, in countless numbers, made a picture impressive beyond the power
of description. A picture of the ages. How glad I am to have looked upon
it. I could not remain to see the end. When finally I was compelled to
leave the third line was marching. I can still see that soul-thrilling
column, that massive swing, those flaunting colors, that sheen of
burnished steel! Majestic! Incomparable!! Glorious!!!