"What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life?
The varying fortune of each separate field,
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?"
--BYRON.
Longstreet's corps had marched out by the Valley, and now occupied a
line east of the Blue Ridge; Jackson remained yet at Bunker Hill. We
heard that Burnside had superseded McClellan; speculation was rife as to
the character of the new commander. It was easy to believe that the
Federal army would soon give us work to do; its change of leaders
clearly showed aggressive purpose, McClellan being distinguished more
for caution than for disposition to attack.
On November 22d we moved southward, up the Shenandoah Valley. The march
lasted many days. We passed through Winchester, Strasburg, Woodstock,
and turned eastward through Massanutten Gap, and marched to Madison
Court-House. From Madison we marched to Orange, and finally to
Fredericksburg, where the army was again united by our arrival on
December 3d. The march had been painful. For part of the time I had been
barefoot. Many of the men were yet without shoes.
The weather was now cold. Snow fell. I was thinly clad. On the morning
of December 4th, after a first night in bivouac in the lines, I awoke
with a great pain in my chest and a "gone" feeling generally. The
surgeon told me that I had typhoid pneumonia, and ordered me to the camp
hospital, which consisted of two or three Sibley tents in the woods. I
was laid on a bed of straw and covered with blankets.
I lay in the camp hospital until the morning of the 14th. How far off
the regiment was I do not know; however, one or two men of Company H
came to see me every day and attended to my wants. On the 11th two of
them came and told me good-by; they were ordered to march; the enemy was
crossing the river and was expected to attack. These men told me
afterward that when they said good-by they felt they were saying the
long farewell; I was not expected to recover.
On the 13th, flat on my back, I heard the battle of Fredericksburg
roaring at the front, some two or three miles away, I was too ill to
feel great interest. On the 14th, early in the morning, I was lifted
into an open wagon and covered with a single blanket. In this condition
I was jolted to a place called Hamilton's Crossing. There I was lifted
out of the wagon and laid upon the ground. There were others near me,
all lying on the ground. In many places the ground was white with snow;
the wind cut like a blade of ice; I was freezing. At about two o'clock
some men put me into a car--a common box freight-car, which had no heat
and the doors of which were kept open. After a while the car started. At
twelve o'clock that night the train reached Richmond. Some men put me
into an ambulance. I was taken to Camp Winder Hospital, several miles
out, which place was reached about two o'clock in the morning of the
15th. That I survived that day--the 14th,--has always been a wonder,
I was put to bed. There were many beds in the ward. In the middle of the
ward, which was about sixty feet long by thirty wide, was a big stove,
red-hot, and around the stove was a circle of people--women-nurses and
stewards, and perhaps some convalescing patients--singing religious
songs. There was a great open space between the red-hot stove and the
people around it. I wanted to lie in that open space.
I succeeded in getting out of bed; then I crawled on the floor until I
was within a few feet of the stove. The singing stopped. "You'll burn to
death," said a woman. I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.
For three or four weeks I lay in bed in Camp Winder. Not an incident
occurred. I received no letters. I had hoped that some man in the
company would write to me. I heard of nothing but general affairs. The
army had gained a victory over Burnside. I had known that fact on the
night of the 14th. I knew, also, that General Gregg had been killed. The
papers that I saw gave me some of the details of the battle, but told me
nothing of the position of the army, except that it was yet near
Fredericksburg. I did not know where Company H was, and I learned
afterward that nobody in Company H knew what had become of me.
The monotony of hospital life became intolerable. My recovery was slow
and my impatience great. When I felt my strength begin to return, I
wrote to Captain Haskell. No answer came. Before the end of February I
had demanded my papers and had started for the army yet near
Fredericksburg. Transportation by rail was given me to a station called
Guiney's, from which place I had to walk some nine or ten miles. I found
Company H below Fredericksburg and back from the river. Captain Haskell
was not with the company. He had been ordered on some special duty to
South Carolina, and returned to us a week later than my arrival. Many of
the men--though all of twenty-six men could hardly be said to be
many--had thought that I was dead, as nothing had been heard of me since
the battle of Fredericksburg.
When Captain Haskell returned, he showed wonderful cheerfulness for so
serious a man. He was greatly encouraged because General Lee had fought
at Fredericksburg a purely defensive battle--behind breastworks--and had
lost but few men. The worst loss in the whole army had been caused by a
mistake of our own officers, who refused to allow their men to fire upon
a line of Yankees until almost too late, believing them to be
Confederates. It was through this error that General Gregg, for whom the
camp of the army was named, had lost his life.
Company H was in small huts made of poles and roofed variously--some
with cloth or canvas, others with slabs or boards rudely riven from the
forest trees. We had camp guard to mount and picket duty occasionally.
The remainder of the winter passed without events of great importance.
Adjutant Haskell had learned that no man missing from the Fourth South
Carolina, which had suffered such losses that it had been reorganized as
a battalion, fitted with my description or with either of my names. I
spent much time in reading the books which passed from man to man in
the company.
* * * * *
At this period of my service I was in good health and somewhat more
cheerful than I had been previously. The woods had begun to show signs
of Spring. The snow had disappeared, and early in April the weather
became mild. To say that I was content would be to say what is untrue,
but I felt that my condition had much of solace. I knew that I had a
friend in Captain Haskell--a man whom I admired without reservation, and
whose favours were extended to me freely--I mean to say personal, not
official, favours. The more I learned of this high-minded man, the more
did the whole world seem to me brighter and less deserving of disregard.
He was a patriot. An heir to an estate of many slaves, he was at war for
a principle of liberty; he was ready at any time to sacrifice personal
interest to the furtherance of the common cause of the South. In battle
he was strong, calm, unutterably dignified. Battle, it seemed to me, was
considered by him as a high, religious service, which he performed
ceremonially. Nothing could equal the vigorous gravity of his demeanour
when leading his men in fight. His words were few at such times; he was
the only officer I ever knew void absolutely of rant in action. Others
would shout and scream and shriek their orders redundant and
unwholesome; Haskell's eye spoke better battle English than all their
distended throats. He was merciful and he was wise.
* * * * *
On the 28th of April, 1863, we were ordered to have three days' cooked
rations in our haversacks, and to be prepared to move at a
moment's notice.
The next day at ten o'clock the men left their huts and fell into ranks.
We marched to Hamilton's Crossing--some six miles--and formed in line of
battle, and began to throw up breastworks. The enemy was in our front,
on our side of the Rappahannock, and we learned that he had crossed in
strong force up the river also. We faced the Yankees here for two days,
but did not fire a shot.
Before dawn on Friday, May 1st, we were in motion westward--up the
river. At noon we could hear skirmishing and cannon in our front. The
sounds at first went from us, but at two o'clock they increased in
volume. We were pressed forward; again the noise of the fight began to
die away. The enemy were retiring before our advanced troops. Night came
on, and we lay on our arms, expecting the day to bring battle.
The morning brought Jackson's famous flank march to the left of Hooker's
army. At first we moved southward under a sharp fire of artillery from
which we seemed to retreat; the men thought the movement was retreat,
and it is no wonder that Hooker thought so; but suddenly our march broke
off toward the west, and the men could not conceal their joy over what
they were now beginning to understand. Frequently, on that day, Jackson
was seen riding past the marching lines to the head of his column, or
halted with his staff to see his troops hastening on.
Late in the afternoon our column was halted on the turnpike. Our backs
were toward the sunset. Two other divisions were in line of battle in
our front. We moved along the road at supporting distance.
Shots rang out in the woods in front, and in another instant the roar of
the charging yell mingled with the crash of continuous musketry. There
was no pause in the advance. Both lines ahead of us had swept on. We
followed, still in column of fours upon the road, which was almost
blocked by a battery of artillery.
Soon we found the road full of the signs of battle. On our right was
open ground--to the south; facing this open space was a breastwork from
which the enemy had just been driven, leaving wounded and dead, their
muskets, accoutrements, cooking utensils yet upon the fires, blankets,
knapsacks--everything.
We continued to advance. Our first and second lines having become
intermingled, needed time to restore their ranks. Hill's division now
formed the first line of battle.
It was now dark, and no enemy could be seen. Their guns in the distance
told us, however, that they had made a stand. We again went forward.
Near the enemy's second line of intrenchments we were halted in the
thick woods.
The battle seemed to have ended for the night. In our front rose a moon,
the like of which was never seen. Almost completely full and in a
cloudless sky, she shown calmly down on the men of two armies yet
lingering in the last struggles of life and death. Here and there a gun
broke the silence, as if to warn us that all was not peace; now and then
a film of cannon smoke drifted across the moon, which seemed to become
piteous then. There was silence in the ranks.
The line was lying down, ready, however, and alert. At about nine
o'clock a sharp rattle of rifles was heard at our left--about where
Lane's brigade was posted, as we thought--and soon a mournful group of
men passed by us, bearing the outstretched form of one whom we knew to
be some high officer. Jackson had been shot dangerously by one of Lane's
regiments--the Eighteenth North Carolina.
General A.P. Hill now commanded the corps. Again all was silent, and the
line lay down, as it hoped, for the night. All at once there came the
noise of a gun, and another, and of a whole battery, and many batteries,
and fields and woods were alive with shells and canister. More than
forty pieces of cannon had been massed in our front. We lay and endured
the fire. General Hill was wounded, and at midnight General Stuart of
the cavalry took command of the corps. At last the cannon hushed. The
terrible night passed away without sleep.
At eight o'clock on Sunday morning the Light Division, under command of
General Pender, assaulted the intrenchments of the enemy. Our brigade
succeeded in getting into the works; but on our right the enemy's line
still held, and as it curved far to the west it had us in flank and
rear. A new attack at this moment by the troops on our right would have
carried the line; the attack was not made. We were compelled to abandon
the breastworks and run for the woods, where we formed again at once.
And now another brigade charged, and was driven back by an enfilade
fire.
At ten o'clock a third and final charge was made along the whole line;
the intrenchments were ours, and Chancellorsville was won.
Company H had lost many men; Pinckney Seabrook, a most gallant officer,
had fallen dead, shot by some excited man far in our rear.
We moved no farther in advance. The scattered lines re-formed, and were
ready to go forward and push the Federals to the Rappahannock, but no
orders came. General Lee had just received intelligence of the second
battle of Fredericksburg. The enemy, under Sedgwick, had taken the
heights above the town, and were now advancing against our right flank.
Our division, and perhaps others, held the field of Chancellorsville,
while troops were hurried east to face Sedgwick. Before the close of the
4th the Federals near Fredericksburg had been forced to retire to the
north bank of the Rappahannock. By the morning of the 6th all of
Hooker's army had recrossed the river.
Chancellorsville is considered Lee's greatest victory, because of the
enormous odds he fought. Longstreet, with two of his divisions, was not
at Chancellorsville, but was at Suffolk opposing the Federals under
Peck. Hooker's army had numbered a hundred and thirty thousand, while
Lee had less than sixty thousand men.
We marched back to our huts below Fredericksburg. A few days later we
learned that the most illustrious man in the South was dead. No longer
should we follow Stonewall Jackson.
The two corps of the army were formed into three--Longstreet's the
first, Ewell's the second, and A.P. Hill's the third. Our General Gregg
had been killed at Fredericksburg, and we were now McGowan's brigade.
Our General Jackson had fallen at Chancellorsville, and we were now in
the corps of A.P. Hill, whose promotion placed four brigades of our
division under General Pender. Letters received by Company H a few weeks
before had been addressed to Gregg's brigade, A.P. Hill's division,
Jackson's corps; letters received now were addressed to McGowan's
brigade, Pender's division, A.P. Hill's corps. But why do I talk
of letters?
* * * * *
Shortly after our return to the old camp, by order of General Pender, a
battalion of sharp-shooters was formed in each brigade of his division.
Two or three men were taken from each, company--from the large companies
three, from the small ones two. Our brigade had five regiments of ten
companies each, so that McGowan's battalion of sharp-shooters was to be
composed of about a hundred and twenty men. General McGowan chose
Captain Haskell as the commander of the battalion. When I heard of this
appointment, I went to the Captain and begged to go with him. He said,
"I had already chosen you, Jones," and I felt happy and proud. When the
battalion was drawn up for the first time, orders were read showing the
organization of the command. There were to be three companies, each
under a lieutenant. I was in Company A, with the other men from the
First. Gus Rhodes, a sergeant in Company H, was named orderly-sergeant
of Company A of the battalion, and Private B. Jones was named second
sergeant. For a moment I wondered who this B. Jones was, and then it
came upon me that no one could be meant except myself.
After the ranks broke I went to the Captain. He smiled at my approach.
"You deserved it, Jones; at least I think so. I don't know the other
men, and I do know you."
I stammered some reply, thanking him for his goodness toward me, and
started to go away.
"Wait," said he, "I want to talk to you. Do you know the men of the
company?"
"No, sir; only a few of them; but the few I know know the others and say
they are good men."
"No doubt they have been well proved in the line," said he; "but you
know that Company C and Company H have thus far had to do almost all the
skirmishing for the regiment, and we have only four or five men in the
battalion out of those companies. It is one thing, to be a good soldier
in the line and another thing to be a good skirmisher."
"I suppose so, Captain," said I; "but it seems to me that anybody would
prefer being in the battalion."
"No, not anybody," said the Captain; "it shows some independence of mind
to prefer it. A man willing to lean on others will not like the
battalion. Our duties will be somewhat different for the future. The men
get their rations and their pay through their original companies, but
are no longer attached to them otherwise. On the march and in battle
they will serve as a distinct command, and will be exposed to many
dangers that the line of battle will escape, though the danger, on the
whole, will be lessened, I dare say, especially for alert men who know
how to seize every advantage. But the most of the men have not been
trained for such service. As a body, we have had no training at all. We
must begin at once, and I expect you to hold up your end of Company A."
"I will do my best, Captain," said I.
"Come to my quarters to-night," said he; "I want you to do some writing
for me."
That night a programme of drill exercises for the battalion was
prepared, and day after day thereafter it was put into practice. We
drilled and drilled; company drill as skirmishers; battalion drill as
skirmishers; estimating distances; target firing, and all of it.
Early in June Hill's corps alone was holding the line at Fredericksburg.
Ewell and Longstreet had marched away toward the Shenandoah Valley, and
onward upon the road that ends at Cemetery Hill. The Federals again
crossed the Rappahannock, but in small bodies. Their army was on the
Falmouth Hills beyond the river.
On the 6th the battalion was ordered to the front. We took our
places--five steps apart--in a road running down the river. On either
side of the road was a dry ditch with a bank of earth thrown up, and
with trees growing upon the bank, so that the road was a fine shaded
avenue. In front, and on our side of the river, was a Federal
skirmish-line--five hundred yards from us.
Firing began. The Yankees were screened from view by bushes in the low
ground between us and the river. Much tall grass, woods, and broom-sedge
covered the unwooded space between the opposing lines; rarely could a
man be seen. Our men stood in the dry ditch and fired above the bank,
which formed a natural breastwork. At my place, on the left of Company
A, a large tree was growing upon the bank. I was standing behind this
tree; a bullet struck it. The firing was very slow--men trying to pick a
target. When the bullet struck the tree, I saw the smoke of a gun rise
from behind a bush. I aimed at the bush and fired. Soon a bullet sizzed
by me, and I saw the smoke at the same bush; I fired again. Again the
tree was struck, and again I fired. The tree was a good
protection,--possibly not so good as the bank of earth, though it gave
me a much better view,--and I suppose I was a little careless; at any
rate, while loading the next time I felt a sharp little pain on my arm.
I jumped back into the ditch. My sleeve was torn between my arm and
body. I took off my coat--there was hardly more than a scratch; the ball
had grazed the inside of my arm about an inch below the armpit and had
drawn some blood.
We skirmished all day, neither side advancing. The battalion had no
losses. At night the Federals withdrew to their side of the river. While
going back to camp our men kept up a perfect babel of talk concerning
their first day's experience in the battalion of sharp-shooters. They
were to undergo other experiences--experiences which would cause them to
hold their tongues.