_Arrival at Warrenton--Locating a Camp--Dog Tents--Building Winter
Quarters--On Picket--A Stand-off with the Rebels--A Fatal Post--Alarm
at Midnight--Bugle Calls--The Soldier's Sabbath--The Articles of War and
the Death Penalty._
[Illustration: 9061]
T rained the day the third battalion of the First Massachusetts cavalry
arrived at Warrenton, Va., and it rained for three days, almost without
a let-up, after we, reached our destination.
Recruits always received a hearty welcome at the front--the less the old
soldiers had to do in the way of picket duty, the better they liked it.
The recruits were--at first--ready to do all the duty, and the veterans
were willing to let the new arrivals have their own way along this line.
But after a few weeks of wear and tear at the front, the raw recruits
could generally give the old soldiers points on dodging duty and
feigning sickness, so as to have “excused from picket,” or “light duty”
marked opposite their names on the sick book. These peculiarities of
soldier-life were characteristic of camp and winter quarters. As a rule,
when the troops were brought face to face with the “business of the
campaign,” there was a sort of freemasonry among them. Then the veteran
was ready to share his last cracker with the recruit, and they drank
from the same canteen. An engagement with the enemy was sure to place
all who stood shoulder to shoulder on a level. In the jaws of death,
with comrades dropping on every hand, all were “boys,” and all were
soldiers--comrades.
Our first night's experience at Warrenton was not calculated to inspire
us with love for the place. When we arrived we were drawn up in line in
front of headquarters.
“You will camp your men just south of that row of tents,” a brigade
staff officer said to the major in command of our battalion. “You can
pitch tents till such time as you can build winter quarters. Stretch
your picket lines so as to leave proper intervals between your camp and
the regiment next to it.”
The staff officer hurried back into his log-house, to get out of the
rain. We broke into columns of fours, and were marched to the ground
on which we were to build our winter quarters. The outlook was
discouraging. The camp was laid out on a side hill, down which
good-sized brooks of water were flowing. And the ground! It was like a
bed of mortar. Next to prepared glue, Virginia mud is entitled to first
prize for its adhesive qualities.
“See here,” exclaimed Taylor, “they're only just making fools of us.
No general could order us to get off our horses and make camp in this
mud-hole.”
Taylor's indiscretion was always getting him into trouble, and his
talking in ranks this time secured him another tour of double duty.
Down came the rain, and we were in for it. In due time the horses were
picketed and their nosebags put on. As soon as the animals were taken
care of and fed, the weary troopers, drenched to the skin, were directed
to “pitch tents!” The tents with which we were provided were known as
shelter, or dog tents, the latter name being most popular, as they often
failed to afford anything but a poor apology for shelter. Each soldier
had half a tent--till he lost it. The half-tent was a piece of canvas
about five feet by four, or somethinglike it. Along one edge was a row
of buttonholes, and a little further back a row of buttons. Two pieces
buttoned together were put over a ridge-pole, supported by two crotches,
and the bottom edges of the tent were fastened to the ground by little
cord loops through which sticks were driven. Both gable ends of the tent
were open to the weather, but sometimes a third “bunkey” would be taken
in, and one end of the tent closed up with his piece. The shelter tents
were always too short at both ends. Think of a man like Corporal
Goddard of our company, who was an inch or two over six feet, trying to
“shelter” himself under such a contrivance. A man of medium height could
find cover only by doubling himself up in the shape of a capital N, and
it was necessary to “spoon it” where two or three attempted to sleep
under one dog tent.
Waterman and I continued as bunkies. At Camp Stoneman, Taylor and Hom
had occupied the upper bunk in our log-house, and the same quartette had
decided to go together when we should build winter quarters at our new
location. Hom was detailed for stable guard as soon as we dismounted,
and Taylor, Waterman and myself concluded to pitch tents together.
The ground was so soft that the sticks would not hold, and the tent was
blown down several times. All our blankets were wet. Long after dark,
however, we made fast the tent as best we could, and crawled in.
Taylor being the oldest and largest, was assigned by a majority vote of
Waterman and myself, to the side from which the wind came. I took the
middle. It was close quarters.
“I don't see what's the use of getting up to fix it again,” said Taylor,
as the dog tent was blown down the third time after we had turned in.
“I'm just as wet's I can be, and I'd rather sleep than get up again.”
I had managed to raise myself a few inches above the water. My saddle
was under my head, and I had two canteens under my back. The water was
running a stream between Waterman and Taylor.
“I'll sit up and hold the tent while you fellows sleep,” volunteered the
genial Taylor the next time the tent went down.
There was nothing selfish about Taylor. After we had gone to sleep he
“hadn't the heart to disturb us,” as he expressed it the next day, and
when the wind shifted and there was a slight let-up in the deluge, he
took the three pieces of tent, our rubber ponchos, saddle blankets
and bed blankets and, selecting the dryest spot he could find on the
side-hill, he rolled himself up in them and slept till reveille. Just
before daybreak Waterman and I were drowned out, and sought shelter in
an old brick building up on the hill.
The erection of log huts for winter quarters at Warrenton was no “joke.”
We had to go on Water Mountain to cut the trees for building material.
Then we waited our turn for teams and wagons to haul the logs.
It was thirteen days before we got our log-house built and our shelter
tents nailed on for a roof. Two bunks, one over the other, were made
of poles. Taylor and Hom had the upper bunk, while Waterman and I slept
“downstairs.”
“There's more of Giles than there is of us,” suggested Waterman, “and
we'll put him and Hom in the top bunk so that when it rains and the roof
leaks they'll absorb a good deal of the water before it gets to us.”
Waterman and I chuckled over our success in securing the lower bunk, but
one night when the upper bunk broke, and Taylor and Hom came tumbling
down upon us, we realized, indeed, that there was a good deal more of
Giles than there was of us.
We went on picket in our turn. The line ran along the top of Water
Mountain for some distance, and we occasionally exchanged compliments
with Mosby's men. The first night we were on picket, a little down to
the south of the mountain, I went on duty at nine o'clock. The post was
across a creek and near an old stone mill. It rained, sleeted and snowed
during the night, and the creek filled up so that the “relief” could
not cross over to my post when the time came to change the pickets. As
a result I remained on post till daylight. It was one of the longest
nights I ever put in during my army service.
Of course, every noise made by the wind was a bushwhacker. I was so
thankful to find myself alive at daybreak that I forgot to growl at
the corporal for not relieving me on time. When I unbosomed myself to
Taylor, and told him how nervous I felt out there by the old mill, he
laughed and said:
“Don't you never feel nervous again when you're caught in such a scrape,
for, mark my word, no rebel, not even a 'gorilla' would be fool enough
to go gunning for Yankee recruits such a night as last night was.” I
found a good deal of comfort in Taylor's logical admonition after that
when alone on picket in stormy weather.
Just over the divide on Water Mountain, on the side toward the rebel
camp, was an old log shanty. We called it the block house. Our pickets
occupied it by day, and the rebels had possession of it by night. This
happened because the Union picket line was drawn in at night, and the
pickets were posted closer together than during the day. Our line was
advanced soon after daylight.
One morning when we galloped down to the block house from our reserve,
we surprised the Johnnies. They had been a little late in getting
breakfast, and their horses had their nosebags on. We were just as much
surprised as they were, and we stood six to six. Carbines and revolvers
were pointed, but no one fired.
“Give us time to put on our bridles and we'll vacate,” said the sergeant
of the rebel picket.
“All right; go ahead,” our sergeant replied.
The Johnnies bridled their horses, mounted and rode down the mountain.
“We kept a good fire for you all,” the rebel sergeant remarked as they
left.
“And you'll find it burning when you come back tonight,” was the Yankee
sergeant's assuring reply.
After the rebels had got out of sight our boys began to feel that
they had missed a golden opportunity to destroy a detachment of the
Confederate army. We had longed for a “face-to-face” meeting with the
rebels.
“I could have killed two rebels had I been allowed to shoot,” said
Taylor.
“Who told you not to shoot?” demanded the sergeant.
“Well, nobody gave the order to fire. I had my gun cocked and if the
rest of you had killed your man I'd killed mine.”
“Bu-bu-bu-but they had si-si-six t-t-to ou-ou-our si-si-six,
di-di-didn't they?” interrupted Jack Hazelet, whose stammering always
caused him to grow red in the face when he wanted to get a word in in
time and couldn't.
“Yes; we stood six to six, but if each one of us had killed his man they
would all be dead.”
“Je-je-jesso; bu-bu-bu-but di-di-didn't they ha-ha-have gu-gu-guns,
t-t-too?”
“Of course they did.”
“Sup-po-po-posen they ha-ha-had ki-ki-killed 's mama-many f us a-a-as we
di-di-did o-o-o-of th-th-them, wh-wh-where wo-wo-would wc-we-we b-b-be
n-n-now? co-co-confound you!”
As we found that only two of our party had their carbines loaded when we
surprised the rebels, we concluded that it was just as fortunate for us
as it was for the enemy that the meeting had resulted in a stand-off,
although Taylor insisted that if any one had given the command “fire”
he would have killed his man. When his attention was called to the fact
that his carbine was not loaded, he said:
“Well, I could have speared one of them with my sword before they could
all get away.”
“Bu-bu-bu-but wh-wh-what wo-wo-would th-th-the re-re-reb be-be-been
do-do-doing; yo-yo-you in-in-infernal blockhead!” exclaimed Hazelet, and
Taylor subsided.
There was one picket post half-way down Water Mountain, toward the
Federal camp, that was dreaded by all the boys. It was within three
hundred yards of the picket reserve or rendezvous. There was an old
wagon road winding through a narrow ravine, and a stone wall crossed at
right angles with the road opposite the reserve. On either side of the
ravine was thick underbrush, and just back a little were woods. We were
informed that four pickets had been shot off their horses near the old
tree. The bushwhackers would ride to within a few hundred yards of the
stone wall, dismount and while one would remain with the horses another
would crawl like a snake in the grass up behind the wall and pick off
the Union cavalrymen. It was cold-blooded murder, committed at night,
without cause or provocation. Let it be said to the credit of the
Confederate rank and file, that the boys in butternut--the regularly
organized troops--discountenanced the cowardly acts of the guerrillas
and bushwhackers.
A soldier was shot on picket at the old tree one night, and our company
relieved the company to which he belonged the next morning. The murdered
trooper was strapped across his saddle and taken to camp for burial.
When our boys were counted off for picket Taylor “drew the fatal
number,” as it was called.
“If I'm murdered on post, boys,” he said, “don't bother about taking my
carcass to camp. Bury me where I fall.”
Taylor made a poor attempt to appear unconcerned. But he was a droll
sort of a boy. He continued:
“I've no doubt I was cut out for an avenger; so if any of you fellows
want me to avenge your death just swap posts with me to-night. If any
infernal gorilla steals up on you and takes your life, I pledge you that
I'll follow him to Texas, but what I'll spill his gore.”
“I'd rather go unavenged than to take chances on that post from eleven
o'clock to one o'clock to-night,” chorused several of Taylor's friends.
I had the post next to Taylor toward the reserve. The rain was falling,
and it was dark down in the ravine. I could hear Taylor's horse champing
his bit, and once my horse broke out with a gentle whinny, the noise of
which startled me tremendously at first. And I have no doubt it operated
the same on Taylor. Soon after that the rain let up and the clouds broke
away so that the moon could be seen now and then. All at once there was
a flash and a loud report.
“That's the last of poor Giles,” I exclaimed, as the sound of the shot
reverberated through the ravine.
Then I rode toward Taylor's post as cautiously as I could. I was
pleasantly startled by the challenge in his well-known voice:
“Who comes there?”
The reserve came galloping down the hill. After the usual challenges and
answers had been given, the lieutenant inquired:
“Who fired that shot?”
“'Twas me,” replied Tavlor.
“What did you fire at?”
“A bushwhacker.”
“Where?”
“Over by the wall.”
“Did you see him?”
“Of course I did; you don't suppose I'd fire at the moon, do you?”
The reserve rode forward to the wall and a few hundred yards beyond.
It was decided that it would be useless to follow the guerrillas in the
darkness. The pickets were doubled, two men on a post, for the rest of
the night. I was put on the same post with Taylor, and after the reserve
had returned to the rendezvous I questioned him about the alarm:
“Are you sure you saw a live bushwhacker, Giles?”
“If I hadn't seen him I'd be dead now.”
“You didn't challenge him?”
“Well, I should say not. I saw him raise his head over the wall, just as
the moon broke through a cloud. I first saw the glisten of his gun. Then
I fired, and I believe I singed his hair, for I took good aim. If the
moon had staid behind the clouds three seconds longer, the gorilla would
'a' had me sure. After I fired I heard him run, and then there were
voices, followed by the noise of horses' hoofs as the bushwhackers
galloped away. It was a close call for Taylor, but I tell you I sat with
my carbine cocked and pointed at that wall all the time till the gorilla
appeared. If my horse hadn't shied a little, that fellow would never
have gone back to tell the story of his failure to murder another
picket.”
The next day arrangements were made to surprise the guerrillas in the
event of another visit. Two dismounted troopers were stationed behind
the stone wall, within easy range of the opening down the road toward
the rebel lines. But the bushwhackers did not return during our tour of
picket.
It was never clearly explained why the post at the old tree had been
used, when the picket could be so much more safely stationed up behind
the wall. There were a good many things that seemed strange to privates,
but whenever an enlisted man made an effort to suggest that the plan of
operations of his superiors be revised or corrected, it did not take him
long to discover that he had made “one big shackass of mineself,” as
a recruit from Faderland expressed it when he was booted out of a
sergeant's tent at Warrenton for simply informing the wearer of chevrons
that in “Shermany the sergeants somedimes set up der lager mit de boys.”
The experiences of the First Massachusetts cavalry at Warrenton during
the winter were similar to those of other regiments in camp at that
station. Some of us would have been fearfully homesick if we had found
any spare time between calls. We scarcely had opportunity to answer
letters from home, so thick and fast came the bugle blasts. One of our
boys received a letter from his sweetheart, and she wondered what the
soldiers could find to occupy their time--“no balls, no parties, no
corn-huskings,” as she expressed it. Her soldier boy inclosed a copy of
the list of calls for our every-day existence in camp, and when we were
not on picket duty.
I have no doubt the dear girl was satisfied that her boy in blue would
suffer little, if any, for the want of something to keep his mind
occupied. As near as I can remember, the list of calls for each day's
programme--except Sunday, when we had general inspection and were kept
in line an hour or two extra--was as follows:
[Illustration: 0074]
The roll was called at reveille, drill, retreat and tattoo. The boys had
“words set to music” for nearly all the calls. The breakfast call was
rather inelegantly expressed when infantry and cavalry troops were
camped close together. The foot soldiers, not having horses to groom
and feed, had their breakfast the first thing after reveille. Then
they would stand around, and as the cavalry bugler-boys would sound the
breakfast call after stables, the heroes of the knapsack would chorus:
“Go and get your breakfast,
Breakfast without meat.”
But a cavalry poet tried his hand, and after that whenever the infantry
fellows shouted the above at us to the tune of breakfast call, we all
joined in the refrain:
“Dirty, dirty doughboy,
Dirty, dirty feet.”
That settled it. The doughboys soon fell back. If they had not, there
might have been a riot, for our poet was at work on another verse that
he said would settle their hash. Judging from the result of his first
effort, I can readily see that the infantry had a narrow escape.
We had inspection every Sunday morning after stables. Each company was
looked over by its first sergeant. Then the captains would appear and
take charge. If it were to be a regimental inspection, all the companies
would be marched to the parade-ground, and the colonel or regimental
commander would be the inspecting officer. Every now and then a brigade
review would follow the inspection. It was fun for the brigadier, or
inspector, but after the rear rank privates had been in the saddle two
hours or more, sitting bolt upright, with eyes fixed square to the front
while waiting to have the inspector come round to them, and go
through the motions of examining their carbines, revolvers, sabers and
equipments, the affair became tedious.
But our regiment was blessed with an excellent band. The members rode
white horses, and on all grand reviews and parades they took position
on the right of the regiment. Whenever the inspection was particularly
protracted and severe, the band would play inspiring selections, and
many a poor fellow who was on the point of asking permission to fall out
of the ranks, would cheer up as the strains of “The Girl I Left Behind
Me,” or some other popular air, would reach his ear. Survivors of the
Army of the Potomac--and all other armies--will recall that the playing
of a single tune as the comrades rushed forward into the heat of battle,
was worth more than the spread-eagle speeches of scores of generals. The
soldier that could muster backbone enough to turn tail and run when his
comrades were presenting a solid front to the enemy, and the bands were
playing national airs, was made of queer material, indeed.
On one of these Sunday morning inspections, Taylor remarked to me in a
low tone of voice:
“I'd like to know how they expect us to diligently attend divine worship
when they keep us harnessed up all day after this fashion?”
“Keep still, Giles; if the sergeant hears you he'll tie you up by the
thumbs.”
Yet Taylor's inquiry was to the point. The articles of war had been read
to us only the day before that inspection. Here is what we were given
along the line referred to by Taylor:
“Article 2.--It is earnestly recommended to all officers and soldiers,
diligently to attend divine service; and all officers who shall behave
indecently or irreverently at any place of divine worship, shall, if
commissioned officers, be brought before a general court-martial,
there to be publicly and severely reprimanded by the President; if
non-commissioned officers or soldiers, every person so offending shall,
for his first offense, forfeit one sixth of a dollar, to be deducted out
of his next pay; for the second offense he shall not only forfeit a
like sum, but be confined twenty-four hours; and for every like offense,
shall suffer and pay in like manner; which money, so forfeited, shall be
applied by the captain or senior officer of the troop or company, to the
use of the sick soldiers of the company or troop to which the offender
belongs.”
The boys called the regulations the army Bible. Of course, many of the
articles were intended for troops in garrison.
When in active service, on the march and on the battle field, divine
services were impracticable until there was at least a temporary
cessation of hostilities. Regimental chaplains exhibited remarkable
fortitude, courage and self-sacrifice in administering spiritual
consolation to the wounded and dying at the front, even under heavy fire
from the enemy. There were services in camp in such organizations as
had ministers of the gospel with them, but many regiments were without
chaplains, and had to forage for religious food, if they had any.
I do not remember attending divine service in the army, except once in
the Wilderness campaign. It was at night, and the congregation stood
around a blazing camp-fire. The good old chaplain exhorted the boys to
prepare the way, and buckle on the whole armor. It was a striking scene.
Some of the boys wept as the minister alluded to the loved ones at home,
who were looking to the Army of the Potomac for a victory that would
crush out the rebellion. There were few dry eyes when the benediction
was pronounced, after the chaplain had urged his hearers to “be prepared
to stand an inspection before the King of kings.”
It was the last religious service that many who were present that night
ever attended. The next day rebel bullets mowed them down by scores.
They died in defense of the right--that the Union might be preserved. Of
those who fell as they fell a poet has written:
“No more the bugle calls the weary one,
Rest, noble spirit, in your grave unknown;
We will find you and know you,
Among the good and true,
When the robe of white is given
For the faded coat of blue.”
I may have had many opportunities to hear the Gospel preached during the
war, but I do not recall the circumstances now. Yet I am sure that if
I had diligently reconnoitered the camps, I could have found faithful
disciples preaching the Word of Life to such as had ears to hear. And
I believe that when the general roll shall be called on the shores of
eternity, the noble Christian soldiers who held aloft the banner of
their Master on the battle fields of the great Civil War, will not only
hear the welcome, “Well done,” but they will be crowned with diadems
bedecked with many stars.
The third commandment laid down in the regulations was probably violated
more frequently than any of the one hundred and one articles of war. It
read:
“Article 3.--Any non-commissioned officer or soldier who shall use any
profane oath or execration, shall incur the penalties expressed in the
foregoing article; and a commissioned officer shall forfeit and pay,
for each and every such offense, one dollar, to be applied as in the
preceding article.”
Had this article been lived up to, the “sick soldiers” referred to would
have been provided for for life, as would their children and children's
children. There would have been no call for the sanitary and Christian
commissions to raise money to alleviate the sufferings of the sick. All
that money could have supplied would have been provided. I do not mean
to convey the idea that the Union soldiers were particularly profane,
but something like a half-million of men were under arms at one time,
about the close of the war. Some of them swore. Even generals blasphemed
before their men. The general-in-chief, however, was an exception. No
soldier in the Army of the Potomac ever heard Gen. Grant utter an oath.
There were officers and soldiers in all regiments who did not swear. But
they were in the minority. Had the penalty for using profane oaths been
enforced, seventy-five per cent, of the soldiers would have been in the
guard house all the time, and at the end of a week they would have been
indebted to the Government more than their three years' salary would
have footed up, and the guard house would have had a mortgage on them
for years to come.
The third article of war was read to one company in our regiment by a
first sergeant, who gave such an emphasis to the reading of the penalty
for swearing that the boys began to feel that they must “swear off” on
profanity. Said the sergeant:
“I want you men to understand that in this company the articles of war
will be strictly lived up to. If I hear any man use profane language, be
he non-commissioned officer or soldier, I'll bring him up for punishment
as prescribed.”
Then the sergeant swore a “blue streak” for a minute or two before he
gave the order to “break ranks.” Yet he did it unconsciously, as he said
when his attention was called to it by a corporal, and only intended to
emphasize the interdiction.
Quite a number of the articles of war enumerated offenses for which the
penalty provided that the offender “shall suffer death, or such other
punishment as by a court-martial shall be inflicted.” In the reading the
officers always emphasized the penalty “shall suffer death,” and then
dropped their voices till the “or such other punishment” could scarcely
be heard by the soldiers standing the nearest to the reader. The death
penalty was sandwiched all through the articles of war, and at the close
of the reading the average recruit felt condemned, and could remember
nothing but “shall suffer death,” and expected to hear the captain
order out a detail to execute the sentence. But the death penalty was
inflicted, except in rare instances, only upon spies or men who had
deserted to the enemy and been recaptured.