FORTIFICATIONS.—DUTCH GAP.—FAIR OAKS.
At nine o’clock one fine morning, Major K——, the young Judge-Advocate of
the Department of Virginia, called for me by appointment, accompanied by
an orderly bringing a tall war-horse General Terry was so kind as to
furnish for my use.
I was soon mounted, and riding out of the city by the Major’s side,—down
the long, hilly street, past the Rocketts, by the left bank of the
river, taking the New-Market Road. First we came to a circle of detached
forts surrounding the city; a few minutes’ ride farther on brought us to
a heavy continuous line of earthworks surrounding the first line. These
were the original fortifications of Richmond. Crossing a desolate
undulating country of weeds and undergrowth, we reached the works below
Laurel Hill, of more recent construction, and of a more formidable
character. The embankments were eighteen feet high from the bottom of
the ditch. This was some six feet deep and twelve broad. There were two
lines of bristling abatis. These, together with the wooden revetments of
the works, had been levied upon by the inhabitants in search of
firewood.
Three quarters of a mile beyond we came to the heavy intrenchments of
the Army of the James. Between the two lines were the picket-lines of
the opposing forces, in places no more than three hundred yards apart.
Here the two armies lay and watched each other through the last weary
Autumn and Winter of the war. The earth was blotched with “gopher
holes,”—hasty excavations in which the veteran videttes proceeded at
once to intrench themselves, on being sent out to a new post. “It was
astonishing,” said the Major, “to see what a breastwork they would throw
up in a few minutes, with no other tools than a bayonet and a tin-plate.
The moment they were at their station, down they went, scratching and
digging.”
[Illustration]
We had previously stopped at Laurel Hill, to look across the broken
country on the south, at Fort Gilmer, which the troops of General
Foster’s division charged with such unfortunate results. The Major, then
serving on Foster’s staff, participated in that affair. “I never can
look upon this field,” said he, “without emotion. I lost some of my
dearest friends in that assault.”
So it is in every battle: _somebody_ loses his dearest friends.
We rode on past the Federal works into the winter-quarters of the
army,—a city of huts, with streets regularly laid out, now deserted and
in ruins. Here and there I noted an old-fashioned New-England well-sweep
still standing. The line of works was semicircular, both ends resting on
the river. Within that ox-bow was the encampment of the Army of the
James.
We next visited New-Market Heights, where Butler’s colored regiments
formed unflinchingly under fire, and made their gallant charge, wiping
out with their own blood the insults that had been heaped upon them by
the white troops. “The army saw that charge, and it never insulted a
colored soldier after that,” said the Major.
We then galloped across the country, intending to strike Dutch Gap
Canal. Not a habitation was in sight. Vast fields spread before us, and
we rode through forests of weeds that overtopped our horses’ heads. We
became entangled in earthworks, and had to retrace our course. More than
once we were compelled to dismount and tear our way through abatis and
_chevaux-de-frise_. The result was, we lost our bearings, and, after
riding several miles quite blindly, struck the James at Deep Bottom.
Then up the river we galloped, traversing pine woods and weedy plains,
avoiding marsh and gully, and leaping ditches, past Aiken’s Landing, to
a yellow elevation of earth across a narrow peninsula, which proved to
be Dutch Gap.
The canal was there,—a short, deep channel connecting the river with the
river again. The James here describes a long loop, seven miles in
extent, doubling back upon itself, so that you may stand on this high
bank, and throw a stone either into the southward-flowing or the
northward-returning stream.
The canal, which cuts off these seven miles, is four hundred and
eighty-six feet in length and fifty in depth from the summit of the
bank. It is one hundred and twenty-two feet broad at the top, forty at
the bottom, and sixty-five at the high-water level. On the lower side
the channel is deep enough for ships. Not so at the upper end,—the head
that was blown out having fallen back and filled up the canal. At high
water, however, small vessels sometimes get through. The tide had just
turned, and we found a considerable body of water pouring through the
Gap.
Different accounts are given of the origin of the name of Dutch Gap. It
is said that a Dutch company was once formed for digging a ship-canal at
that place. But a better story is told of a Dutchman who made a bet with
a Virginian, that he could beat him in a skiff-race between Richmond and
City Point. The Virginian was ahead when they reached the Gap; what then
was his astonishment, on arriving at City Point, to find the Dutchman
there before him. The latter had saved the roundabout seven miles by
dragging his canoe across the peninsula and launching it on the other
side.
Riding up the Richmond road, we stopped at the first human habitation we
had seen since leaving Laurel Hill. We had been several hours in the
saddle, and stood greatly in need of refreshments. The sight of a calf
and a churn gave us a promise of milk, and we tied our horses at the
door. The house had been a goodly mansion in its day, but now everything
about it showed the ruin and dilapidation of war. The windows were
broken, and the garden, out-houses, and fences destroyed. This proved to
be Cox’s house, and belonged to a plantation of twenty-three hundred
acres which included Dutch Gap. Looking at the desolation which
surrounded it, I could hardly believe that this had formerly been one of
the finest farms in Virginia, worked by a hundred negroes, and furnished
with reapers, threshers, a grist-mill, and saw-mill,—all of which had
been swept away as if they had never been.
We found lying on a bed in a dilapidated room a poor man sick with the
prevailing chills. He had some bread and milk brought for us, and gave
us some useful hints about avoiding the torpedoes when we should reach
Fort Harrison. He described to us the depredations committed on the
place by “Old Butler”; and related how he himself was once taken
prisoner by the Yankee marines on the river. “They gave me my choice,—to
be carried before the admiral, or robbed of my horse and all the money I
had about me. I preferred the robbing; so they cleared me out and set me
free.”
I said, “If you had been taken before the admiral, you would have got
your liberty and saved your property.”
His voice became deep and tremulous as he replied: “But I didn’t
consider horse nor money; I considered my wife. I’d sooner anything than
that she should be distressed. She knew I was a prisoner, and all I
thought of was to hurry home to her with the news that I was safe.” Thus
in every human breast, even though wrapped in rags, and guilty of crimes
against country and kindred, abides the eternal spark of tenderness
which atones in the sight of God for all.
Taking leave of the sick man, we paid a brief visit to the casemates of
Fort Harrison, then spurred back to Richmond, which we reached at
sunset, having been nine hours in the saddle and ridden upwards of forty
miles.
* * * * *
Another morning, with two gentlemen of General Terry’s staff, and an
orderly to take care of our horses, I rode out of the city on the Nine
Mile Road, which crosses the Chickahominy at New Bridge; purposing to
visit some of the scenes of McClellan’s Richmond campaign.
Passing the fortifications, and traversing a level, scarcely inhabited
country, shorn of its forests by the sickle of war, we reached, by a
cross-road, the line of the Richmond and York River Railroad. But no
railroad was there; the iron of the track having been taken up to be
used elsewhere.
Near by was Fair Oaks Station, surrounded by old fields, woods, and
tracts of underbrush. Here was formerly a yard, in which stood a group
of oaks, the lower trunks of which had been rendered conspicuous, if not
beautiful, by whitewash: hence, “_fair_ oaks.”
It was a wild, windy, dusty day. A tempest was roaring through the pines
over our heads as we rode on to the scene of General Casey’s disaster. I
asked an inhabitant why the place was called “Seven Pines.” “I don’t
know, unless it’s because there’s about seven hundred.”
He was living in a little wooden house, close by a negro hut. “The
Yankees took me up, and carried me away, and destroyed all I had. My
place don’t look like it did before, and never will, I reckon. They come
again last October; Old Butler’s devils; all colors; heap of black
troops; they didn’t leave me anything.”
He spoke with no more respect of the Confederates. “We had in our own
army some of the durn’dest scapegalluses! The difference ’twixt them and
the Yankees was, the Yankees would steal before our eyes, and laugh at
us; but the Rebels would steal behind our backs.”
On the south, we found the woods on fire, with a furious north wind
fanning the flames. The only human being we saw was a man digging sweet
potatoes. We rode eastward, along the lines of intrenchments thrown up
by our troops after the battle; passed through a low, level tract of
woods, on the borders of the Chickahominy swamps; and, pressing
northward, struck the Williamsburg Road.
Colonel G——, of our party, was in the Fair Oaks’ fight. He came up with
the victorious columns that turned back the tide of defeat.
“I never saw a handsomer sight than Sickles’s brigade advancing up that
road, Sunday morning, the second day of the battle. The enemy fired upon
them from these woods, but never a man flinched. They came up in column,
magnificently, to that house yonder; then formed in line of battle
across these fields, and went in with flags flying and bayonets shining,
and drove the Rebels. After that we might have walked straight into
Richmond, but McClellan had to stop and go to digging.”
We dismounted in a sheltered spot, to examine our maps, then passed
through the woods by a cross-road to Savage’s Station, coming out upon a
large undulating field. Of Savage’s house only the foundations were
left, surrounded by a grove of locust-trees. My companions described to
me the scene of McClellan’s retreat from this place,—the hurry, the
confusion, the flames of government property abandoned and destroyed.
Sutlers forsook their goods. Even the officers’ baggage was devoted to
the torch. A single pile of hard tack, measuring forty cubic feet, was
set on fire, and burned. Then came the battle of Savage’s Station, in
which the corps of Franklin and Sumner, by determined fighting, saved
our army from being overwhelmed by the entire Rebel force. This was
Sunday again, the twenty-ninth of June: so great had been the change
wrought by four short weeks! On that other Sunday the Rebels were
routed, and the campaign, as some aver, might have been gloriously ended
by the capture of Richmond. Now nothing was left for us but ignominious
retreat and failure, which proved all the more humiliating, falling so
suddenly upon the hopes with which real or fancied successes had
inspired the nation.