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SKETCHES OF THE WAR:
A SERIES OF
Letters to the North Moore Street School
OF NEW YORK.
BY
CHARLES C. NOTT,
CAPTAIN IN THE FIFTH IOWA CAVALRY AND TRUSTEE OF PUBLIC SCHOOLS IN THE
CITY OF NEW YORK.
THIRD EDITION.
NEW-YORK:
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH, 770 BROADWAY, CORNER OF 9TH ST.
1865.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
CHARLES C. NOTT.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the Southern District of New York.
[Illustration: J. J. REED, PRINTER.]
To
WILLIAM B. EAGER, JR.,
AN UNWAVERING FRIEND AND FAITHFUL SCHOOL OFFICER,
THESE SKETCHES ARE INSCRIBED.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I.--THE HOSPITAL, 9
II.--DONELSON, 20
III.--THE ASSAULT, 29
IV.--FORAGING, 42
V.--A FLAG OF TRUCE, 56
VI.--THE HOLLY FORK, 75
VII.--SCOUTING, 88
VIII.--A SURPRISE, 109
IX.--THE ESCAPE, 135
X.--THE LAST SCOUT, 154
PREFACE.
TO SECOND EDITION.
The first edition of this little work was published during its author's
absence in the Department of the Gulf, and fought its own way into
public favor. The second edition is now published for the exclusive
benefit of disabled soldiers, and in the expectation of opening for
them a profitable field of employment. As the first edition was soon
exhausted, and no work has been offered to the public that _fulfils_
the _designs_ of this, it is hoped that this edition may find an
approval beyond the humane object which calls it forth.
Written for readers whom I had been accustomed to address familiarly,
and among whom the most usefully happy moments of my life had passed;
and composed for the most part amid the scenes which they describe,
these letters to the North Moore Street School were never intended for
adult readers, nor to assume the shape and substance of a book. In
composing them I carefully avoided that "baby-talk" which some people
think simplicity, and that paltriness of subject which by many is
thought to be alone within the grasp and comprehension of a child. The
greatest of children's stories are those which were written for men.
"Robinson Crusoe" and "Gulliver's Travels," amid the annual wreck of
a thousand "juvenile publications," survive, and pass from generation
to generation, known to us best as the attractive reading of our early
life. This enviable lot is secured to them by the severe purity of
their English composition--the simplicity of their style--the natural
minuteness of their description, but above all by the real greatness
of their authors, who in striving to be simple, never condescend to
be _little_. The "Goody Two Shoes" of Goldsmith, which was written
for children, is hardly rescued by his charming style; but the "Vicar
of Wakefield," which was written for men, has _ascended_ to be a
story-book for childhood, and is speedily becoming the exclusive
property of the young.
Therefore while I sought to instruct a few of the children of the
United States by carrying them unconsciously through the details of
military life, and unfolding to them some of the better scenes in
their country's great struggle, still I selected just such incidents
and topics as I would have chosen for their fathers and mothers,
only endeavoring, with greater strictness, to blend in the narration
simplicity with elegance.
SKETCHES OF THE WAR.
I.
THE HOSPITAL.
There was a young man in my squadron whom I shall call Frank Gillham.
He was the son of a Wisconsin farmer, and had enlisted in the ranks
as a patriotic duty. Frank was young and handsome, a fine horseman,
and rode one of the handsomest horses in the squadron. He was just the
person whom one would suppose sure to rise from the ranks and perform
many a gallant feat during the war. A few weeks ago the horse was
reported sick. It had but a cold, and we thought that a few days would
find it well again. But the cold grew worse and changed to pneumonia, a
disease of the lungs fearfully prevalent here among both men and horses.
Frank nursed and watched his horse day and night, counting the beatings
of its pulse, consulting the farrier, administering the medicine as
though the horse were his best friend. It was fruitless labor; for
the poor animal stood hour after hour panting with drooping head,
occasionally looking sadly up as if to say, "you can do me no good,"
until at last it died. We all felt sorry for the poor horse, but did
not think his death was the forerunner of a greater loss.
In the middle of December, the surgeon reported Frank sick with
measles. The cold draughts through the barracks are peculiarly
dangerous to this disease, and it is also contagious; and hence it
is an inflexible rule to send patients at once to the hospital. The
ambulance came, Frank was helped in, and I bid him good bye, expecting
(for it was but a slight attack) that he would return soon.
A fortnight passed, and he was reported convalescent; the measles had
gone, but there was a cough remaining; he had better wait awhile till
quite restored.
Once or twice I tried to go to the hospital, which was a mile distant
from camp; but there is a rule forbidding officers to leave the
camp except with a pass, and the passes are limited in number and
dealt out in turn--my turn had not come. My last application for
a pass was made on Sunday; unhappily it was refused. On Monday, I
sent some letters which had come for Frank down to the hospital. An
hour or two afterwards the letters came back. I took them--they were
unopened--there was a message: "Frank Gillham is dead."
During the two or three preceding days, the cough had run into
pneumonia. The surgeons had not sent word--they had no one to
send--there were so many such cases. I had not been there, because it
was contrary to camp regulations; and thus, with a family within the
telegraph's call and some old friends within the neighboring barracks,
poor Frank had died alone in the cheerless wards of a public hospital.
When it was too late to receive a last message or soothe a dying hour,
a pass could be obtained. I took with me a corporal, an old friend of
Frank's. As we rode along, I made some inquiries and learned that Frank
was the eldest child, and the pride of his family. There had doubtless
been anxious forebodings when he enlisted, and tears when he departed.
"It will break his father's heart when he hears of this," said the
corporal.
Ordinarily it would have been a great relief to ride beyond the camp
enclosure; for the sense of confinement and the constant sight of
straight rows of men going through their endless angular movements
become very irksome after a while, and awaken a strong desire to
be unrestrained yourself and to see people in their natural, every
day life. But now we felt too depressed for enjoying our unexpected
liberty, and except when I was asking the questions I have spoken of,
we rode in dreary silence, thinking of the painful duty before us, and
of the distant family soon to be startled by the fatal message, and
informed that they had given a victim to the guilty rebellion.
At length we reached the "Hospital of the Good Samaritan." It is
situated on the outskirts of the city, and has been taken by the
Government for soldiers sick with contagious diseases. The building is
large and not unpleasant, the ceilings high, and the rooms cheerfully
lighted. There seemed to be such comforts as can be bought and sold,
and the attendants appeared kind and diligent. But here I must stop on
the favorable side. As I looked around, I learned why soldiers dread
the hospital. The cots were close together, with just room enough to
pass between, and on every cot lay a sick man. At the sound of the
opening door, some looked eagerly toward us--others turned their eyes
languidly--and others again did not change their vacant gaze, too weak
to care who came or went away. There were faces flushed with fever,
others pale and thin, and others with the pallor of death settling upon
them, the lips muttering unconsciously in delirium, and the fingers
nervously picking the bed clothes. Here was a man who had just arrived,
timid and anxious; and on the next cot was one who would soon depart on
the last march.
I went into the room where my lost soldier had taken his farewell,
hoping to gather from the other occupants some last words or message
for the dear ones of his home. The cot was still empty. I went up to
the next patient and whispered my question, "Did you know the young man
who died this morning?" The man shook his head and said, "No, I was too
sick;" and he glanced nervously at the empty cot so close beside him.
I passed round and asked the next. He half opened his closed eyes, but
made no reply. It was too plain he could not. I had not observed how
soon he would follow Frank. I went to the night attendant, who had come
round about midnight, and had spoken to Frank of the coming change. He
had been resigned and had expressed regrets only for his family and
country, and a wish to live for them. "He said this with great energy,"
said the attendant, "and I wondered how a dying man could feel so much.
But after that he became flighty; and as there were only three of us
to over one hundred patients, I had to go and leave him. He died about
sunrise." Did he continue delirious? or was he conscious through those
last lonely hours? and did he wish for some fond hand to support his
head, some kind ear to receive his parting words? I hoped the former. A
crowded hospital is a lonely place wherein to die.
"_Will you see the body?_" said the superintendent. We all have a
natural repugnance to death, but in addition to this repugnance I
remember the face of a friend with such distinctness that it is painful
for me to impress on the living picture in my memory the marred and
broken image of the dead. I therefore seldom join in the usual custom
of viewing the corpse at funerals--never, if I can avoid it without
giving pain to those who do not understand my motives. It consequently
was with more than usual reluctance that I discharged this duty of
ascertaining that no terrible mistake had occurred among the number
coming and going, and dying in the hospital. We went down-stairs
to the basement. Hitherto my experience with death had been only
that of funerals, in the calm and quiet of peaceful life, where all
that is most painful is softened or hidden, and death made to take
the semblance of sleep. I can hardly say that I expected to see, as
usual, the solitary coffin and its slumbering tenant, yet I certainly
anticipated nothing different. "This is the dead-room," said the
superintendent, as he unlocked and threw open a door. The name was the
first intimation of something different. It was a narrow, gloomy room,
and on the stone pavement, lay four white figures. They were decently
attired in the hospital shroud, but the accustomed concealments of the
undertaker's art were wanting. The staring eyes, the open mouth, the
contracted face left little of the usual sleep-like repose of death.
It was a ghastly sight. I felt like shrinking back to the outer air,
but had to enter the room. The superintendent did not know Frank, so
I was obliged to look at each. I glanced at the first. He was a young
man with fair hair, and what had been bright blue eyes. They seemed to
return my look so consciously that for a moment I could not avert my
gaze. The look seemed to say, "You do not know me: we are strangers who
have never met before, will never meet again." I glanced at the second,
at the third. All were strangers, and all were young. The fourth I
recognized. The room was so narrow that the figures reached from wall
to wall, and as we went forward we had to step over each prostrate
form. The corporal followed me, and looked long and earnestly at his
friend. There had been no mistake. As we went out my eyes involuntarily
turned to the others. It was probably the only look of pity they
received. "Did they die during the night?" I inquired. "Yes!" "And has
no officer or friend been with them?" "No!" "When will they be buried?"
"In the afternoon." This, I fear, was all their funeral service. "Did
they anticipate such a death and such a burial when they came from
distant pleasant homes to serve in the great army?" I asked myself.
And as I looked on them, thus neglected and deserted, I thought of the
families and friends who would give much to stand as I stood beside
them, to weep over their coffins, and to go with them to the grave.
The remains of my soldier it was determined should be sent to his
family. He was dressed in his uniform, and on the following day the
railroad swiftly carried him back to his old home.
When all was over, I gathered together his few effects. This the law
makes the duty of an officer. There were also some unanswered letters
to be returned--pleasant letters, beginning, "Dear Frank, we wish you
merry Christmas!" and hoping he would have happy holidays in camp. And
there was one touch of melancholy romance added; for hidden in the
recesses of his pocket-book was a tress of hair, and on the wrapper
a name; a letter, too, with the same signature. I determined that no
curious eyes should run over these, and that they should not be the
subject for careless tongues; so I carefully placed them in a separate
package and sent them to one who perhaps will grieve the most.
And since I commenced this addition to my letter, there has been
another interruption--a second victim of an unhealthy camp and crowded
barracks. His death, poor boy, possessed fewer circumstances of
interest. He was a German, with no family circle to be broken; a sister
here, a brother there, and parents in a distant land. When told of
Frank's death he seemed anxious, and whispered me that there were many
dying in the hospital. The surgeon said there was no danger, but I saw
it did not reassure him. On Sunday I got leave to send down one of my
men, who was his friend, to the hospital, to be with him as a night
nurse. On Monday I rode down. "How is Leonard?" was the first question
to the surgeon. "He is very low," was the answer. I went up to his
room. His friend sat by the cot, holding his hand. But the eyes were
glazed, the pulse had stopped, and all was over. He had just died.
You may wish to know something of a soldier's funeral, not such as we
have in Broadway, with music and processions, but such as are occurring
here.
I asked leave for the squadron to attend the funeral, and the colonel
said certainly, all who wished should go. At the appointed time we
mounted and rode slowly to the hospital, accompanied by the chaplain of
the regiment. We reached it soon, and the men were drawn up in line.
Even in such scenes military discipline enables us to move more easily
and rapidly than in ordinary life. A few commands in an unusually
subdued voice were given. "Prepare to dismount." "Dismount!" "Ones
and threes hold horses, twos and fours forward." Half of the squadron
then passed by the coffin, and then relieved the others in holding the
horses. All was done so quietly and quickly that it formed a contrast
to a similar scene at an ordinary funeral. The ambulance came to the
door. The ambulance carries the sick to the hospital, and the dead to
the grave: it is the soldier's litter and his hearse.
About a mile from the hospital is the Wesleyan cemetery. I had ridden
by it during the soft summer weather of the fall, and remarked how
prettily it is situated upon the brow of a hill, with the city in view
upon one side and the quiet country on the other, while large trees
and mournful evergreens give an air of sadness and seclusion. It was a
relief when the ambulance turned toward this peaceful resting place;
though I wish that a soldiers' cemetery had been laid out where the
numbers who die in St. Louis and the country around it, might rest
together. We entered, and I quickly remarked a change since last I
had passed that way. On one side, where had been a smooth, green lawn,
there were straight rows and ranks of mounds, so regular and close
that the ground looked as though it had been trenched by some thrifty
gardener. These were the soldiers' graves. There were many--many of
them. Two grave diggers were at work--constant work for them. A grave
was always ready prepared, and one was ready for us. Our ceremonies
were few and simple--the squadron drew up in line--the coffin was
lifted out--the chaplain made a prayer--and we returned.
But in the same ambulance were two other coffins. No companion had been
with them at the hospital, and no friends followed them to the grave.
Unknown and, save by us chance strangers, unnoticed, they were laid to
rest. This loneliness of their burial was very sad. We gave them all we
could--a sigh, and paid them such respect as the circumstances allowed.
We did not know them--who they were, or whence they came--only this,
that they were American soldiers, fallen for their country.
I have heard it said that this war will make us a very warlike
people. It is a mistake. Those who are engaged in it, while they
will be ready again to rise in a just cause, will never wish for
another war. I understand now why officers of real experience--be
they ever so brave--always dread a war. There are too many such
scenes as I have described. Yet do not think that any waver in their
determination--and, while you pity, do not waver yourselves. We may
blame mismanagement and neglect; and we must try to alleviate suffering
and prevent needless disease and death, and only in the restoration of
our Union hope for peace.
II.
DONELSON.
Some letters from New York have said, "If you are ever in battle, do
describe it." In this curiosity I have myself shared, and have always
longed to know not only how the scene appeared, but how the spectator
felt. I am able now to answer the question, and in so doing I will try
and describe to you precisely how the attack appeared to me, without
entering into an account of anything but what I saw, and how I felt.
It was by accident that I was at Fort Donelson, and with the attacking
column. My regiment left me at St. Louis attending a court-martial.
The court adjourned soon afterward, and then, with another member, an
officer of the Fourteenth Iowa, I started for Fort Henry.
We descended the Mississippi to the narrow point where the Ohio joins
it, and on which are the fortifications of Cairo. At Cairo there were
no boats, save those of the government, conveying troops, and on one of
these we went. It was the McGill, and on board was the regiment which
was to lead the assault at Fort Donelson, the Second Iowa.
Up to the time of starting we supposed that the destination of the
boat was Fort Henry, on the Tennessee. It was then announced, Fort
Donelson on the Cumberland. We glided slowly up the Ohio, against
its swollen current, and passed the mouth of the Tennessee during the
night. I arose with the first gleam of light, and went on deck to find
that we had entered the Cumberland. It seemed a narrow river, winding
amid wooded hills and banks covered with noble oaks. The soldiers,
who had passed the warm, moonlit night on deck, were rising, one by
one, folding blankets and packing knapsacks. I turned from them to the
river, and looked curiously for the people who dwelt in this, the rebel
part of Kentucky.
For a short time there was nothing but woods. Then a little log house
appeared upon the bank, a shed beside it, with its single horse and
cow. It was a humble home, and hardly worth a second glance, a hundred
such might be seen on the banks of any river; but in front of the door
stood a sturdy little flag-staff, and from it waved the stars and
stripes. The family had risen at the sound of the steamer. The mother
stood in the doorway, holding an infant, and waving an apron. A little
girl near by timidly tossed her hood around her head. Two ragged boys
at the water's edge swung their caps joyfully. The father stood on a
stump, hurrahing alone but lustily; and over them, in the dim grey
light, fluttered their little flag. "They mean it," "They are honest,"
"There's no make-believe there," were the exclamations of the soldiers,
as they crowded to the side of the boat and answered the father and his
boys with their louder cheers. This was the first house we saw, and
the warmest welcome we received; for though many hats were waved to us
during the day, and a few flags shown, none equalled, in their manifest
sincerity, the inmates of the little log house.
The day was soft and beautiful. We passed it upon the upper deck,
laughing, chatting, and watching the shifting scenery of the winding
river. A pleasure excursion it seemed to all; and again and again some
one would remark, "We may be on the brink of battle, yet it seems as
though we were travelling for pleasure."
Among the rough exteriors which campaigning gives, two officers of
the Second were remarkable for their neat appearance. Some jokes were
made at their expense, calling them the dandies of the regiment, and
their state-rooms the band-boxes; and it was agreed that they were
too handsome to be spoilt by scars. Two days afterward one of these,
Captain Sleighmaker, fell at the head of his company, heroically
charging the rebel breastworks. A little later, as I was galloping
for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, borne by four soldiers
in a blanket. As I rode by he called out, "We have carried the day,
Captain." I looked around and saw it was the other, Major Chipman. "Are
you badly hurt, Major?" I said, pulling up my horse. "No, not badly,"
he answered. "Don't stop for me;" and when the surgeon arrived he
refused to have his wound dressed, and sent him to his men.
In the afternoon we overtook twenty steamboats laden with troops, and
led by four black gunboats. They moved slowly and kept together, as
if they feared approaching danger. Then came a change of weather, and
night closed in upon us, dark and dreary, with cold and snow.
When the next morning broke I found we had made fast to the western
shore. On either bank were high and wooded hills. The gunboats lay
anchored in the middle of the stream, all signs of life hidden beneath
their dark decks, save the white steam that slowly issued from their
pipes, and floated gracefully away. Far down the river could be seen
the troop-laden transports, moored to the trees along the bank. The
sky was clear and bright; the forest sparkled with snow, and the warm
waters of the river smoked in the frosty air. Such a picture I have
never seen--never shall see again. As the troops began to debark,
the band of the Second Iowa came out on the upper deck, and the dear
"Star-spangled" echoed along the river. The men beat time, and hurrahed
as the notes died away.
The place of landing was about three miles below Fort Donelson. I may
here say that the fort itself is about half as large as the Battery,
but that it is only a corner of a large square of earthworks stretching
some two miles on each side. To avoid the cannon on the works it was
necessary for us to make a circuit of several miles. The country was
woods, high hills, and deep ravines. A glen that we entered after
leaving the river bore a strange resemblance to one on my father's
farm. As I looked around I could almost believe it was the same,
through which, on just such bright winter mornings, I had driven the
wood-sleigh or wandered with my gun. But the troops were marching, and
I had no time to grow homesick. We passed, in the course of our march,
a little log house. I went up to the door and spoke to the people. They
seemed sad and dispirited. There had been firing between the pickets a
day or two before, and a shower of balls had pattered around the house.
The woman said she wished she were forty miles away, and the man said
he would not care if he were a hundred.
A little girl was near the door, and I asked her what was her name, to
which she replied, after a good deal of embarrassment, "Nancy Ann." I
let Nancy Ann look through my spyglass; and, as she had never seen or
even heard of one before, she was very much astonished. Nancy Ann's
mother thereupon became quite hospitable, and invited me to come in and
rest, but the column was then well nigh over the hill and I had to push
on.
At last we reached the position assigned to us, and here we found the
Fourteenth Iowa, to which my friend belonged, and with it I determined
to remain until I could find my own regiment.
Around us were thick woods. A deep glen ran in front, and beyond this,
along the brow of the opposite hill, ran those earthworks of the rebels
which we were to win.
It was less than half a mile across; and occasionally a rifle ball fell
near us, but the distance was too great for them to be effective. I
looked through the trees and examined the hill with my glass, but could
see nothing save the ridge of fresh-turned earth. Along the side of
the hill were our sharpshooters watching the works. I could see them
crawling up behind trees and stumps, sometimes dragging themselves
along the ground, sometimes on their hands and knees. Their shots were
frequent, and sounded as though a sporting party were below us. It was
hard to believe that they were shooting at men. It was wonderful, too,
how soon the mind accustomed itself to these strange circumstances.
After the first half hour we took no more notice of the rifle shots
than though some boys were there at play. Behind those earthworks were
cannon as well as men. We were completely within range, and they could
have sent their shot and shell amongst us at any time. The night before
no fires had been allowed, as they would indicate our position to the
rebels; but they were now burning, and around one of them three or four
of us gathered to dine. As we sat down upon a log, we heard distant
sounds of cannon along the river. "There go the gunboats; the fight has
begun; they are shelling the rascals out," said everybody. We had taken
for granted all the time, and, indeed, up to the last minute, that the
gunboats would dismantle the fort, and that all we should have to do
would be to prevent the escape of the rebels. In this we were much
mistaken. The cannonade lasted an hour, and then stopped. We hoped the
fort was taken, but no such news came to gladden us.
In watching the earthworks, in talking and warming ourselves at
the camp-fires, the afternoon wore away. Evening came, and it was
determined to risk the fires. Again we sat down beside one for supper.
It consisted of hard pilot-bread, raw pork and coffee. The coffee you
probably would not recognize in New York. Boiled in an open kettle,
and about the color of a brown stone front, it was nevertheless our
greatest comfort, and the only warm thing we had. The pork was frozen,
and the water in the canteens solid ice, so that we had to hold them
over the fire when we wanted a drink. No one had plates or spoons,
knives or forks, cups or saucers. We cut off the frozen pork with our
pocket knives, and one tin cup, from which each took a drink in turn,
served the coffee.
It grew darker; the camp-fires burned brightly, and no threatening shot
or shell had come from the Fort. Our sharpshooters and sentinels were
between us and the rebels; and it was determined that we might sleep.
The men stacked their arms, and wrapped themselves in their blankets
around the fires. This was my first night out. Hitherto my quarters had
been in houses; I had not even passed a night in a tent. A life among
the comforts of New York is not a good preparative for the field. I had
looked forward to a tent at this season with some little anxiety, but
I was now to begin without even that shelter. My water-proof blanket
and buffalo skin were also on board the steamer, so that I had to trust
to the better fortune of my friends for these. We managed to find four
blankets, two of them were wet and frozen, and a buffalo skin. The snow
was scraped away from the windward side of the fire, and the two frozen
blankets were laid on the ground--a log was rolled up for a wind-break,
and the buffalo spread over the blankets. On this four of us were
stretched, and very close and straight we had to lie. It fared ill with
the trappings of military life; handsome great-coats were ignominiously
rolled up like horse-blankets, and my beautiful sabre (the gift of
North Moore street friends), ordinarily stained by no speck of rust or
drop of rain, was tossed out in the snow, with pistols and spy-glasses,
used in camp with the same gentle treatment.
For a few minutes I kept awake; the rebels were but fifteen minutes
distant, and if they chose to make a night attack their shells might
burst among us at any moment. The snow-flakes began to fall faster
and faster. I slipt my head under the blanket and fell asleep. I can
imagine that you will say we were to be pitied; but never did I sleep
more sweetly. Soon after midnight the sound of cannon roused us. The
snow was three inches deep upon our blankets, yet we were comfortable,
and surprised to find it lying there. The ground, however, had thawed
beneath us; and when we rose, the snow crept in among our blankets and
wet them. Lying down was out of the question; we bent down a couple of
saplings and spread blankets over them, making a little shed. Under
this we crept, after piling plenty of wood upon our fire. The soldier's
invariable comfort--his pipe--was at hand, and thus we chatted, smoked
and dozed till daylight.
III.
THE ASSAULT.
The sun of Saturday rose bright and clear, and more than one asked if
it were an omen for us, or for the foe. The morning passed as did the
day before; but about noon, word came up that far down on our right the
rebels had attempted to cut their way out. They were driven back, but
the fight was bloody, and it was said we had lost five hundred men. We
were warned to be watchful--it was thought they might re-attempt it
near us. I have said we were in front of a large glen or ravine; on
our right were numerous regiments, making a chain which stretched to
the river. On our left was the Second Iowa. This was all that I had
seen of our position, and consequently is all that I shall describe
now, inasmuch as I am giving it to you precisely as it appeared to me.
Soon a mounted orderly rode by, who told us that a large body of rebels
were moving up opposite us. Our men were called together, and stood
near their stacked arms. A little while and General Smith and his staff
came up--they passed by in front of us, but said nothing. At the same
time the sharpshooters along the glen were unusually active, and there
were repeated shots by them. We thought they saw the rebels mustering
behind the breastworks. Everything seemed to indicate a sally from
the rebels, and that we were to drive them back as they had been
driven back in the morning. The men took their arms, officers loosened
their pistol holsters. I hooked up my cavalry sabre, unbuttoned my
great coat so that I could quickly throw it off, and took my place
beside the lieutenant-colonel with whom I was to act. Then there
came a painful, unpleasant pause; we heard nothing--saw nothing--yet
knew that something was coming; what that something was no one could
tell. A messenger came from the general--we were to move to the left
and support the Second Iowa. We supposed the rebels were crossing a
little higher up, and that the gap between us and the Second was to be
closed. The colonel gave the order "left face," "forward march," and
the regiment passed along through the thick trees in a column of two
abreast. But the Second were not where they had been in the morning; we
marched on, but did not come to them. In a few moments we passed their
camp fires--a few more, and we emerged on an open field.
At a glance, the real object of the movement was apparent. It came
upon us in an instant, like the lifting of a curtain. The Fourteenth
were hurrying down through the field. The Second, in a long line, were
struggling up the opposite hill, where two glens met and formed a
ridge. It was high and steep, slippery with mud and melted snow. At the
top, the breastworks of the rebels flashed and smoked, whilst to the
right and left, up either glen, cannon were thundering. The attempt
seemed desperate. Down through the field we went, and began to climb
the hill. At the very foot I found we were in the line of fire. Rifle
balls hissed over us, and bleeding men lay upon the ground, or were
dragging themselves down the hill. From the foot to the breastworks
the Second Iowa left a long line of dead and wounded upon the ground.
The sight of these was the most appalling part of the scene, and, for
a moment, completely diverted my attention from the firing. A third of
the way up we came under the fire of the batteries. The shot, and more
especially the shell, came with the rushing, clashing of a locomotive
on a railroad. You heard the boom of the cannon up the ravine--then
the sound of the shell--and then _felt_ it rushing at you. At the
top of the hill the firearms sounded like bundles of immense powder
crackers. They would go r-r-r-r-rap; then came the scattered shots,
rap, rap--rap-rap, rap; then some more fired together, rrrrrrap. This
resemblance was so striking that it impressed me at the moment.
The bursting of the shells produced much less effect--apparent effect,
I mean--than I anticipated. Their explosion, too, was much like a large
powder cracker thrown in the air. There was a loud bang--fragments
flew about, and all was over. It was so quickly done, that you had no
time to anticipate or think--you were killed or you were safe, and it
was over. But the most dispiriting thing was that we saw no enemy. The
batteries were out of sight, and at the breastworks nothing could be
seen but fire and smoke. It seemed as though we were attacking some
invisible power, and that it was a simple question of time whether we
could climb that slippery steep before we were all shot or not. But
suddenly the firing at the summit ceased. The Second Iowa had charged
the works, and driven out the regiments which held them. Then came the
fire of the Second upon our flying foes, and then loud shouts along the
line, "Hurrah, hurrah, the Second are in--hurry up, boys, and support
them--close up--forward--forward." We reached the top and scrambled
over the breastwork. I saw a second hill rising gradually before us,
and on the top of it a second breastwork--between us and it about four
hundred yards of broken ground. A second fire opened upon us from these
inner works. We were ordered back, and, recrossing those we had taken,
lay down upon the outer side of the embankment.
The breastwork that had sheltered the enemy now sheltered us. It was
about six feet high on our side, and the men laid close against it.
Occasionally a hat was pushed up above it, and then a rifle ball would
come whistling over us from the second intrenchment. The batteries
also continued to fire, but the shot passed lower down the hill, and
did little execution. Having no specific duty to discharge, I turned,
as soon as our troops reached the breastworks, and gave my aid to the
wounded.
A singular fact for which I could not account was, that those near
the foot of the hill were struck in the legs; higher up, the shots had
gone through the body, and near the breastworks, through the head.
Indeed, at the top of the hill I noticed no wounded; all who lay upon
the ground there were dead. A little house in the field was used as a
hospital. I tore my handkerchief into strips, and tied them round the
wounds which were bleeding badly, and made the men hold snow upon them.
I then took a poor fellow in my arms to carry to the little house.
"Throw down your gun," I said, "you are too weak to carry it." "No,
no," he replied, "I will hold on to it as long as I am alive." The
house happened to be in the exact line of one of the batteries, and as
we approached it, the shot flew over our path. Fortunately, the house
was below the range, but one came so low as to knock off a shingle
from the enable end. For a few minutes we thought they were firing on
the wounded. We had no red flag to display; but I found a man with a
red handkerchief, and tied it to a stick, and sent him on the roof
with it. Within the house there were but three surgeons at this time.
One of them asked me to take his horse and ride for the instruments,
ambulances, and assistants; for no preparations had been made. It was
then I passed Major Chipman carried by his soldiers.
When I returned, the ambulances were busy at their work; numerous
couples of soldiers were supporting off wounded friends, and
occasionally came four, carrying one in a blanket. The wounded men
generally showed the greatest heroism. They hardly ever alluded to
themselves, but shouted to the artillery that we met to hurry forward,
and told stragglers that we had carried the day. One poor boy, carried
in the arms of two soldiers, had his foot knocked off by a shell; it
dangled horribly from his limb by a piece of skin, and the bleeding
stump was uncovered. I stopped to tell the men to tie his stocking
round the limb, and to put snow upon the wound. "Never mind the foot,
captain," said he, "we drove the rebels out, and have got their trench,
that's the most I care about." Yet I confess the sights and sounds were
not as distressing as I anticipated. The small round bullet holes,
though they might be mortal, looked no larger than a surgeon's lancet
might have made. Only once did I hear distressing groans. A poor wretch
in an ambulance shrieked whenever the wheels struck a stump. There was
no help for it. The road was through the wood, the driver could only
avoid the trees, and drive on regardless of his agony.
You will perhaps ask how I felt in the fight. There was nothing upon
which I had had so much curiosity as to what my feelings would be.
Much to my surprise I found myself unpleasantly cool. I did not get
excited, and felt a great want of something to do. I thought if I
only had something--my own company to lead on, or somebody to order,
I should have much less to think about. There seemed such a certainty
of being hit that I felt certain I should be, and after a few minutes
had a vague sort of wish that it would come if it were coming, and
be over with. The alarming effect of the bullets and shells was less
than I supposed it would be, and my strongest sensation of danger was
produced by the sight of the dead and wounded. The thing I was most
afraid of was a panic among our men, and when the Seventh Illinois was
ordered to fall back down the hill, I so much feared that the men might
deem it a retreat that I entirely forgot the firing, and walked down
in front of them talking to their major, so that any frightened man in
the ranks might be reassured by our "matter of course" air. Take it
altogether, I think I felt and acted pretty much as I do in any unusual
and exciting affair. I know I found myself looking for an illustration
of the effect of the shells, and wondering if there was no greater and
grander illustration of the musketry than a bunch of powder crackers.
I remember that I did little things from habit, as usual; when I threw
off my overcoat, for example, I took a pipe which a friend had given
me from the pocket, lest it should be lost; and I remember that I once
corrected my grammar when I inadvertently adopted the western style of
telling the men to _lay_ down, and as I did so, I thought that one or
two people at North Moore street would have been very apt to laugh if
they had heard it. Yet for all this, I was by no means unconscious of
danger. Some officers seemed utterly indifferent to it. Thus, in the
fight of Thursday, Colonel Shaw, of the Fourteenth, after ordering his
men to lie down, not only remained on horseback, but crossed his legs
over the pommel of the saddle, sitting sidewise to be more comfortable.
The sharpshooters of the enemy concentrated their fire on him, he
being the only person visible. As the bullets thickened about him, the
colonel said indignantly, "those rascals are firing at me, I shall have
to move," and he threw his leg back, and walked his horse down to the
other end of the line.
Our men lay in the trench all night, exposed to the western wind, which
blew keenly round the summit of the hill--a large force of the enemy
within a few yards, able to rush upon them at any moment.
I had gone back just after dark, with the adjutant, who had been hurt
by the explosion of a shell, and my return with him saved me this. When
morning came, we went back. As we reached the foot of the hill, we were
told that a white flag had been displayed, and an officer had gone into
the fort, but that the time was nearly up, and the attack was now to be
renewed. We hurried on, expecting in a few moments to be in a second
assault. We had nearly reached the trenches, when the men sprang from
the ditch to the top of the breastwork, waving the colors and giving
wild hurrahs. The fort had surrendered.
There was a load lifted off my mind, and I stopped to look around. The
first glance fell on the blue coats scattered through the felled trees
and stumps. The march of our troops up the hill had been somewhat
in the form of a broom. Until near the top they had been in column,
leaving a long, narrow line like the handle, and, as they rushed at the
breastwork, they had spread out like the broom. This ground was plainly
marked by the dead. Now that my attention was given, I was surprised
to find how many were strewn upon the narrow strip. Here was one close
to me; about the width of a class-room beyond was another; a little
further on two had fallen, side by side. In a little triangle I counted
eighteen bodies, and many I knew had been carried off during the night.
Still the scene was not so painful as the dead-room of the hospital
at St. Louis. The attitudes were peaceful. The arms were in all but
one case thrown naturally over the breast, as in sleep; and no face
gave any indication of a painful death. I passed on and entered the
breastwork. It was about the height of a man. On top was a large log,
and between the log and the earthwork a narrow slit. Through this they
had fired on us. The log had hidden their heads, so that, while we were
in plain view, they were to us an invisible foe. Immediately within
were six more bodies of the Second Iowa, and one in simple homespun. He
was the only one of the enemy upon the ground. The soldiers, gathering
around him, looked as I did myself, with some curiosity upon one who
had thus met the punishment of his treason. He had been shot through
the back of the head while running, and his face expressed only
wonderment and fright. It showed him a country-bred youth, illiterate,
uncultivated--a contrast to the still intelligent faces that lay around
him.
Meanwhile our troops were forming along the hill to take possession
of the fort. All voices declared that the Second Iowa should lead.
As it moved past the other regiments to the head of the column, the
men cheered them, and the officers uncovered; but they seemed sad and
wearied. I looked along their line, and found of the officers I knew
hardly one was there.
It was a beautiful sight to see regiment after regiment mount the
second breastwork, and watch them successively halt and cheer, and
wave their colors as they crossed. I pushed on, scrambled over it, and
found myself in the midst of five hundred of the prisoners. They were
strange figures, in white blanket or carpet coats, having the same
unintelligent faces as the one who had been killed outside. I stared
at them, and they at me. They looked crestfallen and confused, but
showed little feeling; and during the day I saw but few faces of common
soldiers that awakened any pity. They, poor fellows, sat sadly looking
at the scene. To one of them I spoke. He said he had done nothing to
bring on the war; he had been for the Union, and had only enlisted a
month before to avoid being impressed. His family lived, or had lived
(he did not know where they were now), within a mile, and he would give
a great, great deal to see them for only a minute. "Will your officers
let me write to tell them I am alive?" "To be sure they will." "And
will we be furnished with food?" "Yes, the same as our own soldiers."
"Most of our men expected, if we surrendered unconditionally, that you
would kill us." "You see we have not done so." "No, they have treated
us very kindly: we have been deceived." Such was the tenor of our
conversation. I may here say that our men behaved admirably; and I did
not hear of a single indignity being offered to any of our prisoners.
A few sentinels were placed around a regiment of prisoners, and, so
far as appearances went, half of them might have escaped. But the
woods around the fort contained regiments of our troops, and they knew
the attempt would be hopeless. We were assigned the quarters of the
Fiftieth Tennessee, and I slept in what had been the colonel's. It was
a nice little house of oak blocks, laid up so that the wood and bark
alternated, giving a very pretty tesselated appearance. They had all
sorts of comforts, which we had never even hoped for at Camp Benton;
and while we supposed they had been roughing it, found we had been
roughing it ourselves.
We invited the colonel and some of his officers to spend the night with
us. I confess they behaved with dignity. They made no complaints, and
submitted with quiet resignation to their changed circumstances; but
they were Tennesseans, and though they made no professions in words,
convinced us that they had been Union men at heart and wished the Union
back again. One of us remarked, that if those who had been released
heretofore had not abused it, and violated their pledges and oaths, the
prisoners at Fort Donelson would probably be released in the same way.
The lieutenant-colonel said he wished it could be so; he was confident
none of his men would be thus guilty. "But," he added, "I don't blame
the Government for sending us North; I acknowledge that I am a rebel
taken in arms, and it is fully justified in treating me accordingly."
It was a novelty indeed, thus spending the evening with our late
opponents. We made no allusions that could, hurt their feelings, but
talked over the events of the siege until a late hour. They told us the
surrender was a thunder-clap to all. The men, and most of the officers,
had not seen how completely they were surrounded, and had been made to
believe that they were successful. The evening before they were told
this, and in the morning it was announced that their generals had run
away, and they were prisoners of war.
I now began to look about me and feel a little of the confusion that
follows a battle. My trunk had been left on the steamer, and the
steamer had moved; my blankets had been left in a hospital tent, and
the hospital tent had disappeared; my regiment was fourteen miles off,
at Fort Henry; the biscuit and coffee on which we had lived were gone,
and provisions had not followed us into the fort. I procured a captured
horse, and the next morning started at daylight for Fort Henry. As
I passed a regiment in the woods, the commissary was dealing out a
biscuit and a handful of sugar to each man for breakfast. He good
naturedly said he would give me my share. After a long ride, I found
my men camped in some woods, all well and bitterly disappointed at not
having been at Fort Donelson.
IV.
FORAGING.
In this military life, I find there is much quiet time, when the hours
pass slowly and the men yawn and wish for something to do. With every
change of camp, reading matter is lost or left behind; orders, too,
have been given that the quantity of baggage be reduced; and here, in
Tennessee, newspapers and letters hardly ever come. It is pleasant,
then, to sit as I do now, under a tree in the warm sun, and talk with
pencil and paper to your distant friends.
My previous letters have had so much in them gloomy or painful, that
this time I will choose a more pleasant subject, and give you an
account of my First Foraging.
Gipsy is the prettiest of horses. I should fail to describe my
excursion, if I failed to describe Gipsy. Gipsy is one of those happy
beings that everybody likes. No one ever quarrels with her. She has
never been struck with a whip or touched by the spur, and knows not
what either means. The soldiers all know Gipsy, and the Germans, who
are always sociably inclined, generally say as they pass her, "Good
morning, Shipsy;" at which Shipsy looks as pleased as anybody could.
Gipsy is a small specimen of the Black Hawk race, jet black in color,
and almost as delicate and agile in form as a greyhound, with the
mischievous, restless eyes of a bright terrier.