safe,” he said. “I should have had none left for next time, but I have
none left as it is. That shows how foolish it is to save anything.
Whew! how my head aches. I wish it was from overeating, but even the
doctor couldn’t lay it to that just now. The next time I stand up to
watch the firing, I’ll put my cracker--if I have any--in a safe place
down by the breastworks, where it won’t get wounded, poor thing! By the
way, here’s a little piece left, and that’ll get shot while I sit here
talking.” And with that he jumped down into the ditch, carefully placed
the mouthful of hardtack at the foot of the works, and resumed his
interested observation of the artillery duel.
Trifling of that kind was constant among the men throughout that
terrible campaign from the Wilderness to Petersburg, and while it
yielded nothing worth recording as wit or humor, it has always seemed
to me the most remarkable and most significant fact in the history of
the time. It revealed a capacity for cheerful endurance which alone
made the campaign possible on the Confederate side.
With mercenary troops or regulars the resistance that Lee was able to
offer to Grant’s tremendous pressure would have been impossible in such
circumstances. The starvation and the excessive marching would have
destroyed the morale of troops held together only by discipline. No
historical criticism of our Civil War can be otherwise than misleading
if it omits to give a prominent place, as a factor, to the character
of the volunteers on both sides, who, in acquiring the steadiness and
order of regulars, never lost their personal interest in the contest,
or their personal pride of manhood as a sustaining force under trying
conditions. If either side had lacked this element of personal heroism
on the part of its men, it would have been driven from the field long
before 1865. It seems to me the most important duty of those who now
furnish the materials out of which the ultimate history of our Civil
War will be constructed to emphasize this aspect of the matter, and
in every possible way to illustrate the part which the high personal
character of the volunteers in the ranks played in determining the
events of the contest. For that reason I like to record one incident
which I had an opportunity to observe at Cold Harbor.
Immediately opposite the position occupied by the battery to which I
belonged, and about six or eight hundred yards distant across an open
field, lay a Federal battery, whose commander was manifestly a man
deeply in earnest for other and higher reasons than those that govern
the professional soldier: a man who fought well, because he fought in
what he felt to be his own cause and quarrel.
His guns and ours were engaged almost continuously in an artillery
duel, so that I became especially interested in him, particularly
as the extreme precision of his fire indicated thoroughness and
conscientiousness of work for months before the campaign began.
One day--whether before or after the great assault, I cannot now
remember--that part of our line which lay immediately to the left of
the position occupied by the battery to which I belonged was thrown
forward to force the opposing Federal line back. It was the only large
movement in the way of a charge over perfectly open ground that I ever
had a chance to observe with an unobstructed view, and merely as a
spectator.
When we, with a few well-aimed shells, had fired a barn that stood
between the lines, and driven a multitude of sharp-shooters out of it,
the troops to our left leaped over our works and with a cheer moved
rapidly across the field. The resistance made to their advance was not
very determined,--probably the Federal line at that point had been
weakened by concentration elsewhere,--and after a brief struggle our
men crossed the slight Federal earthworks and pressed their adversaries
back into the woods and beyond my view. It was a beautiful operation
to look at, and one, the like of which, a soldier rarely has an
opportunity to see so well; but my attention was specially drawn to
the situation of the artillery commander, to whom I have referred as
posted immediately in our front. His position was the pivot, the point
where the Federal line was broken to a new angle, when that part of it
which lay upon his right hand was pressed back while that on his left
remained stationary.
He fought like a Turk or a tiger.
He directed the greater part of his fire upon the advancing line of
Confederates, but turned a gun every few minutes upon our battery,
apparently by way of letting us know that he was not unmindful of our
attentions, even when he was so busily engaged elsewhere.
The bending back of the line on his right presently subjected him to a
murderous fire upon the flank and rear,--a fire against which he had
no protection whatever,--while we continued a furious bombardment from
the front. His position was plainly an untenable one, and so far as I
could discover with a strong glass, he was for a time without infantry
support. But he held his ground and continued to fight in spite of all,
firing at one time as from two faces of an acute triangle.
His determination was superb, and the coolness of his gunners and
cannoneers was worthy of the unbounded admiration which we, their
enemies, felt for them. Their firing increased as their difficulties
multiplied, but it showed no sign of becoming wild or hurried. Every
shot went straight to the object against which it was directed; every
fuse was accurately timed, and every shell burst where it was intended
to burst. I remember that in the very heat of the contest there came
into my mind Bulwer’s superb description of Warwick’s last struggle,
in which he says that around the king-maker’s person there “centred a
little WAR,” and I applied the phrase to the heroic fellow who was so
superbly fighting against hopeless odds immediately in front of me.
Several of his guns were dismounted and his dead horses were strewn in
the rear. The loss among his men was appalling, but he fought on as
coolly as before, and with our glasses we could see him calmly sitting
on his large gray horse directing his gunners and patiently awaiting
the coming of the infantry support, without which he could not withdraw
his guns. It came at last, and the batteries retired to the new line.
When the battalion was gone and the brief action over, the wreck that
was left behind bore sufficient witness of the fearfulness of the fire
so coolly endured. The large gray horse lay dead upon the ground; but
we preferred to believe that his brave rider was still alive to receive
the promotion which he had so well won.
A PLANTATION HEROINE
It was nearing the end.
Every resource of the Southern states had been taxed to the point of
exhaustion.
The people had given up everything they had for “the cause.”
Under the law of a “tax in kind,” they had surrendered all they could
spare of food products of every character. Under an untamable impulse
of patriotism they had surrendered much more than they could spare in
order to feed the army.
It was at such a time that I went to my home county on a little
military business. I stopped for dinner at a house, the lavish
hospitality of which had been a byword in the old days.
I found before me at dinner the remnants of a cold boiled ham, some
boiled mustard greens, which we Virginians called “salad,” a pitcher of
butter-milk, some corn-pones and--nothing else.
I carved the ham, and offered to serve it to the three women of the
household. But they all declined. They made their dinner on salad,
butter-milk, and corn-bread, the latter eaten very sparingly, as I
observed. The ham went only to myself and to the three convalescent
wounded soldiers, who were guests in the house.
Wounded men were at that time guests in every house in Virginia.
I lay awake that night and thought over the circumstance. The next
morning I took occasion to have a talk on the old familiar terms with
the young woman of the family, with whom I had been on a basis of
friendship in the old days that even permitted me to kiss her upon due
and proper occasion.
“Why didn’t you take some ham last night?” I asked urgently.
“Oh, I didn’t want it,” she replied.
“Now, you know you’re fibbing,” I said. “Tell me the truth, won’t you?”
She blushed, and hesitated. Presently she broke down and answered
frankly: “Honestly, I did want the ham. I have hungered for meat for
months. But I mustn’t eat it, and I won’t. You see the army needs all
the food there is, and more. We women can’t fight, though I don’t see
at all why they shouldn’t let us, and so we are trying to feed the
fighting men--and there aren’t any others. We’ve made up our minds not
to eat anything that can be sent to the front as rations.”
“You are starving yourselves,” I exclaimed.
“Oh, no,” she said. “And if we were, what would it matter? Haven’t
Lee’s soldiers starved many a day? But we aren’t starving. You see we
had plenty of salad and butter-milk last night. And we even ate some of
the corn-bread. I must stop that, by the way, for corn-meal is a good
ration for the soldiers.”
A month or so later this frail but heroic young girl was laid away in
the Grub Hill church-yard.
Don’t talk to me about the “heroism” that braves a fire of hell
under enthusiastic impulse. That young girl did a higher act of
self-sacrifice than any soldier who fought on either side during the
war ever dreamed of doing.
TWO INCIDENTS IN CONTRAST
INCIDENT NUMBER ONE
The Masters place at Amelia Court House was a dream of beauty. Major
Masters himself was a man of exquisite taste, and his wife and daughter
had been devoted for years to the creation of beauty there.
They had had the expert aid of Thomas Giles. Thomas Giles was a
lawyer by profession, but being a man of large wealth, and having
nobody dependent upon him, he had devoted a considerable share of his
attention for years to his two fancies--architecture and landscape
gardening.
It had been his long-continued custom to spend his time from Friday
afternoon till Monday of each week at the Masters place, developing
its possibilities of beauty. He had spent both his own money and that
of Major Masters very lavishly in this endeavor, and the result was a
notable one.
When the Federal army reached the court house in hot pursuit of General
Lee, during that last retreat which ended the war, there was a rush
made by the soldiers for comfortable camping grounds on the Masters
place. One man had even begun to cut down a stately tree for firewood,
when the general commanding rode up. Taking in the situation at a
glance, the general turned to one of his aids and said: “Take a squad
of twenty men, and drive everybody out of that place quick. Then tell
the adjutant-general to post a close guard around it and allow no man
to enter it during our stay, upon any pretence whatever.”
Then, turning to his staff as the officer rode away to execute his
orders, he said: “That place has cost years of growth as well as years
of intelligent endeavor to create it. As we are not vandals, I shall
not suffer it to be destroyed.”
I regret that I cannot here record the name of that officer. I would if
I knew it.
INCIDENT NUMBER TWO
At McPhersonville, on the coast of South Carolina, there lived a young
woman of extraordinary learning.
The fame of her learning, especially in botany, had even crossed the
ocean; and it was she whom Baron Von Humboldt had selected to prepare
for him--for use in his writings--an account of the flora of that
region.
In recognition of her scholarly service, Baron Von Humboldt had sent to
her--each volume inscribed with his own hand--the only copy ever owned
in the United States of the German government’s magnificent édition de
luxe of “Cosmos.”
It was a work published without regard to expense, and in narrowly
limited edition, at a fabulous price per copy.
When the final collapse came, and Sherman’s army was sweeping northward
from Savannah, a detachment under the command of a lieutenant visited
the house of this young woman. Building a bonfire in the front yard,
it proceeded to destroy all the food that it could find. Then, in a
spirit of pure vandalism, the lieutenant ordered his men to bring out
and burn the books in that superb library. The young woman was in tears
and terror, of course, but her scholarly impulses rose superior to her
timid, feminine instincts. She went up to the lieutenant, coarse brute
that he was, and begged for the preservation of her unique “Cosmos.”
She explained to him what it was and how much it meant to scholarship.
She begged him to take it with him and present it to Yale, or Harvard,
or Princeton, or to the Astor library, or to any other institution of
learning to which it might become a possession of glory.
_He slapped her in the face, and with his own hands threw the precious
volumes into the fire._
A nation at war must select its human instruments with regard to their
capacity for fighting, and with very little regard to anything else.
Whether the officer be a gentleman or a blackguard is a matter that
counts for little so long as he knows how to fight.
But I regret that I cannot here record the name of _this_ officer also.
HOW THE SERGEANT-MAJOR TOLD THE TRUTH
So far as I know, the sergeant-major never told a lie in his life; but
he came very near it that night at Grahamville.
Grahamville is a village on the Charleston and Savannah railroad, and
this was in 1862, when the enemy held the sea islands along that coast.
Whenever they landed and advanced toward the railroad, it was our
business to march down and meet them at such points of vantage as the
marshes and causeways afforded.
The battery had been stationed at Grahamville about two months, and, as
the enemy had been inactive all that time, there was nothing whatever
to do; nothing, that is to say, except to practise with pistols on the
bullet-proof hide of an antique alligator, which used to lie upon a
log in the swamp in front of us sunning himself and apparently rather
enjoying the impingement of bullets upon his ribs. We had pretty well
exhausted that amusement; so when the news came that there was to be a
dance at Tucker’s,--about twelve miles in rear of Grahamville,--the
captain, the one lieutenant on duty, and the surgeon promptly accepted
the invitation. They omitted the formality of sending to headquarters
for leave of absence. They simply went.
The sergeant-major, who carried on a voluminous correspondence with
various young women in different parts of the Confederacy, had letters
to write and preferred to remain behind. Besides that, his boots were
broken out on both sides, and his linen coat--the only thing he had
that was cool enough for such an occasion in such a climate--had only
one button on it, and that one a black one sewed on with white thread.
The sergeant-major rather valued himself upon his personal pulchritude,
and preferred solitude in the camp to any unfavorable exhibition of
himself and his wardrobe. So the sergeant-major was left in command of
the battery.
It was on that particular night, of course, that the enemy concluded
to make a threatening landing on the coast below. Hurried orders
came from General Clingman for the battery to move forward at once.
The sergeant-major received the orders, had the assembly blown, and
promptly moved forward with the guns. He was a very earnest and
conscientious young man. That is why he came so near telling lies that
night. He was fond of his officers and very much devoted to their
welfare. It would have gone hard with them had their absence become
known to the commanding general.
As the sergeant-major rode along in the murkiness of a cloudy, Southern
midnight at the head of the battery, General Clingman rode up and
asked, “Where’s your captain?”
“He’s in rear,” said the sergeant-major. Now, strictly speaking,
this was the exact truth. The captain was in rear--twelve or fifteen
miles in rear! Nevertheless the sergeant-major felt an uncomfortable
consciousness that his words conveyed to the mind of the general an
impression that was not quite accurate. When the general inquired
about the one other officer supposed to be on duty at that time, the
sergeant-major replied: “He also is somewhere in rear at the moment.”
You see the sergeant-major was getting used to this sort of thing.
The general replied; “Well, it’s no matter, you can take the orders and
communicate them.”
Thereupon he gave instructions as to the disposition of the guns in
case of a fight. After that he rode to the front. It was his habit to
be at the front as his force approached an enemy.
An hour or two later our returning cavalry reported that the enemy had
returned to his island camp. Our long night march had gone for nothing.
We were a little bit disappointed, but as we had marched during all
the hours of darkness, and as the gray was beginning to split the
eastern sky, we were not very reluctant to turn back towards camp and
breakfast.
But when, soon after the return march began, the sergeant-major saw the
general riding up, he felt a trifle uneasy. You see he was not yet an
artist in prevarication. His life-long habit of telling the truth sat
heavily upon him. Nevertheless, when the general asked for the captain
and lieutenant, the sergeant-major said, with as much of nonchalance
as he could assume: “They’re somewhere in _front_, I think, general,”
and the general rode away satisfied. When the battery reached camp,
the officers had just returned from the dance at Tuckers. They were
frantic with apprehension and rage at finding their command gone to
fight the enemy and they not with it. They were minutely questioning
the camp servants as to the movement. And when the sergeant-major rode
up at the head of the column of guns, they assailed him with a volley
of questions, which, if they had been shells, would have struck the
enemy off any field: the sergeant-major rather enjoyed this part of the
proceeding.
“What kind of a time did you have at Tucker’s?” he asked.
“Oh, confound Tucker’s!” answered the captain. “Speak, can’t you, man,
and tell us about this thing. Did the general ask after us, and what
did you tell him?”
“Well,” answered the sergeant-major, “he did ask, and I told him the
truth, but not the whole truth. My conscience is a little bit bruised
and sore over it, and the next time you fellows go off to a dance
without letting the general know, I’m going to tell him the whole
truth. Is there anything to eat?”
TWO GENTLEMEN AT PETERSBURG
At that point where the great mine was blown up at Petersburg, the
lines of the two armies were within fifty yards of each other.
In the fearful slaughter that ensued, the space between the rival
breastworks was literally piled high with dead men, lying one on top of
the other. Only in one other place, namely, at Cold Harbor, was there
ever so much of slaughter within so small a space.
It was evident, apart from all considerations of decency, that for the
comfort of both sides some arrangement must be made for the burial
of these dead men. Neither side could have lived long in its works
otherwise.
Accordingly, a cartel was arranged between General Grant and General
Lee. It was stipulated that there should be a cessation of hostilities
for a specified number of hours for the purpose of burying the dead.
It was arranged that two lines should be formed twelve feet apart in
the middle of the space between the works; that one line should be
composed of Federal sentinels, the other of Confederates; that the
space between these two lines should be a neutral ground, accessible to
both sides; but that no person from either side should cross the line
established by the other side. It was agreed that the dead men who had
fallen within the Confederate line should be dragged to the neutral
ground by Confederate soldiers, and there delivered to Federal troops
to be carried within their lines for burial.
There were no Confederate dead there, of course. All of our men who had
been killed were killed within our own works. So every corpse on our
side of the neutral ground was dragged by a rope to that common space
and there delivered to its official friends.
It was specially stipulated in the cartel that no officer or soldier on
either side should take advantage of the truce to appropriate property
of any kind lying upon the field, whether upon the one or the other
side of the neutral ground. Swords, pistols, sashes, everything of the
kind must, by agreement, be left precisely where they were.
Many of us, of course, went out to the neutral ground to look over the
situation. There was a certain gruesome delight even in standing upon
ground, where for a month or more it had been impossible for a twig
or a blade of grass to grow without instant decapitation, and where
for months to come it would be equally impossible for anything having
material substance to exist. The very turf itself had been literally
skinned from the surface of the earth by a continuous scything of
bullets. For a month it had been impossible for any soldier on either
side even to shoot over the breastworks, for he who tried to do so
was sure to be instantly destroyed. The fire on either side had to be
through carefully sand-bag-guarded port holes. And even the port holes
had to be protected by hanging blankets behind them to conceal the sky,
lest their darkening by a human head should invite a hailstorm of alert
and waiting bullets.
Of course every man who, during the truce, wandered over this perilous
space for an hour, must have been impressed, if he had any imagination
at all, with the historical interest of the occasion. Every one desired
naturally to carry away some memento of the event. Only one man yielded
to this impulse, and he did so thoughtlessly. He was a captain of
Confederate infantry.
He saw lying on the ground a star that had been cut by a bullet from
some officer’s coat collar.
It was a worthless bauble, valuable only as a souvenir. He picked it up
and pocketed it. Instantly he was arrested by the Confederate guards
and taken before the officer in command of the Confederate line.
That officer immediately and with great dignity went to the Federal
commander and said: “I desire under the terms of the cartel to
surrender this officer to you for such punishment as a court-martial of
your army may see fit to inflict. He has violated the cartel.”
“What has he done?” asked the Federal officer.
“He has taken possession of property left upon the field, contrary to
the terms of the truce.”
“Would you mind telling me,” asked the Federal officer, “the exact
nature and extent of his offence?”
A little explanation followed, the Confederate commander remaining
stern and uncompromising in his determination to deliver the man for
punishment, asking no favors or mercies for him, and offering no
apologies for that which he deemed a breach of honor.
When the Federal officer had learned the exact facts of the
situation, he made the usual military salute and said to the
Confederate commander: “I thank you. You have been very honorable
and very punctilious, but the officer’s fault has been merely one of
inadvertence. I beg to return him to you with the assurance that we
have no desire to punish so brave a man as he must be, in order to
hold his commission in your army, for an act that involved no intention
of wrong.”
Here were two brave men--two gentlemen--met. Naturally they understood
each other.
OLD JONES AND THE HUCKSTER
It is a fixed principle of military law that no person is allowed to
sell supplies within the lines of a camp without permission of the
commandant.
It is also a fixed principle of military law that he must sell only at
prices approved by the commandant.
I shall never forget how I first learned of these military rules. We
were at Camp Onward and old Jones had just become our colonel.
One day a farmer came to the camp with a heavily laden wagon. It was in
the summer of 1861, when food in Northern Virginia was abundant, and
when our money was as good as anybody’s.
Our farmer had among his supplies, dressed turkeys, suckling pigs,
lamb, mutton, watermelons, cantaloupes, string beans, Lima beans, green
peas, and in brief almost all those things that we read about on the
bill of fare of a swagger hotel, kept on the “American Plan.”
He had butter also, and lard. He had eggplants and pumpkins, and a
great many other things.
We were a rather hungry lot, and were strongly inclined to buy of him.