Reminiscences of the Valley.
Y.J. Pope, Adjutant of the Third South Carolina, but then acting as Assistant Adjutant General on General Connor's Staff, gives me here a very ludicrous and amusing account of a "Fox hunt in the valley." [425] A hunt without the hounds or without the fox. No man in Kershaw's Brigade was a greater lover of sport or amusement of any kind than Adjutant Pope. In all our big snow "festivals," where hundreds would engage in the contest of snow-balling, Adjutant Pope always took a leading part. It was this spirit of sport and his mingling with the common soldier, while off duty, that endeared Pope so much to the troop. With his sword and sash he could act the martinet, but when those were laid aside Adjutant Pope was one of the "boys," and engaged a "boat" with them as much as any one in the "Cross Anchors," a company noted for its love of fun.
Says, Adjutant Pope, now a staid Judge on the Supreme Court Bench.
"The Third South Carolina Infantry had been placed on pickets in front of Early in September, 1864. The point at which picket were posted were at two fords on the Opequan River, Captain Dickert, with his company, was posted at some distance from the place where the other portion of the Regiment was posted to cover one of the fords. I can see now the work laid cut for Captain Dickert, ought to have been assigned to the Cavalry for a company of Infantry, say a half mile from the Regiment, might have been surrounded too quickly for the company to be retired or to receive assistance from the Regiment. Well, as it was, no harm came of it for the company held the ford unassailable. A company of the Regiment was placed at a ford on the highway as it crossed the river. While a few officers were enjoying a nice supper here comes an order to call in the companies on picket and to follow the Regiment with all possible speed towards Winchester, to which latter place the army of Early had already gone. Guides were sent to us, and our Regiment had marched by country road until we struck the turn-pike. The march was necessarily rapid lest the Regiment might be assailed by overwhelming numbers of the enemy. The soldiers did not fancy this rapid marching.
To our surprise and horror, after we had reached the turn-pike road, and several miles from our destination, the soldiers set up an imitation of barking, just as if a lot of hounds in close pursuit of a fresh jumped fox. Now any one at all familiar with the characteristic of the soldier know imitation is his weak point, one yell, all yell, [426] one sing, all sing, if one is merry, all are merry. We were near the enemy, and the Colonel knew the necessity of silence, and caution Colonel Rutherford was, of course indignant at this outburst of good humor in the dark watches of the night, and the enemy at our heels or flank. He sent back orders by me (Pope) to pass down the lines and order silence. But 'bow-wow,' 'bow,' 'bow-wow,' 'yelp, yelp,' and every conceivable imitation of the fox hound rent the air. One company on receiving the orders to stop this barking would cease, but others would take it up. 'Bow-wow,' 'toot,' 'toot,' 'yah-oon,' 'yah-oon,' dogs barking, men hollowing, some blowing through their hands to imitate the winding of the huntman's horn. 'Stop this noise,' 'cease your barking,' 'silence,' still the chase continued. 'Go it, Lead,' 'catch him, Frail,' 'Old Drive close to him,' 'hurah Brink,' 'talk to him old boys.' The valley fairly rung, with this chase. Officers even could not refrain from joining in the encouragement to the excited dogs as the noise would rise and swell and echoe through the distant mountain gorges to reverberate up and down the valley—at last wore out by their ceaseless barking and yelling, the noise finally died out, much to the satisfaction of the Colonel commanding, myself and the officers who were trying to stop it. As mortified as I was at my inability to execute the orders of Colonel Rutherford, still I never laughed so much in my life at this ebullition of good feelings of the men, after all their toils and trials, especially as I would hear some one in the line call out as if in the last throes of exhaustion, 'Go on old dog,' 'now you are on him,' 'talk to him, old Ranger.' What the Yankees thought of this fox chase at night in the valley, or what their intentions might have been is not known, but they would have been mighty fools to have tackled a lot of old 'Confeds' out on a lark at night."
The negro cooks of the army were a class unique in many ways. While he was a slave, he had far more freedom than his master, in fact had liberties that his master's master did not possess. It was the first time in the South's history that a negro could roam at will, far and wide, without a pass. He could ride his dead master's horse from Virginia to Louisiana without molestation. On the march the country was his, and so long as he was not in the way of moving bodies of troops, the highways were open to him. He was never jostled or pushed [427] aside by stragglers, and received uniform kindness and consideration from all. The negro was conscious of this consideration, and never took advantage of his peculiar station to intrude upon any of the rights or prerogatives exclusively the soldier's. He could go to the rear when danger threatened, or to the front when it was over. No negro ever deserted, and the fewest number ever captured. His master might fall upon the field, or in the hands of the enemy, but the servant was always safe. While the negro had no predilection for war in its realities, and was conspicuous by his absence during the raging of the battles, still he was among the first upon the field when it was over, looking after the dead and wounded. At the field hospitals and infirmaries, he was indispensable, obeying all, serving all, without question or complaint. His first solicitude after battle was of his master's fate—if dead, he sought him upon the field; if wounded, he was soon at his side. No mother could nurse a child with greater tenderness and devotion than the dark-skinned son of the South did his master.
At the breaking out of the war almost every mess had a negro cook, one of the mess furnishing the cook, the others paying a proportional share for hire; but as the stringency of the Subsistence Department began to grow oppressive, as the war wore on, many of these negroes were sent home. There was no provision made by the department for his keep, except among the officers of the higher grade; so the mess had to share their rations with the cook, or depend upon his ability as a "forager." In the later years of the war the country occupied by the armies became so devastated that little was left for the "forager." Among the officers, it was different. They were allowed two rations (only in times of scarcity they had to take the privates' fare). This they were required to pay for at pay day, and hence could afford to keep a servant. Be it said to the credit of the soldiers of the South, and to their servants as well, that during my four years and more of service I never heard of, even during times of the greatest scarcity, a mess denying the cook an equal share of the scanty supply, or a servant ever found stealing a soldier's rations. There was a mutual feeling of kindness and honesty between the two. If all the noble, generous and loyal acts of the negroes of the army could be recorded, it would fill no insignificant volume.
There was as much cast among the negroes, in fact more, as among the soldiers. In times of peace and at home, the negro based his claims of cast upon the wealth of his master. But in the army, rank of his master overshadowed wealth. The servant of a Brigadier felt royal as compared to that of a Colonel, and the servant of a Colonel, or even a Major, was far ahead, in superiority and importance, to those belonging to the privates and line officers. The negro is naturally a hero worshiper. He gloried in his master's fame, and while it might often be different, in point of facts, still to the negro his master was "the bravest of the brave."
As great "foragers" as they were, they never ventured far in front while on the advance, nor lingered too dangerously in the rear on the retreat. They hated the "Yankee" and had a fear of capture. One day while we were camped near Charlestown an officer's cook wandered too far away in the wrong direction and ran up on the Federal pickets. Jack had captured some old cast-off clothes, some garden greens and an old dominicker rooster. Not having the remotest idea of the topography of the country, he very naturally walked into the enemy's pickets. He was halted, brought in and questioned. The Federals felt proud of their capture, and sought to conciliate Jack with honeyed words and great promises. But Jack would have none of it.
"Well, look er here," said Jack, looking suspiciously around at the soldiers; "who you people be, nohow?"
"We are Federal soldiers," answered the picket.
"Well, well, is you dem?"
"Dem who?" asked the now thoroughly aroused Federal.
"Why dem Yankees, ob course—dem dat cotched Mars Clayt."
The Federal admitted they were "Yankees," but that now Jack had no master, that he was free.
"Is dat so?" Then scratching his head musingly, Jack said at last, "I don know 'bout dat—what you gwine do wid me, anyhow; what yer want?"
He was told that he must go as a prisoner to headquarters first, and then dealt with as contrabands of war.
"Great God Almighty! white folks, don't talk dat er way." The negro had now become thoroughly frightened, and with a sudden impulse he threw the chicken at the soldier's feet, saying, "Boss, ders a [429] rooster, but here is me," then with the speed of a startled deer Jack "hit the wind," to use a vulgarism of the army.
"Halt! halt!"—bang, whiz, came from the sentinel, the whole picket force at Jack's heels. But the faithful negro for the time excelled himself in running, and left the Federals far behind. He came in camp puffing, snorting, and blowing like a porpoise. "Great God Almighty! good people, talk er 'bout patter-rollers, day ain't in it. If dis nigger didn't run ter night, den don't talk." Then Jack recounted his night's experience, much to the amusement of the listening soldiers.
Occasionally a negro who had served a year or two with his young master in the army, would be sent home for another field of usefulness, and his place taken by one from the plantation. While a negro is a great coward, he glories in the pomp and glitter of war, when others do the fighting. He loves to tell of the dangers (not sufferings) undergone, the blood and carnage, but above all, how the cannon roared round and about him.
A young negro belonging to an officer in one of the regiments was sent home, and his place as cook was filled by Uncle Cage, a venerable looking old negro, who held the distinguished post of "exhorter" in the neighborhood. His "sister's chile" had filled Uncle Cage's head with stories of war—of the bloodshed on the battlefield, the roar of cannon, and the screaming of shells over that haven of the negro cooks, the wagon yards—but to all the blood and thunder stories of his "sister's chile" Uncle Cage only shook his head and chuckled, "Dey may kill me, but dey can't skeer dis nigger." Among the other stories he had listened to was that of a negro having his head shot off by a cannon ball. Sometime after Uncle Cage's installation as cook the enemy made a demonstration as if to advance. A few shells came over our camp, one bursting in the neighborhood of Uncle Cage, while he was preparing the morning meal for his mess.
Some of the negroes and more prudent non-combattants began to hunt for the wagon yard, but Uncle Cage remained at his post. He was just saying:
"Dese yer young niggers ain't no account; dey's skeered of dere own shad—"
"Boom, boom," a report, and a shell explodes right over his head, throwing fragments all around.
Uncle Cage made for the rear, calling out as he ran, "Oh, dem cussed Yankees! You want er kill er nudder nigger, don't you?" Seeing the men laughing as he passed by in such haste, he yelled back defiantly, "You can laff, if you want to, but ole mars ain't got no niggers to fling away."
"Red tape" prevailed to an alarming extent in the War Department, and occasionally a paroxysm of this disease would break out among some of the officers of the army, especially among the staff, "West Pointers," or officers of temporary high command—Adjutant Pope gives his experience, with one of those afflicted functionaries, "Where as Adjutant of the Third South Carolina," says he, I had remained as such from May, 1862, till about the 1st of September, 1864, an order came from brigade headquarters, for me to enter upon the responsibilities of acting Assistant Adjutant General of Kershaw's Brigade. When General Connor was disabled soon after, and the Senior Colonel of the brigade, present for duty, the gallant William D. Rutherford, received his death-wound, General Kershaw, commanding division, sent the Assistant Adjutant General of the division, (a staff officer), Major James M. Goggans, to command the brigade. About the 17th of October there came a delegation to brigade headquarters, to learn, if possible, whether there could be obtained a leave of absence for a soldier, whose wife was dead, leaving a family of children to be provided for.
I was a sympathetic man, and appreciated the sad condition of the poor soldier, who had left his all to serve his country, and now had at home, a house full of motherless children. I said "wait till I see the brigade commander," and went to Major Goggans, relating the circumstances, and was assured of his approval of the application for leave of absence in question. This news, the spokesman of the delegation, gladly carried back to the anxiously awaiting group. Soon papers were brought to headquarters, signed by all the officers below. When the papers were carried by me to the brigade commander for his approval, it raised a storm, so to speak, in the breast of the newly appointed, but temporary Chieftain. "Why do you bring me this paper to sign this time of day?" it being in the afternoon. "Do you not know [431] that all papers are considered at nine o'clock A.M.?" In future, and as long as I am in command of the Brigade, I want it understood that under no considerations and circumstances, I wish papers to be signed, brought to me before or after nine o'clock A.M. The faces of the officers composing the delegation, when the news was brought to them, plainly expressed their disgust; they felt, at the idea, that no grief, however great, would be considered by the self-exalted Chief; except as the clock struck nine in the morning.
Circumstances and occurrences of this kind were so rare and exceptional, that I record the facts given by Judge Pope, to expose an exception to the general rule of gentlemanly deportment of one officer to another, so universal throughout the army. The kindness, sympathy and respect that superiors showed to subalterns and privates became almost a proverb. While in a reminiscent mood, I will give a story of two young officers as given by the writer of the above. He claims to have been an eye witness and fully competent to give a true recital. It is needless to say that the writer of these memoirs was one of the participants, and as to the story itself, he has only a faint recollection, but the sequel which he will give is vivid enough, even after the lapse of a third of a century. Judge Pope writes, "It is needless to say that the Third South Carolina Regiment had a half-score or more young officers, whose conduct in battle had something to do with giving prestige to the regiment, whose jolly good nature, their almost unparallel reciprocal love of officers and men, helped to give tone and recognition to it, their buoyancy of spirits, their respect for superiors and kindness and indulgence to their inferiors, endeared them to all—the whole command seemed to embibe of their spirit of fun, mischief and frolic." Captains L.W. Gary, John W. Watts, John K. Nance, Lieutenants Farley and Wofford, Adjutant Pope and others, whom it may be improper to mention here, (and I hope I will not be considered egotistical or self praise, to include myself), were a gay set. Their temperatures and habits, in some instances, were as wide as the poles, but there was a kind of affinity, a congeniality of spirits between them, that they were more like brothers in reality than brothers in arms, and all might be considered a "chip of the old block." Nor would our dearly beloved, kind, generous hearted Colonel [432] Rutherford, when off duty, feel himself too much exalted to take a "spin with the boys" when occasions and circumstances admitted. Many, many have been the jolly carousals these jolly knights enjoyed while passing through some town or city. The confinement and restrictions of camp life induced them, when off duty and in some city, to long for a "loosening of the bit" and an ebullition of their youthful spirits.
Judge Pope, continuing, says: "In the spring of 1864 Longstreet's soldiers were ordered from East Tennessee, to join Lee in Virginia, and it follows that there was joy in the camp among the soldiers, for who does not love Virginia? In route the command was halted in Lynchburg, and what was more natural for the fun-loving, jovial members of the old brigade, after being isolated so long, cut off from civilization as it seemed to them, shut up in the gorges of the mountains, than to long for a breath of fresh air—to wish for the society and enjoy the hospitality of the fair ladies of old Virginia, especially the quaint old city of Lynchburg. With such feelings, two handsome and gallant Captains of the Third Regiment applied for and obtained leave of absence for the day. I will call this jolly couple John and Gus. To say that these two young Captains—one of the right and the other of the left color company—were birds rare, would scarce express it. They were both in their 'teens,' and small of statue withal. They were two of the youngest, as well as the smallest, officers in the brigade. Notwithstanding their age and build, they would not hesitate to take a 'bout' with the strongest and the largest. As one would say to the other, 'When your wind fails you, I will leg him.' Now, these two knights, out on a lark and lookout for adventure, did not hesitate to shie their castors in the ring and cross lances the first opportunity presented. No doubt, after being a while with the famous Sancho Panza at the wine skins, they could see as many objects, changed through enchantment, as the Master Dan Quixote did, and demanded a challenge from them. In walking up a side street in the city, they, as by enchantment, saw walking just in front of them, a burly, stout built man, dressed out in the finest broad cloth coat. What a sight for a soldier to see! a broad cloth coat!" and he a young man of the army age. Ye gods was it possible. Did their [433] eyes deceive them, or had they forgotten this was a Sabbath day, and the city guard was accustomed to wear his Sunday clothes. There were a set of semi-soldiers in some cities known as "city guards," whose duties consisted of examining soldier's furloughs and passes in cities and on trains. Their soft places and fine clothes were poison to the regular soldiers, and between whom, a friendly and good natured feud existed. There was another set that was an abomination to both, the gambler, who, by money or false papers, exempted themselves. Richmond was their city of refuge, but now and then one would venture out into a neighboring town.
"'Come out of that coat; can't wear that in the city to-day,' was the first salutation the jolly knights gave the fine dressed devotee of the blue cloth.
"'What, do you wish to insult me?' indignantly replied the man, turning and glaring at the two officers with the ferocity of a tiger.
"'Oh, no,' says John, 'we want that coat;' and instinctively the young Captains lay hands upon the garment that gave so much offense.
"'Hands off me, you cowardly young ruffians!'
"'Oh, come out of that coat,' replied the jolly couple.
"'Rip, rip,' went the coat; 'biff, biff,' went the non-combattant's fist. Right and left he struck from the shoulders, to be replied to with equal energy by the fists of the young men.
"'Rip, rip,' goes the coat, 'bang, biff,' goes the fists. Down in the street, over in the gutter, kicks and blows, still 'rip, rip,' goes the coat.
"'Help!' cries the non-combatant.
"'Yes,' cries Gus, 'help with the coat John.'
"The noise gathered the crowd. With the crowd came Lieutenant H.L. Farley. The burly frame of Farley soon separated the fighters. The gambler seeing his hopelessness in the face of so much odds, rose to his feet, and made a dash for liberty, leaving in the hands of each of the boys a tail of the much prized coat, all 'tattered and torn.' The gambler made quite a ludicrous picture, streaking it through town with his coat-tails off."
This is Pope's story, but I will here tell the sequel which was not near so amusing to me.
Sometime afterwards, the writer and participant in the fray of the [434] "coat-tail" was slightly wounded, and was sent to Lynchburg to the hospital, formerly a Catholic college, if I am not mistaken. After being there for a time with my wounded brother officers (this was a hospital for officers alone) I became sufficiently convalescent to feel like a stroll through the city. I felt a little tender, lest I might meet unexpectedly my unknown antagonist and erstwhile hostile enemy; but one night I accepted the invitation of a tall, robust-built Captain from Tennessee (a room-mate, and also convalescent from a slight wound) to take a stroll. Being quite small, friendless, and alone, I did not object to this herculean chaperone. After tiring of the stroll, we sauntered into a soldier's cheap restaurant and called for plates. While we were waiting the pleasure of "mine host," the tread of footsteps and merry laughter of a crowd of jolly roisters met our ears, and in walked some soldiers in the garb of "city police," and with the crowd was my man of the "long coat-tail." My heart sank into the bottom of my boots, my speech failed me, and I sat stupified, staring into space. Should he recognize me, then what? My thought ran quick and fast. I never once expected help from my old Tennessean. As we were only "transient" acquaintances, I did not think of the brotherhood of the soldier in this emergency. The man of the "long coat" approached our table and raised my hat, which, either by habit or force of circumstances, I will not say, I had the moment before pulled down over my eyes.
"Hey, my fine young man, I think I know you. Aren't you the chap that torn my coat sometime ago? Answer me, sir," giving me a vigorous shake on the shoulder. "You are the very d——n young ruffian that did it, and I am going to give you such a thrashing as you will not forget."
I have never yet fully decided what answer I was going to make—whether I was going to say yes, and ask his pardon, with the risk of a thrashing, or deny it—for just at that moment the "tall sycamore of the Holston" reached out with his fist and dealt my assailant a blow sufficient to have felled an ox of the Sweetwater. Sending the man reeling across the room, the blood squirting and splattering, he said:
"Gentlemen, I came here with this boy, and whoever whips him has first got to walk my log, and that is what few people can do."
The old "sycamore" from Tennessee looked to me at that precious moment as tall as a church steeple, and fully as large around. In all my whole life never was a man's presence so agreeable and his services so acceptable. It gave me a confidence in myself I never felt before nor since. His manly features and giant-like powers acted like inspiration upon me, and I felt for the time like a Goliath myself, and rose to my feet to join in the fray. But my good deliverer pushed me back and said:
"Stand aside, young man, I have tickets for both in here," and with that he began to wield his mighty blows first here and then there—first one and then another went staggering across the room, until the crowd gathered outside and put an end to the frolic. No explanations were given and none asked. Taking me by the arm, the big Captain led me away, saying, after we had gone some little distance:
"Young man, that was a narrow escape you made, and it was lucky I was on hand."
He spoke with so much candor and logic, that I did not have the heart nor disposition to doubt or contradict it.
I would be willing to qualify before a grand jury to my dying day that I had had a close call.