IN VIRGINIA UNDER GENERAL POPE
A ride in the Confederate doctor’s “One horse Chaise.” Living off the country. Learning the distance to Germania Ford. The Second Battle of Bull Run. The Battle of Chantilly.
While we remained at Newport News we had a rather pleasant time. We drilled a little, we played ball a good deal, we ate quahog clams, we received boxes from home filled with good things, and we swam in the waters of the bay; the sun was very hot, but there was always a good breeze.
One of the boys, a rather awkward fellow, received a box from home. It contained among other things a box of dried prunes; he stewed some of them for sauce. He had no more than got them finished when the order was given to fall in for inspection. In his haste he upset his pan of sauce on his gun and equipments; line was formed and along came the colonel, the captain and the inspecting officer. He presented his gun to the inspecting officer; but to the surprise and horror of the officer, his gloves of immaculate whiteness, were covered with a soft brown sticky substance. He looked at his gloves for an instant, and with an oath demanded “What is that?” and the king of the awkward squad made answer, “It is nothin’ but stewed prunes.” For an instant military discipline was powerless, but the man was sent to his quarters and was later dealt with.
By the last of July the report was abroad that we were to leave soon and instead of going up the James River to reinforce McClellan, as we expected to do, on the 3d of August we started to join Pope. We sailed up the Potomac to Aquia Creek. We landed on the 4th, and took train for Fredericksburg, arriving there in a short time and went into camp about a mile from the town.
There we remained until the 12th, and who of the 21st boys does not remember how we enjoyed the delicious fresh spring water that was so abundant there, after drinking the North Carolina surface water?
Directly after our arrival there, heavy picket posts were sent out on all the roads leading to the camp. I was in the detail which was established near the village of Falmouth, a little pine grove near the house of the local physician furnished us a fine camp ground. The physician was a man about sixty years old, of one of the “first families of Virginia,” and “secesh” through and through. Occasionally he would come over to our camp and talk with us. He was free to concede that his sympathies were with the South, and spoke with freedom of the superiority of the southerner; he was very certain the Confederacy would be established. We answered his assertions respectfully, but quietly determined to give the old man a jolt if we had a chance. The night before we left there, Harding Witt appeared at my tent door at about three o’clock in the morning; the way was clear. A colored boy, one of the doctors’ servants who had engaged to co-operate with us for a consideration, had just been over and informed Harding that the doctor had been hastily called to Fredericksburg and would not return until afternoon the next day. It had been predetermined that if possible we would have a ride in the old man’s chaise. He had a good horse, and the chaise was large enough to hold three of us on a pinch. The party was to consist of Harding, Billy and myself and we were speedily on the way. As we approached the house we found the negro waiting for us; he then led the way by a back path to the rear of the buildings. The horse was soon harnessed into the chaise, and led by the same path down to the road. Billy unrolled a bundle of small United States flags he had got from the sutler and we proceeded to decorate that team as it was never decorated before, then we loaded in and started for camp. We reached there just as ranks were broken after the morning roll call. We rode up and down the parade ground a few times, then drove over into the company street and received the congratulations of our friends; then went for a drive and rode back again. When we reached the doctor’s house we told his wife, it was President Lincoln’s birthday and we thought we would take a ride to celebrate the occasion; besides we were concerned about the horse, lest he should become foundered standing in the barn so long without exercise. She called us a band of horse thieves, barbarians and vandals, and gave us a number of other pet names which have escaped me. We fully expected to be disciplined for this prank, but not an officer of the regiment saw us and not a word of reproof was ever said to one of us about the affair. It is needless to say the doctor did not honor us with a call that day and towards night we moved on, starting on a night’s march towards Culpepper Court House—now marching, now standing still, dragging slowly along over one of the worst conceivable roads and not making more than ten miles during the whole night.
In the early morning of the 13th, we halted and had coffee. After a rest of three or four hours we started on again and by night when we went into camp we were within a few miles of Bealton station; rations were issued and we were taken on some freight cars and carried to Culpepper Court House. What a railroad that was? We covered the cars inside and out, we could not have run at the rate of more than eight or ten miles an hour, but that speed seemed dangerous. The cars swung, bumped and rolled along. I expected every minute they would leave the track, but they did not, and about the middle of the afternoon we reached Culpepper Court House. We marched through the town out a little way into the country and camped for the night. August the 15th we moved forward again in the afternoon about five or six miles and camped near the battlefield of Cedar Mountain. We had then become a part of General Pope’s army, a part of which was in camp near by, and we immediately proceeded to take advantage of Pope’s General Order No. 10, which allowed the army to live off of the country.
The land was not overflowing with milk and honey; the cows, what there were of them, were kept milked pretty dry. However, the next day after we reached that neighborhood, a party of our boys did get a hive of bees, and another party to which the writer belonged succeeded in capturing a sheep. We had plenty of pork and bread, and with mutton and honey added, we lived very well.
One afternoon while we were there, Harding Witt and I started out for a walk to see what there was to be seen going over towards the battlefield. We had just passed a deserted log house with a dead horse lying in front of it, when we overtook a long, lank, lean woman; she had a boy about eight years old with her. She had a large bundle of bedding on her head; in one hand she had a basket full of cooking utensils and was holding onto the bundle with the other.
As we approached she called out to James, who was heavily loaded with household things, “Geems, whorey up, you are so slow!”
“Who lives in that house we have just passed?” said I, pointing to the log cabin.
“I did.”
“Were you there during the fight?”
“Guess I was.”
“Where was your husband?”
“He war dead.”
“Was he killed in the battle?”
“No, big Pete Jones killed him about two months ago.”
“How far is it to Germania Ford?”
“Two skips and a right long jump ar reckon,” and Harding and I trudged along as we had learned the distance to Germania Ford.
By the 16th, it became interesting and picturesque to see the Johnnies signaling in the evening from every hilltop on the other side of the Rapidan; we seemed to be very near them—almost among them.
The afternoon of the 18th, things looked very ominous; great clouds of dust could be seen rising all along the southern horizon; our trains were moving to the rear; large masses of provisions were being destroyed. Just about sunset Confederate troops could be seen on the high ground on the other side of the river, and as darkness came on, the southern and southwestern sky became illuminated, indicating camps of an army. Signaling, too, was carried on vigorously from the hilltops. During the afternoon we were told that the army was to fall back to the north side of the Rappahannock and that our brigade was to act as rear guard. The first part of the night dragged slowly along and it was past midnight before we got started, but the road was clear, and once under way we moved rapidly.
Our regiment led the brigade on this march and as we approached a road that led to Raccoon Ford a little way off to the right, General Reno rode up to the head of the column and showed some anxiety. The Confederates had something of a force at Raccoon Ford and he, I imagine, knew we were running pretty close to them. They did not attempt to disturb us, however; they very likely did not know we were passing so near them, and we sped along, reaching Kelley’s Ford about noon the 19th, having marched a distance of twenty-three miles.
The last mile before we reached the ford the road ran along near the river bank. It was hot and dusty, and the sight of that cool fresh water was too great a temptation for three of us boys, so down we went, stripped off and took a duck. We had no more than got into the water when we heard firing just behind us. The Johnnies’ cavalry had overtaken us and had opened fire on the boys up in the road. We caught up our clothing and trappings and ran along beside the river under the bank up to the ford not more than half a mile and there dressed ourselves, then went and joined the regiment which was nearing the ford. The attack did not amount to anything. We soon crossed the river and went into camp.
The thing that interested us most while at the ford, was the attacks by the Confederate cavalry on our cavalry pickets that were stationed in the wood on the farther side of a very large field, on the south side of the river. The Johnnies attacked and drove in our pickets two or three times. To see the two forces manoeuvre on that field was interesting; if the enemy came too near the ford a battery of artillery, stationed on high ground near us on the north side of the river, would open fire on the Johnnies and send them scurrying back into the wood again. We remained at the ford two days.
Early in the morning of the 22d, we left Kelley’s Ford, going up the river. Soon we heard artillery firing ahead but it did not last long. We soon passed through Rappahannock station where there were a lot of dead horses lying about, probably the result of the firing we had heard early in the morning. In the early morning of the 23d there was heavy artillery firing at Rappahannock station again. The commissary stores there were burned and I think the place had been evacuated. Clouds of dust may be seen off on the southwest and western horizon; artillery and infantry firing in front and to our left may be heard most of the time. We fired off and cleaned our guns and reloaded them again. All the signs indicate that we are drifting toward a battle.
August 24. We started on the march early, but after going a little way turned into a pasture and halted, a fine steer was driven up and killed; in an hour all the eatable part of that creature had been consumed. There was a large field of corn nearby to which we helped ourselves, and we had as good a breakfast as any fellow ever needed. About ten o’clock heavy artillery firing opened in front of us. A squad of Confederate prisoners passed us going to the rear. There is firing on three sides of us, in front, to the left and in our rear. We are going slowly along now, marching two or three miles, then halting for an hour or two.
We were ordered to support a battery that was firing across the river at a Confederate battery. A lot of our sharpshooters along the river bank were firing away too. Directly the Confederate guns were silenced but the river was between us; it was high, there was no ford nearby and we were obliged to leave the guns there. As we moved along during the afternoon, some ambulances loaded with wounded men passed us going to the rear. “Where were you hit?” asked one of the boys. “Passing the time of day with some cavalry on the other side of the river,” was the answer received. At night we camped near our train and had some coffee, the first we had had since leaving Kelley’s Ford.
About eight o’clock the morning of the 25th we left camp, soon passing a bridge across the river on fire, then a dead negro lying beside the road. Some of the boys examined him and said his flesh was still warm. Those clouds of dust are still visible off to the left. We passed through the town of Warrenton about noon, then marched till midnight. How the boys growled! And how they swore! Weren’t we a tired lot when we halted! It seemed as if we would go to sleep marching. When we halted we took a few steps to the side of the road and dropped. We learned the next morning that we were at Warrenton Junction, where we stayed all day.
Leaving camp early in the morning of August 27, we marched part way back to Warrenton, just for exercise, very likely. The reports circulated about Stonewall Jackson being bagged and the like on this campaign are so common that they have come to be the laughing-stock of every one. We marched most of the day and halted at night at the village of Greenwich. Just before we went into camp, Billy started off across the fields a’foraging. When he returned he brought with him a basket of turnips. He gave me three of them and that night I cooked and ate them. Well, it seemed to me that I never ate anything in my life that went to the right spot like those turnips. Cannonading in our front and clouds of dust rising off to the west and north on the horizon are almost continuous, and once more comes the report that Stonewall Jackson is caught at last. It is a mistake to think that the private soldiers are not, after a certain amount of experience, able to size up their commanders in a fairly correct way. If there is a master mind at the head, they know it very quickly, and it did not take the men of the 21st long to discover that there was no master mind at the head at that time. So much backing and filling, so much talking about bagging that old fox, Stonewall Jackson, soon became a matter of ridicule and all our dependence was placed in General Reno.
August 28. We started early in the morning in the direction of Manassas Junction, reaching there about noon to find it had been burned. The storehouse and the trains of cars, all loaded with supplies, were in smouldering ruins. A few dead rebels lying about was the only redeeming feature. Late in the afternoon we started for Bull Run and when we camped in the evening, we were under the impression that we were in the immediate neighborhood of the old Bull Run battlefield.
August 29. We started early in the morning, passed through Auburn and headed direct for the firing line; it sounded as if a battle was under way. A lot of paroled prisoners passed us going to the rear as we moved along. We soon reached a high hill to the top of which we climbed. We had a fine view of the center and right center of the Confederate line, but where the Union army was I have not the remotest idea. Occasionally a brigade would be sent into the wood, down to our right center, would be cut to pieces and come out again. General Reno did not leave us for a moment.
At about noon three batteries of artillery came up onto the hill and we took position in their rear as their support. A little later in the afternoon, the first brigade of our division, was sent into the wood on our right center, but soon came out broken and mangled and they were followed by the Johnnies, who pressed forward to capture the artillery in our front, but the artillery was too much for them. They in turn were sent back in confusion. Then the Johnnies massed a lot of artillery in our front and opened fire on the batteries we were supporting, and for an hour or an hour and a half the shot and shell came over there thick and fast and more of it. Two cannon of our batteries were dismounted, one ammunition caisson was blown up and a number of horses were killed. We were right in range, and got the full benefit of it. This was one of the instances where we were under fire but could do nothing ourselves, but lay there and take it—every fellow trying to see how close to the ground he could get.
Toward evening we were ordered in; the brigade was moved down onto the slope in front of the artillery, then we halted. We remained there a little while and returned to our place in the rear of the batteries. We were told General Reno had seen General Pope, and had convinced him that to send our brigade in there unsupported would be needless slaughter. Just at dusk we witnessed off to our left a minor action that characterized the whole battle. A battery of artillery was placed on some raised ground and was firing away; it was supported by a single regiment of infantry. All at once we saw a Confederate line of pickets creeping up on the battery. By picking off the gunners they soon had the battery silenced. Then a strong line of Confederate infantry advanced; the regiment of infantry in support moved forward, but they were dispersed and the battery was taken. Thus ended the first day’s fight so far as we saw it.
After that, we drew back a little way and had some supper; some of the boys made fires and cooked some coffee. One of them while standing over the fire, his legs spread apart fixing his coffee cup, had the cup knocked from his hand. A Johnny sharpshooter had fired from a distance at the fire; the ball, passing between the man’s legs, hit the cup; the fires were put out directly after that.
August 30. Everything remained quiet until the middle of the afternoon, then the Confederates began an advance on the left. There were a few troops there to face them, but not many. There seemed to be no head to, and no order in our forces, and the Johnnies with their long lines of battle well massed, moved forward with but slight opposition. As they advanced they threatened our position and we fell back to another hill farther in the rear. Toward dusk we moved off to the left in double quick time. We stopped and left our knapsacks in a little grove as we went along. We knew then there was business ahead, but we were ready for it as long as General Reno was with us, for we had entire confidence in him. He had hardly been out of our sight these last two days. We came on to a main road, followed it along a short distance, crossed a bridge over a small stream, moved to the left up on to a low hill and formed a line of battle; we were told to hold that bridge.
As we moved to our positions we were exposed to the enemy’s artillery and lost a few men, but we were undisturbed.
General McDowell, that picturesque figure with the great mass of snow-white hair, and General Milroy, were on the hill when we arrived, and seemed delighted with the appearance of the brigade and its timely arrival. Two batteries of artillery were immediately brought up and put in position by General Reno. We had not long to wait. Sharp picket firing soon gave notice that our skirmish line was attacked and was falling back, and we heard troops forming down in the wood in front of us; and soon on they came to the attack. Twice during the evening they charged up that hill, the first time a single line of battle, the second time two lines of battle deep, and each time they were repulsed with great loss. They hardly fired a gun, and we did not open fire until they were within three or four rods of us. Then we gave it to them in good earnest, the artillery with double charges of canister. We almost swept them from the hill. They went down in dozens, and retreated a broken and disorganized mass.
Late in the evening the Johnnies made an attack on the left flank of the 51st New York that was on our left. We changed position and assisted the 51st in repulsing the attack.
Later, the Confederates advanced a skirmish line to see if we were still there. They found us there. Toward midnight there was every appearance that they had given up trying to take the hill that night. It was quiet all along the line save for the groans of the wounded and dying men that covered the slope in front of us. It was a beautiful night, and to lie there and listen to the appeals of those poor fellows and be unable to do anything for them was heartrending. Toward midnight we stole quietly away, first moving the cannon back by hand.
General Hill in his report of the second battle of Bull Run stated his loss in the attack on the Henry House Hill the evening of August 30, 1862, as 600 men.
It is impossible to refrain from giving an account of Dr. Cutter’s experience in this battle.
Early in the afternoon of the 29th when the first brigade of our division was ordered in, Dr. Cutter went in with it. He was at the time acting as division surgeon. The first brigade got into a bad place, lost heavily and was forced back. As they began to retreat Dr. Cutter drew his sword and tried to hold the men up to their work. At that moment he was seen to fall to the ground and was supposed to be killed. A few minutes later, however, he regained consciousness and looking about saw a Confederate soldier standing over him and apparently about to run him through with his bayonet. Dr. Cutter pointed to his green sash and warned the soldier against killing a non-combatant. “But you have a sword in your hand now,” replied the soldier. A Confederate officer coming up at the moment ordered the soldier to move on and took the doctor to the rear. He then discovered what had happened. He had not been wounded at all. A bullet had struck the buckle plate of his waist belt and knocked the breath from his body, the effect of which having now passed off, he offered to assist in taking care of the wounded. This he was allowed to do and worked with the Confederate hospital staff all the afternoon taking care of the wounded, both Confederate and Union.
The Confederates were not slow in discovering that Dr. Cutter was a man of exceptional knowledge and ability and, when night came on, the gray headed old man was taken to General Hills’ headquarters and treated as an honored guest. During the evening he told the Confederate officers gathered flatly who he was, and advanced his abolition ideas with perfect freedom. The Confederates saw that they had in their midst one of the fathers of Abolitionism in Massachusetts; that they were having the other side presented by one qualified to speak. It was a novel situation. They were at the time confident in the success of their cause, and, while they laughed at his strictures, they encouraged him to go on and listened to him nearly the whole night.
The evening of the second day’s fight Dr. Cutter, still a prisoner, was in the vicinity and witnessed the massing of troops for the assault on the Henry House Hill and somehow had an intuition that it was the old second brigade that defended the hill, but not until well into the night did news reach headquarters that the Henry House Hill was defended by Reno’s command. This delighted the old doctor. He made the Confederates acknowledge they got all they wanted and then told them who gave it to them.
The second battle of Bull Run was a disastrous battle for General Pope and the “Army of Virginia” but not for the old second brigade. We had checked the enemy’s advance at a most critical moment, for as we moved back to Centreville that night we found the road choked with trains and artillery, much of which must have fallen into the enemy’s hands had they not been stopped at the time. As it was they made no further effort to advance after the engagement at the bridge until the next day. Meanwhile our artillery and trains got straightened out and well out of their way.
Nothing of importance occurred to us on the 31st. We lay quietly in camp near Centreville the whole day.
September 1st, about two o’clock, we broke camp and started towards Fairfax Courthouse. As we started off, the report got around among the boys that Stonewall Jackson was in our rear, or threatened our communications with Washington. About four o’clock as we were marching along we heard a bugle on a small ridge to the left and in front of us. On looking up we saw a cornfield, and the upper edge of it filled with Johnnies picking green corn. We were not more than a fourth of a mile from them and could see individual men distinctly. We halted and loaded our guns. Then we moved along past the Johnnies leaving them to our left, they disappearing behind the ridge. We soon came to some wood lying in front and extending off to the left. The 51st New York entered the wood ahead of us with a picket line advancing in front of it. It was soon evident that each command had lost all connection with the other, and was advancing no one knew where or why. The 21st seemed to have obliqued to the left of the 51st. We then came upon a line of Johnnies. We, thinking them to be the 51st, did not open fire until we received a most murderous fire from them. In the meantime a heavy thunderstorm had come up, and we were soaked to our skins. My gun went all right the first time, but it was impossible to load it in such a downpour. I then got out my revolver and fired away with that. Every one who had a revolver fell back on that when his gun refused fire I expect. Captain Walcott seeing his men could not keep up much of a fire drew his revolver, stepped in front of his company and opened fire. When he had emptied his revolver he glanced around for his men,—they had gone. It was the same in all the companies, with their guns out of order, they could do nothing but fall back. We left a lot of poor fellows in that wood for whom nothing could be done but to bury their lifeless bodies. A little way back we re-formed and marched back to the edge of the wood.
As we emerged from the wood General Phil Kearney rode up and ordered us to advance through the fields to the left of the wood we had just come out of, without a moment in which to put our guns in order. By that time it had stopped raining and the colonel begged for a few minutes that the men might put their guns in order, but without avail. Kearney could not be reasoned with and swore that if we did not move at once he would have the regiment put under arrest, and forward we went. It was then getting dark, and all we could see was lines of fire off to the left; we soon entered a cornfield and marched nearly through it. At the farther side was a Virginia rail-fence, beyond that, was a pasture half grown up. As we arrived within three or four rods of the rail-fence the order was given to halt and no sooner did we halt than the enemy opened fire from behind the rail-fence. What could we do? Not one in ten of our muskets was serviceable. Those who had revolvers used them; I used mine for the second time that day. We stood there a minute or two and then we retreated. When the Johnnies saw we were unable to return their fire they appreciated the situation and over and through the fence they came to capture prisoners, and before I knew it one of them was quite near me shouting: “Halt, throw down your gun,” etc. But I did not halt, nor did I throw down my gun, but I did run and he ran after me. I soon decided in my mind that he was not gaining on me, then I thought I was increasing the distance between us; directly, I discovered a ditch in front of me. It looked very wide. My shoes were loaded with Virginia mud; could I jump it? I realized that everything depended on that jump, and I made a great effort. I struck the farther edge just far enough on to balance over, picked myself up and started off up the other slope. Glancing back, I saw the Johnny who had chased me ordering some of our boys out of the ditch; they had made the fatal error of trying to secrete themselves in that ditch. I kept on going to the rear, until I reached the part of the field from which we started on that last advance with General Kearney; then I began to hunt around to find the boys.
General Kearney went in with us as we advanced into and through the cornfield; he rode along beside the colonel. When we got to within about four rods of the fence, the colonel was sure he saw soldiers move behind the fence and said to Kearney, “There is a Rebel line of battle behind that fence.” “No, there isn’t,” said Kearney and spurred his horse forward to get a nearer view. As he got to within a rod and a half or two rods of the fence, the Johnnies opened fire and General Kearney was one of the first to be killed at that time.
When I began to hunt about for the boys, Billy Morrow was one of the first I run across. We soon found others and then the colors. Billy and I then thought of one of our friends, a fellow by the name of Bradish, a Company E man, who was hit in the wood. Billy had seen him at about the same time I did as we came out of the wood, and believing we were near the place, we started out to see if we could find him. Bradish had been one of the nine who had played ball at Newport News, and we were both very fond of him. We thought he was badly wounded and wondered if we could not find him and do something for him. It took but a few minutes to find the place. Then began the lone search. The last I saw of Bradish was as we neared the edge of the wood coming out. He was hobbling along trying to keep up with us. I did not know where he was hit, but I thought in the thigh or about the hip, for one of his legs seemed quite powerless. There were a number of dead men lying about but we were unprepared to believe our comrade was dead, but when we examined the dead men we found Bradish was one of them. We found a place under a great pine tree; we dug a shallow grave and buried him near the place where he fell. We put a stone at each end of the grave, carved his initials on the trunk of the tree and left there one of our beloved comrades and one of the best soldiers in the regiment.
The expression on his face I shall never forget, it was so changed and so painful. Had we not been searching for him and turned him over, for as he lay his face was partially concealed, and so got a good view of it, I should not have recognized him. He had probably died soon after we left him as we started on the advance into the cornfield, for he was entirely cold. The face of Pat. Martin, as I saw him after he was killed at the Battle of Newbern, was entirely expressionless; he was shot through the brain and probably never knew what hit him. The Confederate who died while I was gone to get him a canteen of water, the morning after the Battle of Bethseda Church had a rather peaceful and happy expression on his face. Many of the men I helped to bury after the Battle of Fredericksburg had drawn, distressed, painful expressions on their faces; some of them gave one the impression that they had suffered the most intense agony just before death. I never watched a man die who was killed in battle—the private soldier is too busy to watch his best friend die at such a time. In this Battle of Chantilly, the losses in killed, wounded and prisoners in the regiment were 140, the heaviest loss we had sustained, in a single battle, up to this time. Three of our finest officers were killed; Lieutenant-Colonel Rice, Captain Fraser and Captain Kelton. We felt the loss of these men very deeply; but the worst thing about the whole matter was, we felt we had been sacrificed to no purpose. Every one felt that had General Reno been with us it would all have been different, but he was sick back to the rear in an ambulance off duty, and with him absent everything went wrong. General Kearney seems to have been entirely off his base that night; the way he ranted and swore around there was disgusting.
The fault in the wood seems to have been that the officers of the 21st did not keep in touch with the 51st New York, and wandered off no one knew where.
At roll call the next morning, September 2, there was but a shadow of the 21st present. After a while we started for Alexandria, moving very slowly, marching and halting by turns, the roads being choked with artillery and trains. During one of these halts, as we lay beside the road, a thing occurred which showed the stuff at least one boy of that army was made of. There was a boy in our company by the name of Harding Witt. Harding was a Dana boy. I had known him a long time and I knew him well. We had been school companions and had enjoyed fishing excursions together many a time.
Harding was on the picket line at the time of the fight in the wood and so was absent from the company. But late at night after the fight was all over I heard he had been wounded. I heard nothing more and saw nothing of him until the next day when halted in the road on our way back to Alexandria, I saw some one approaching. He had no gun and no knapsack; he had a canteen, his right sleeve was slit up and I could see a white bandage on the arm. The same could be seen on one of his legs. The trouser’s leg was slit up and a bandage could be seen on the leg. He also had a bandage on his head. As he approached nearer I recognized Harding. He came up and as we shook hands I said to him: “Well, Harding, they called for you last night.” “Yes, Mad,” said he, “they called for me five times but I am all right.” That boy had been hit five times, in the wood the night before, but he wasn’t taken prisoner nor was he in the hospital. He was, however, obliged to go to the hospital later.
We moved back to the vicinity of Alexandria and went into camp where we stayed until September 4th. During those days a number of the boys found their way back to the regiment. They had strayed away after the fight, some of them perhaps, making as famous runs as were made by some of the soldiers after the first Battle of Bull Run.
Among those to return at that time was our beloved surgeon, Dr. Cutter. Imagine our surprise and delight one afternoon on seeing him march into camp. When the Confederates were ready to move on, he was set at liberty and had made his way back to Alexandria where we were in camp. To us, he seemed to have risen from the dead. The officers of the first brigade had reported him among the killed, and that report had been accepted by the men of the regiment, and to see the old hero again so unexpectedly, startled us.
If I remember rightly, it was in this campaign, as we were falling back along the east side of the Rappahannock River, I first noticed a colored man, we later called Jeff Davis, hanging around the cook’s quarters trying to make himself useful. He would gather wood for the cook’s fire, tote the water, and on the march help carry the cooking utensils. In due time it was discovered that Jeff was an important acquisition to the company. He was good natured and just as willing to do things for the other boys as for the cook. Jeff Davis was a runaway slave, middle-aged, medium sized, wore top boots with his trousers tucked in, his shirt front was never buttoned either at the throat or lower down. His hat of black felt looked as if it had been thrown at him and he had caught it on one corner of his head. He had an easy going, rollicking gait and laugh, and was as full of fun as an egg is full of meat. Still, Jeff was full of business, too, and when, later on, he became company cook, the cooking was never better done, or the interests of the company more carefully guarded than by him, and it was as cook of Company K we realized his supreme usefulness and worth. Acting as a sort of company treasurer, when the company was paid off, he would pass around the hat and nearly every fellow would throw in a half a dollar or a dollar. Nothing would be seen of that money until we got into a hard place for food, then Jeff would manage to get us something to eat. Jeff was the best kind of a forager; he knew how to buy and he knew instinctively where to find things.
During the Knoxville campaign, had it not been for Jeff we should have suffered much more than we did, although much of the time we received only half rations from the Commissary Department and at times we received only two ears of corn for a day’s ration, but every once in a while Jeff would get hold of something and give us a good meal. On the march over the mountains he picked up a little Mississippi mule and the amount of food that man hunted up and brought into camp during the siege of Knoxville was prodigious. If a foraging party went out from headquarters after forage for the horses and mules, Jeff was pretty sure to go along and he seldom came back to camp empty handed. Had any one asked Jeff how he got those things, he would have been shot on the spot—but no such foolish questions were asked.
The things he got from people of his own race he doubtless bought and paid for, but it is very doubtful if the white planters ever saw much of Jeff’s money. To be sure, he had some interesting experiences. One time he came near being captured by some of Longstreet’s cavalry, but he succeeded in evading them and reached camp in safety. Jeff remained with the company until the end of the war, came home with us to Massachusetts, settled in one of the hill towns of Worcester County became a respected citizen, married, raised a family and died there.