FIRED OUT OF OLD CAPITOL PRISON—"DON'T COME HERE AGAIN!"—MY FRIEND THE JEW SUTLER—OUT IN A NEW RIG—AT THE CANTERBURY THEATRE.
I was fired out of Old Capitol Prison as suddenly and unexpectedly to myself as I had been run into the old trap.
When I said something to the officials about my own expenses, the Colonel handed me a copy of the parole, saying in a jocular manner: "There is your receipt in full; that paper clears you. Get out, now, and don't come back here again."
I went out with my brother and his companion, first to a "haberdashery," kept by a sutler Jew on the avenue. He was one of the fellows whom I, as a railroad official at Fredericksburg, had granted some special favors in the way of getting his goods into the army, through the Provost Guards.
At the time, the fellow was all smiles, or rather grins, because in the position I then occupied, I had been able to secure him special facilities to carry on his profitable army trading business. I thought, of course, from the gushing way he had talked to me then, that he would be my everlasting friend, as he had so freely expressed his gratitude to me and desired to make me presents. Naturally I looked him up the first thing when I discovered that my neat wardrobe had become sadly in need of replenishing during the month. I wanted some clean, fresh clothing, "cheap for cash." We found the fellow easily enough; but, dear me! circumstances had altered cases with him. When I made known my errand, and asked an outfit on small payment, the broad open-mouthed grin of the ugly fellow closed up tight as an oyster, and his face became solemn as a patriarch as he began the lamentation of Jacob over his losses by the evacuation of Fredericksburg.
Through my brother Spencer's assistance, I was soon supplied with an entirely new and fresh outfit from the skin out. At first my demands for a complete rig rather struck my brother as being a little extravagant, but when I had explained that one of the tortures Mr. Stanton inflicted upon his victims at the Old Capitol was the persistent bugs that the building was infested with, he let go my arm as suddenly as if he had experienced an electric shock, sidled off from me, and, without another word of argument, fully agreed with me that the only and first thing to do was to get rid of everything—clothes and all, from hat to socks. Carrying my bundle to a barber shop, I had my hair cut, took a bath, donned my new suit, and generously donated my old clothes to the colored barber.
Disguised in a new suit of clothes, I walked the streets of Washington an hour after having left the prison. The first place I desired to visit was the War Department. I felt that I had some urgent business with some of the officials up there, that I was anxious to relieve my mind of at once.
My brother and his companion objected. This mutual friend called my attention to the parole, which I had carelessly left in my old clothes in the barber shop. I was gently reminded that I had agreed to go north of a certain point at once, and was not to return south of that line until properly authorized to do so by the War Office.
Instead of going to the train that evening, I went to the "Canterbury Theatre," an institution on Louisiana avenue as well known by old soldiers who spent a day in Washington as any of the War relics.
While seated in the theater, which was crowded by officers, soldiers, citizens, adventurers, sutlers, clerks, politicians, army contractors, etc., I was immensely amused when a pair of country officers, dressed up in full uniform, each wearing belt, sash and saber, strutted down the crowded aisle, their accoutrements of war rattling at every step, making so great a noise that it disturbed Johnny Hart, a negro comedian then on the stage, who abruptly stopped his performance, stepped up to the footlights, and addressed the noisy incomers: "Say, why in hell didn't you bring your horses too?"
This brought the house down, and had the effect of silencing that part of the audience that brought their camp and garrison equipage to the theatre.
It was not so much of a joke, however, when a little later on an army officer led a Corporal's Guard, armed with loaded muskets and bayonets stuck into their guns, down the aisle, and at a lull in the performance, came to an "order arms," while this shrewd officer of the Washington Provost Guard demanded the passes of every one in the audience who wore a uniform. I felt quite uneasy when they actually arrested and took out of the same bench on which I sat two commissioned officers who could not show passes.
Fortunately I was not disturbed, but I lost all interest in the show, and soon retired to quarters where the Provost Guard couldn't find me.
The only thing I could hear from Covode in relation to our own embarrassing affairs was: "Oh, that's all right; just tell him that it will be all right."
It was true, though not much of a consolation for me, to be reminded by some kind friends that I was not alone a sufferer by Mr. Stanton's arbitrary orders. Even General McClellan had been not only relieved from command of the army, but had been ordered to proceed to Burlington, N. J., and there await orders. This I was told meant, in reality, exile for him in precisely the same manner as for my own humble self, though the phraseology of the order was a little different from that in my parole.
I went home, where I was affectionately received into my father's house by my sisters and my aunts—I had no mother then. Probably, if I had not so early in life been deprived of a mother, I would have been saved, by her teachings, from many of the hard knocks which I was receiving by way of bitter experience. My father, always kind and indulgent, seemed to think that it was our privilege and right to pitch in for ourselves, that we might learn from experience. He seldom gave his boys any of that "I told you so" advice, in the threatening manner which renders it so inoperative.
I had made up my mind, while in the Old Capitol Prison, that when I should get free again the very first thing I should do would be to enlist as a private soldier in the Union Army.
I reasoned to myself that my services as a Scout or Spy, while working as a civilian in the interest of the politicians at Washington, would not advance my military ambition. In fact, I had learned from some hard hits already that it was an uphill business to operate in the field as a civilian. Somehow or other, all the military people were not exactly distrustful, but there seemed to be at least a prejudice against any person about the camp who did not wear a uniform. I was willing and anxious enough to wear a uniform, but my ambition was to be an officer in the Regular Service, attached to Headquarters Staff.
This, as I have said, was about as difficult to reach as the position of Brigadier-General in the Volunteers, because they were making Brigadier-Generals every day, and they were not making Second Lieutenants in the Regular Army.
I explained my plans to my father and a few friends. My father interposed some objections to my selection of the Regular Army, preferring that I should identify myself with some regiment from our own State, and especially from our own neighborhood.
I preferred the Regular Cavalry first, because I intended fitting myself, by the experience I should gain in the ranks under the severe discipline and drill, for a Second Lieutenancy in that branch. My father thought that I would not be able to stand the restraints the discipline would impose upon me; but, as usual, I had my own way, overcoming their preference for the State troops, by the reminder that the treatment I had received from the Secretary of War would serve as a club in the hands of malcontents and growlers, who are to be found in every regiment, kicking against new-comers' advancement.
Another difficulty was raised by the receipt of a letter from my brother, at Washington, which reminded my father that I was not allowed to remain at my home, because it was located south of the line of my stipulated parole.
The War Department detectives had tracked me even into my own home, through the connivance of some contemptible neighbors, who are descendants of the Revolutionary Hessians, and like the craven dogs they were, they helped to hound me away from my father's home. To relieve my father and friends of any embarrassment, I left the house, after bidding them another "Good-by," one evening, arriving in Pittsburgh before midnight of the same day. The first thing the next morning I hunted up the recruiting office, astonished the officers by offering myself, and without any preliminaries enlisted into Company B, Second United States Cavalry, Captain T. F. Rodenbaugh.
When I applied for enlistment I never once thought of the bounty money I would become entitled to, therefore my entry into the army in the fall of 1862 was in no sense mercenary. I had served a year previously as a civilian and knew what was in store for me in the ranks.
I was not even "in the draft," as my parole would have relieved me from every obligation, if I had chosen so to use it. I volunteered from motives of duty and patriotism in 1862, at a time when recruiting was not so brisk as it had been; in fact, at a time when everything looked dark enough for our side.
Instead of availing myself of the parole that cleared me from obligation, I, in the darkest days of the war voluntarily enlisted as a private soldier. I felt in my heart that, in thus putting my life in pawn for the cause I had from the first consistently championed, that I would forever put beyond discussion the question of the sincerity of my motives, and I became credited to Alleghany County, Pennsylvania, so that, after all, I was a "regular volunteer" from my own State and County.
Through the thoughtfulness of Captain Rodenbaugh, I was paid some bounty money, which I expended in the purchase of mementoes for my friends, believing that I should never again come home to them.
In the matter of my get-up as a soldier, Captain Rodenbaugh was quite useful to me, and became quite pleasantly interested, taking the trouble to accompany me to the tailor shop, where he gave the necessary directions as to the regulation pattern.
I was to act as his private secretary or company clerk, and I suspect that he also intended to use my good clothes as a sort of a dressed-up dummy, to stand around the office with white gloves on, as a decoy to entice recruits to his roll, pretty much as we see the "walking sign" now a days at recruiting offices.
In the Second Cavalry, the facings, instead of being the ordinary "yaller" of the cavalry, were of an orange color, to distinguish them as the "Dragoons," as they were listed previous to the reorganization of that service just before the war.
I was made a Corporal by the Captain, and had the stripes in a beautiful orange on my arms. The cap was the regulation little fatigue or McClellan style, with the crossed sabers, and the insignia of company and regiment in brass letter—B 2.
At my earnest solicitation, Captain Rodenbaugh sent me away with the first detachment of recruits to Cavalry Headquarters, then Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania. Here I had a regular circus every hour of the day, from reveille till retreat or tattoo. It's only those who have seen cavalry recruits drilled with regular cavalry horses and old drilled Sergeants, that can be made to believe the stories that are told of their accomplishments in this direction.
Carlisle Barracks was in crude form, just what the West Point Riding School of to-day is. I was anxious to learn to be a good soldier, and I did learn a good deal—in a mighty short time, too—while I was at Carlisle. I was taught some things there that I thought I had learned thoroughly before I went there. For instance, I had been a long time in Western Texas, and had ridden wild and bucking horses without a saddle, chased buck-rabbits in a zigzag course over hog-wallow prairies in a reckless way that made my head dizzy, but it was reserved for my Drill Sergeant at Carlisle Barracks to show me how simple a matter it was for a trained cavalry horse to throw off a Texas cow-boy. Those old Sergeants—and there were a number of them—had the drill horses trained so thoroughly, and withal so full of tricks, that they beat Buffalo Bill and any circus horses I've ever seen all to pieces.
It was lots of fun for the Sergeants and a few officers and their wives, who were always watching our evolutions from their barrack windows, but it was a little bit rough on some of the boys.
We were given lessons in mounting and dismounting by the hour, till I became so expert that I was relieved of that part of the drill and advanced into a squad who had been there some time, and were soon to be sent off to the front as graduates. We were all obliged to hold the bridle-rein in one and the same way; that is, in the left hand, turned up so that we could see the finger-nails. All the steering had to be done by merely turning or twisting the clenched hand around, keeping it in the same position. There was no hauling back of the reins permitted, except by drawing the hand straight up to the chin to check or tighten the lines; and the forearm must be always directly in front of the pommel of the saddle.
This part of the riding lesson was all new to me. I had always used my hands as I pleased, but here we must all hold the infernal wild horses with one hand turned upside down, and dare not even yank the elbow around without getting a cuss from the Sergeant. There were always two or three Sergeants to each drill; one gave the commands from his position in front, while another old rascal rode behind somewhere to watch our arms and legs and to do the extra cussing.
Some of the fellows in our squad had been farmer boys, and felt that they knew all about horses, and were disposed at first to talk horse with the Sergeants; but one lesson in deportment answered for the whole term at Carlisle Barracks.
Those old fellows all said they would far rather take a city man who had never been on a horse than a farmer who had been riding all his life. The city fellows made good Regular Cavalrymen. We learned to ride with our knees and to steer with the legs.
At first our little caps would not stay on top of our heads, but we soon became able to balance them, with the strap dangling under the nose or chin, instead of being fastened under the chin.
These old war-horses had been at the barracks a long time, and had been carefully trained to go by the bugle. At the sound "trot," they would all start off as neatly, with the left foot foremost, as any infantry squad. When the "gallop" was sounded every old horse would switch his tail, take the bit in his teeth and go off like a shot over the field, helter-skelter, as if it were a hurdle race, or the whole Rebel Army were after them. This part of the show is where the most of the fun came in. Of course, some of the riders couldn't keep time with the horses, and their caps and sabers would become troublesome appendages, and were often cast off; then the old Sergeant, bringing up the rear, would yell like a Comanche Indian, which none of us could understand, and, as everybody thought it was necessary we should hear, it had the effect of rattling the whole squad. One of our first lessons was that never, under any circumstances, must we speak to our horses; everything must be done quietly and effectively by bit and spur; but when they got to running us off by the bugle, some of the farmer boys, when they would be tossed up too much, involuntarily sang out, "Whoa!" or else, too audible, cursed the man alongside for jamming their legs. This would bring down such a torrent of abuse on the head of the offender that we were kept in a state of terror from the time we were on the horses till we dismounted.
The Sergeant, or perhaps an officer, after getting the squad well under way, would sound "to the right," and, of course, the horses knew what the bugle said and obeyed the signal instantly; but most of the riders didn't, and were, in consequence, involuntarily going straight ahead or fell off at the unexpected turn of the horse. Then, on the home-stretch, they would so abruptly sound a "halt," that the horses would stop in two jumps, while the rider very likely went straight ahead.
I'm telling you the truth about Carlisle Barracks and the Regular Cavalry. I've been there—several times—and know it all pretty well. Why, it's a fact, that those old horses would, at the command "right dress," as soberly turn their one eye down the line and back up a step or forward as any infantry regiment; and on the wheel the inside horse always marked time beautifully, while the fellow on the outside had to gallop.
I had lots of fun during the couple of weeks that I was at Carlisle Barracks. Probably because I entered with so much zest and earnestness into the drill, which was really sport for me. I attracted the attention (favorably) of the Sergeants and officers, and was so rapidly advanced that my request to be sent to the front with the first detachment was approved. In this ambition Captain Rodenbaugh seconded me, as he had been relieved of recruiting duty, and was ordered to conduct the first party to the front.
We left one cold day in November, via Harrisburg, traveling all night in a box-car attached to a freight train. We were delayed all the next day in Baltimore, putting in the time standing around in the cold, miserable streets, under guard, awaiting our transportation over the slow Baltimore & Ohio to Washington. The second night we reached Washington, and slept on the floor of the barn-like affair they called the Soldiers' Retreat, then located down by the Baltimore & Ohio Railroad Depot. A great many soldiers will remember that shanty.
Early next morning, before any of my comrades were awake, I was up about daybreak, anxious to get a look at Washington, and especially Old Capitol Prison, through the glasses of a Union soldier. It was a bitter cold morning; so early as 5 A. M., when I went to the door of our barracks, I was astonished to see, wrapped up in his big blue overcoat, the snow blowing all over him, and standing almost up to his knees in it, our Captain, C. F. Rodenbaugh.
I did not know then that it was an officer's duty, and one of his privileges, to stand around all night in the cold, while his men slept comfortably under shelter. I said something like this to the Captain, when he courteously answered that he was the officer in charge, and it was his duty to see that the sentries were on hand. It was an early lesson; and I will say right here that the Regular officers, though severe and strict in discipline, I found always ready to expose themselves before they asked their men to do so. Apparently the Regular officers held themselves aloof from their men, and though I was almost intimate with Captain Rodenbaugh, I would not have ventured to address him, except in the way of duty, and then only after a proper salute, after we had gotten out in the field. Yet, if I could have met him alone or unobserved, I should have been as free with him as with my best friend. This matter of Regular Army etiquette was fully understood as part of our drill, and the subject never gave us any uneasiness, but in all probability saved us much trouble. There were no favorites in our service; every man was treated alike, and as long as every man did his duty, right up to the scratch, in Regular Army style, he was as independent as any officer, in his way. I had some queer experiences in this way, which I will relate further on.
I was in Washington again, and, strange to say, we were camped for the first night right in sight of the Old Capitol Prison.
Mr. Stanton, the autocrat Secretary of War, failed entirely to suppress me. With all his arbitrary exercise of authority he could not keep me away from the front. Locking me up in Old Capitol Prison only detained me temporarily. If I had not been released I certainly should have escaped the same day.
The first visit I made in Washington after my return there as a soldier was to the Capitol.
Armed with a pass, duly approved by the Provost-Guard officers, and dressed up in my Sunday uniform, I called the member of Congress from my home District from his seat out into the corridor (Mr. Covode being absent), where I bluntly and briefly explained that I had been given a parole not to come South until released, but being satisfied in my own heart that it was a wrong to me, and injustice had been done through the envy and malice of some War Department officials, I had, upon the advice of such men as Covode, decided to enlist in the army, and they had formally notified the Secretary of my intention of so doing.
I had not officially been advised that "I was forgiven," and desired Mr. Blair to see the Secretary and arrange the matter for me. He looked at me with astonishment at first, and then, realizing the absurdity of the thing, laughed heartily, saying "Why, of course, that's all right; they would not dare to annoy you any further."
I was, further, most kindly assured that my friends in Congress would all see me through, in case I had any difficulties on that score.
I left the Capitol, going straight to the War Department, where I endeavored to get an interview with the Secretary, but, dear me, a soldier—a common soldier—only a little Corporal in the Dragoon's uniform—presuming to address the Secretary of War, was something so unheard of among the old regular attendants about the door that they were disposed to fire me out of the up-stairs window for my effrontery. I had found it difficult as a civilian to reach the Secretary of War on several former occasions, but I learned, to my disgust, that as a soldier it was entirely impossible.
The lesson in the Regular Army etiquette which I took that day, burned itself so bitterly and deeply into my heart that I never attempted afterward to address anything higher than a First Sergeant in the Regular Army, except through the regular channels.
On account of an accident that happened me at Carlisle, I was permitted by Captain Rodenbaugh to sleep in a boarding-house during the first days after our arrival at Washington City, or until horses were issued to us. At Carlisle there was an old horse widely known among all the Regular cavalrymen who have been there as "Squeezer." At stable-call, I had noticed the men in the squad to which I had been advanced, all showed a singular alacrity in rushing to the task of cleaning their horses as soon as we broke ranks for this purpose. I learned by an experience that came near being serious, that this was caused not so much by anxiety of the troopers to clean horses, as to avoid a certain stall which Squeezer occupied.
THE SERGEANT KINDLY GAVE HIM THE STEEL.
Squeezer was a good-enough horse outside of his stall, or away from a fence-post or the side of a house. The trouble with him was, that he would invariably catch the man detailed to curry him against the side of the stall, and the vicious beast would deliberately put the weight of his whole body against the man so caught, to try and crush his bones. The only satisfaction the old horse seemed to get out of the dirty trick was, in listening to the cries of pain the poor fellow so caught was obliged to give vent to.
The Sergeants in charge of the stables were up to Squeezer's tricks so well that they always carried a sharp-pointed saber-blade to the stable, which was the only thing, well struck in, that would make the old rascal let go his hold of a victim.
It was the custom to let the recruit get caught by this horse trick, and I, as the latest in our squad, suffered the penalty. Squeezer put his haunches up against my breast and forced me up against the board stall until the bones began to crack, when the Sergeant kindly gave him the steel, and he let go of me, but began to kick viciously at the Sergeant. I was hurt badly, and suffered severely from it for some days. I learned afterward that every man in our squad carried a saddler's awl as part of the outfit, and when Squeezer became too affectionate with the man to whose lot it fell to tackle him, he kept the awl in one hand and the brush in the other, and used them alternately.
It was one of the games of the men to lay for a chance to catch the old Sergeant near his heels, when they would give Squeezer an inch of the awl, and the heels would reach for the Sergeant in a style that took all the military dignity out of him.
For a few days our detachment was encamped in the roughest kind of barracks, located on Capitol Hill, near Old Capitol. We drew our rations of soft bread, but our meat was the regulation pickled pork, fished out of the original barrels on the spot. I recall now, with a good deal of surprise to myself, the truth that there ever was a time in Washington when I had to take my slice of raw pork on a slice of bread, standing in two inches of snow, warming up with a quart of black coffee drank from a tin cup.
I am at the present writing a resident of this same Capitol Hill, within gunshot of the Old Capitol Prison and this former camp-ground. We would consider it a great hardship to be deprived of any of the comforts and pleasures to be extracted from a residence in this beautiful city.
How few of those who now enjoy the blessings of this great Government ever think that all of these pleasures were made possible for the children by the willing sacrifices and hardships of their parents in 1861-65.
After many unsatisfactory days spent about the old barracks on the Hill, we were at length ordered into camp near Fort Albany, Virginia. This fort was located on the high ground just beyond the Long Bridge, close by Fort Corcoran, or between the Long Bridge and Arlington.
I was at heart greatly rejoiced to find myself once more in old Virginia, even if it were only over the Long Bridge and the Potomac River. Though yet in sight, I was out of Washington, and safely beyond the reach of the meddlesome War Department detectives, who had become so numerous and about as thoroughly despised as were the army insect pests. It does not speak so well for the shrewdness or effectiveness of Mr. Pinkerton's corps, that I am able to record the truthful fact that they had not, with all their vaunted facilities of telegraph and military and civil police connections, been able to locate me, or discover that I, who had been represented to the Secretary of War as a dangerous man, was freely circulating all over Washington City.
Had I been so disposed, it would have been a simple matter to have concocted much mischief, with the aid of information I had obtained in the Old Capitol of Rebel sympathizers who were living in the city. Miss Boyd had given me the names and addresses of pretty nearly everybody she had known as a friend of the South; but I made no use of this myself, except to give the information in writing to Covode's committee.
At our camp, near Fort Albany, we were quartered in the regulation Sibley tent, which all old soldiers will recognize without further description. As the company clerk, or private secretary of our Captain, I was pleasantly provided for in the First Sergeant's tent. There were but the two of us in the big concern, because we had to make room for the desks or writing-table and other storage for the company papers.
It is a little curious that I was selected to do precisely this same duty by the Rebels in their capital.
Through the good management of the Captain and the First Sergeant, who were, of course, my friends, and looked after my interests in the company while I was busy on the papers, I was supplied with a real beauty of a horse. He was one of the black Morgan type, a little small, but oh, my! I suspect that the Captain became personally solicitous about my being handsomely mounted, as I found myself detailed to act as an Orderly to himself and the other officers almost every time they rode into the city.
My little nag was what may be termed frisky and spirited. I am talking all this horse now, because in the days and weeks and months that immediately followed "Frisky" took an important part in all the adventures that I had. From this time forth most of my experiences were somewhat of a dashing character, dressed, as I was, in a neat uniform, and well mounted on a horse. One little trick of Frisky's will serve to illustrate better than I could describe in many words the nature of the animal.
The stable, in the field, you know, was simply a parallelogram composed of ropes tied to posts driven in the ground. Inside of this the horses were tied to the ropes. At every stable-call I usually went out to attend to my own horse, so as to get a chance to ride bareback to water. At a certain signal, all hands mounted their horses, and at the command all filed out of the ropes, under the leader, toward the water. Frisky, being well to the rear of the column the first time I got on him, astonished me and surprised the officer in command by suddenly jumping at a clear leap over the top of the rope and running off toward the head of the line. So that, at every water-call, it got to be a regular show for the officers to come around to Frisky's side of the corral to see him jump over the rope instead of marching around in the rear of the others.
I was at least as good a horseman as any of the rest of our batch of recruits, and probably my experience in Texas, supplemented by the lessons at Carlisle, had made me quite proficient in the regulation style of marching my horse.
We frequently rode over to Washington to spend an evening. I had lots of fun, but no adventures that I care to put in print. Nearly every Sunday a couple of us would get permission and passes and ride up to what was then called the Arlington House, and thence through the lines of heavy artillery sentries about the fortifications, over the Aqueduct Bridge, to Georgetown and Washington.
At last we were ordered to the front. I do not now remember the exact date, but it was sometime in December.
This is engrafted on my memory by the fact that the "front"—as the history of the war shows—was then at or near Fredericksburg, the same grand old historic town, so dear to my memory, from which I have been escorted a prisoner to the Old Capitol only a couple of months before.
But I was going back—so the fates had decreed, in spite of Stanton—to this very same place; not exactly the same place, as the Rebel Army occupied the town most of the time; but we were going to get as close as we could to it, and be neighborly, without getting into a fight.
Another circumstance which impresses this date upon my mind is, that I spent my Christmas of 1862 on the Rappahannock with the boys of the old Army of the Potomac.
I was as happy as a boy with a new pair of boots when the orders came for us to draw five days' rations and get ready to move. As company clerk, being in the ring, as it were, with the First Sergeant, I was privately advised that we were to go to the front, so that I got all the papers in my possession in shape, and had everything so packed away before the Sergeant was ready that I had to open up the box for him again.
I supposed, as a matter of course, we would ride our horses right through Fairfax to Fredericksburg, going the route leading somewhere near the old trail I had footed so faithfully while I was in the Rebel lines.
I had not told anybody in our company—not even my good friend Captain Rodenbaugh—of my previous experiences in Virginia.
It will be readily understood that I was not anxious to disclose these things, which had given me so much trouble; in fact, I desired above all things to conceal them.
When I heard of the proposed movement, I went to the Captain personally, and took occasion to tell him that I knew something of the road to Fredericksburg, and felt competent to act as guide for the regiment, and offered my services in that direction.
The Captain looked at me for a moment, then, with a significant smile, he took my breath away by observing, pleasantly:
"Well, yes, Corporal, I understand you have had some experience down here that would seem to make you familiar with the roads; but it has been ordered that we march down through Maryland on the other side of the Potomac."
Though the Captain's manner was so agreeable and assuring, I was so astonished by the revelation that he, of all others, had learned of my private history, that I was for the moment so taken down I could hardly look him in the face. I felt as though I had been deceiving my best friend, and he had caught me in the act, as it were. When I ventured to offer some explanation, the Captain, in his courteous way, said: "Why, my dear boy, that's all right; we all—that is, the officers—have heard of your services, and, as a consequence, you have in advance plenty of friends in the regiment."
I was gratified to hear this from him, and asked no further questions as to his source of information, but ever after that I was further convinced not only of the Captain's kindly feeling toward me, but of the other officers as well, by the fact that, on almost every important occasion, I was honored by being selected for special Orderly duty with the officers.
We marched or rode our squadron out of Fort Albany camp one cold, damp December morning, crossed the Long Bridge, passed through the lower part of the city, up over Capitol Hill, where I got a farewell glimpse of Old Capitol Prison from under my fatigue cap, seated on a horse, going to the front.
We crossed the old bridge, beyond the Navy Yard, over the Eastern Branch, went up over the hill, and were soon out of sight of Washington, traveling all day over the same route that Wilkes Booth took in his flight to Virginia the night of the assassination.
The next morning we reached the river at some point, and put in all that day in getting our horses and baggage ferried across about four miles of water.
The next night we slept on the sacred soil at or near Aquia Creek, in Virginia—precisely the same point from which I had embarked as a first-class passenger in charge of an officer en route to Old Capitol Prison.
The following day we marched over a long, wind-about road to cover the fourteen miles from the Potomac to the Rappahannock. How shall I write it, but that evening at sundown, as soon as I could beg the privilege, I rode my horse down to the Lacey House, which, as all old soldiers know, is located on the banks of the Rappahannock directly opposite Fredericksburg. The Rappahannock river only was between me and Geno; but, oh! my heart ached when I realized what a great gulf it was; and that was as near as I could get to Fredericksburg. Though at this point it is but a narrow stream—so narrow indeed that a conversation in an ordinary tone of voice could be carried on over it—I could not, except under the penalty of being at once shot to death by our own or the rebel forces, make even the slightest attempt at signaling to the other shore. The Rebel Army occupied that side.
I could see walking about the streets some few persons in citizen's clothes, but all along the river, and at the foot of the street leading to the river, were armed men in gray uniforms. They had possession of the town that held all that was dear to me just then—little Geno Wells.
I lingered until the early twilight of that December evening began to drop down like a curtain; then with a heavy heart I rode slowly back to our own camp, determined in my own mind and heart that I should get into that town somehow, in spite of our own and the Rebel Army.
In my hurry to go down to the river, I had not taken sufficient care to get the bearings of our newly-located camp, and on my return at dark I experienced considerable difficulty in finding my way home. In my bewilderment, I ran afoul of so many camps and extra sentries that I was detained until quite late.
Our regiment was acting as Provost-Guard at Gen. Burnside's headquarters, and, as almost everybody knew where headquarters were to be found, I finally got on the right track.
It was fortunate for me, personally, that we were at headquarters, as I was enabled to at once make acquaintances that became useful to me.
With what exalted feelings I should have rushed over one of those pontoon bridges and charged up the streets to Geno's house, if I had been there at the right time, may be imagined. The anxiety and eagerness with which she must have looked for me among the first of the invaders I must leave to the imagination or fancy of the romantically-disposed young lady readers who may be following this narrative.
Captain Wells' house being located close by the river bank, near the point at which one of the pontoons was laid down, I have no doubt that its roof sheltered some of Barksdale's Sharpshooters, who so forcibly resisted this work of the Engineer battalion.
When we joined Burnside, we found that our regiment, the Second Regular Cavalry, was acting as Provost-Guard, one company doing duty as a headquarters or body-guard.
This took me personally right into the big family at the Army of the Potomac headquarters. I was delighted at this prospect. I realized that I should henceforth be privileged to enjoy riding a good horse in the cavalcade that always dashed along in the wake of headquarters. In addition to this, I should personally have the opportunity to rub against the headquarters men, which would also give me the facilities for knowing pretty nearly what was going on in advance of the other boys. There were other agreeable advantages in being at headquarters, as any old soldier who is not cranky with envy will readily admit.
One of these, which I appreciated very much indeed, was that, after I became a fancy Orderly, and stood around with clean clothes on, and wore white gloves, I enjoyed also the very best of rations.
I became familiar with the Surgeon's Hospital Steward, who happened to be from my native city, so we messed together. It therefore became one of the privileges at headquarters, especially with the Hospital Steward, to draw rations from the hospital stores, which was an immense thing while at the front. I don't mean the sick rations of rice, soup, etc., but the good, nourishing things that are always reserved for the poor sick fellows. We got plenty of tea and rice, to be sure—so much, indeed, that I have soured on it ever since, and never take tea except when I am so sick that I can't bear the smell of coffee. As for rice, I am fond of it. As the Colonel said, "I like rice very much indeed, if it is properly cooked—that is, about a quart of cream and milk, a pound of butter, and some eggs and sugar and nutmeg and all the other things, nicely stirred up and baked—and, oh, yes, I forgot—about a half teaspoonful of rice may be added."
The Steward's name was Fulton—Johnny Fulton—formerly of Fahnestock's great drug house in Pittsburgh.
It became the duty of the Surgeons to inspect the boxes before they would admit their contents into the hospitals, because, you know, they often contained articles of food prepared and sent by kind friends at home that might have been as fatal to the sick soldiers, if they had been allowed to eat them, as would have been the Rebel bullets. For instance, all sweet cakes, raisins, nuts, apples and other fruits were sure death for those troubled with the great army epidemic—dysentery. Pickles, as well as the innumerable sorts of canned stuffs, became confiscated, as too dangerous to let pass, so that we had to eat them up in self-defense.
There was scarcely ever a box opened that did not contain a bottle of something contraband—some old whisky. These the Surgeons usually took care of.
I know that some of the boys even now will be ready to swear at the headquarters' "dog-robber." I've been called that so often, and become so accustomed to it, and "loblolly boy," that it had no effect. We went straight along, having as good a time as we could, wore the best clothes and rode fast horses, and when we were not doing anything else on Sundays, we would be out somewhere horse-racing.
There were, of course, some disagreeable things about headquarters too, and we of the Regulars had a standing fight with a lot of fancy boys who came down from Philadelphia that year. They were Rush's Lancers. As some of the Western soldiers have never seen this sort of a soldier, I shall describe him as a Zoo-zoo on a horse—that is, he wore a fancy Zouave uniform of many colors, and carried a pole about fifteen or twenty feet long in a socket in his stirrup. On the end of the pole was a sharp spear or lance, and a few inches from the end of the lance a little red silk flag fluttered. They were an awfully nice-looking set of fellows on parade. A thousand of them made about as dashing a show as can be imagined when galloping along in line or column.
It was expected that these long poles, with the sharp spears on the ends, would be just the thing to charge on an enemy.
I have often heard the owners explain just how they were going to do it when they should get a chance at the enemy. The custom or style had been imported from Europe, but somehow it didn't take well in the Army of the Potomac. The boys called them "turkey-drivers," probably because of the red patch on the end of the pole.
For a time they were at headquarters as a brilliant, fancy-looking attachment to the Staff; but every time we would go out with the "turkey-drivers" the "doboys," or infantry, would yell and gobble at them in such a ridiculous way that they had to be suppressed. I have heard as many as 10,000 men in the camps in the woods gobble at the "turkey-drivers," as if it were droves of wild turkeys, every time the lancers would ride along.
We of the Regular Cavalry at headquarters were, of course, pleased to witness the frequent discomfiture of the "turkey-drivers," probably because we were a little bit jealous of them, and feared, that their bright, dashing appearance might give them a preference over us as the headquarters' favorites.
Pretty soon they, like the Zouaves, changed their uniform to the old blue blouse, and threw away their long sticks for the noisy saber.
Although we had some fun among ourselves at headquarters, yet about that time—Christmas and January, 1862-63—were the dark days of the war. Seemingly, everything had gone wrong with the Army of the Potomac. Burnside had left some of the best blood of the long-suffering old army on the frozen ground over the river; the hospitals were filled with the sick and wounded, who could not safely be transported North; and, to my intense disgust, it seemed to me that I never rode out to any place, or made a visit to my friends in other regiments, that I did not run into some of those professional embalmers or packers, who would be engaged at one of their ugly jobs. The weather was cold, and these men went about their work as indifferently as we often see the dead beef and hogs handled in market!
One of the saddest duties to which we at headquarters were subjected, at times, was the piloting of visitors, who came down from Washington with passes and reported first at headquarters, to the regimental or brigade hospitals, in which their wounded or sick were to be found. Generally the visitor would be an old father, perhaps a farmer, sent by the mother to take home a sick or may be a dead son.