Active Service; Or, Campaigning In Western Virginia.
I have been to the war; I have seen armed secessionists, and I have seen them run; but, more than that, I have seen Active Service. It was active, and no mistake.
In April last, my country needed my services; I had been playing soldier, and I felt it my duty to respond to the call of the President. I did respond. I uncovered my head, raised my right hand, and solemnly swore to obey the President of the United States for three months. The three months have expired, and I am once more a free American citizen, and for the first time in my life I know what it is to be free.
ACTIVE SERVICE! That's what the military men call it. I have often read of it; I have heard men talk about it; but now I have seen it. I meet people every day who congratulate me on my safe return, and say, 'I suppose you are going again?' Perhaps I am.
It was a beautiful day when our company left home, and what a crowd of people assembled to see us off! What a waving of banners and handkerchiefs; what shouting and cheering; what an endless amount of hand-shaking; how many 'farewells,' 'good-bys,' and 'take-care-of-yourselves,' were spoken; all of this had to be gone through with, and our company run the gauntlet and nobody was hurt.
Going to war is no child's play, as many seem to suppose. Once sworn in as a private, you become a tool, a mere thing, to do another's bidding. I do not say this to discourage enlistments,—far from it. I am only speaking the truth. 'Forewarned, forearmed.' If there is a hard life upon earth, it is that of a common soldier; he may be the bravest man in the army, he may perform an endless amount of daring deeds, but it is seldom that he gains a tangible reward. He does all the fighting, he performs all the drudgery, he is plundered by the sutler, he lives on pork and hard-bread, but he gets none of the honors of a victory. As Biglow says,—
'Lieutenants are the lowest grade that help pick up the coppers.'
I belonged to an artillery company. I joined this because somebody told me I could ride. I wish I had that somebody by the throat. The idea of a man's riding over the mountains of Western Virginia! I won't call it ridiculous, for that's no name for it.
I will pass over the uninteresting part of the campaign, that of lying in camp, as everybody now-a-days has ample opportunity to judge of camp life, in the cities, and take the reader at once into 'active service,' and show the hardships and trials, together with the fun (for soldiers do have their good times) of campaigning.
On the 29th day of May, 1861, we arrived at Parkersburgh, Va. It was my first visit to the Old Dominion. We had been taught when youngsters at school to regard Virginia as a sort of Holy Land, 'flowing with milk and honey,' and the mother of all that is great and noble in the United States, if not in the world. We were 'going South.'
It was at the close of a warm spring day that we landed there; the sun was just sinking in the west as the boat rounded-to at the wharf. We jumped ashore, and for the first time in our lives inhaled the 'sacred atmosphere' of the so-called Southern Confederacy. All was bustle and confusion; but we soon had our traps, i.e., guns, caissons and horses, unloaded, and a little after dark were on the march. We proceeded a few miles out of town, and at midnight halted, pitched our tents, stationed guards, and all who were so fortunate as not to be detailed for duty were soon sound asleep.
At Grafton, one hundred miles east of Parkersburgh, we were told there was a party of some two thousand rebels. This then was the object of our visit to Western Virginia, to drive these men east of the mountains,—from whence most of them came,—and to protect the honor of our flag in that portion of Virginia now known by the name of Kanawha.
At sunrise on the 30th, we marched to the depot of the north-western branch of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and, after a hard half-day's work in loading our guns, horses and wagons, stowed ourselves away in cattle cars, and were once more ready for a start. As we rattled along over the railroad, the scenery for the first few miles was beautiful, and we began to think that Old Virginny was really the flower of the Union. But a 'change soon came over the spirit of our dreams.'
After passing a small shanty, called Petroleum,—from the numerous oil-wells in the vicinity,—we met with the first really hard work we had seen since we began the life of a soldier. Here the rebels had burnt one of the railroad bridges, and all hands had to 'fall in' and repair damages. Never did men work with a better will. Slender youths, who, if they had been told one month before, that on the 30th day of May, 1861, they would be laying rails and cutting timber for Uncle Sam, for eleven dollars a month, would have pitied their informant as insane, were here working with a will that showed what a man can do if he only sets himself about it. For two days and a night we toiled and ceased not, and when, on the evening of the second day, we passed over the 'soldiers' bridge' in safety, such a shout rent the air as I never heard before.
A few miles beyond the burnt bridge, the scenery began to change. In the clear starlight, instead of beautiful streams and fine farms, we beheld hills and mountains covered with an almost impenetrable growth of underbrush, and large rocks hanging over our heads, ready to be hurled down upon us by some unseen hand, and to crush our little handful of men. On we went, at a snail's pace, till about ten o'clock, P.M., when our joy was again turned to woe, for here too the dogs of Jeff Davis had been doing their work, and had burnt another bridge. We waited until morning, and then, after some hard swearing, were once more transformed into 'greasy mechanics,' and before the sun went down had passed to the 'other side of Jordan' in safety.
Here began our first experience of the hospitality of the sons, or rather daughters, of Virginia.
A small farm-house stood near the bridge, numerous cows were grazing in the pasture close by, and everything denoted a home of comfort and plenty. This, I thought, must be the home of some F.F.V., and I will take a pail—or rather camp kettle—and 'sarah forth' to buy a few quarts of milk. Wending my way to the house, I knocked at the door, and instantly six female heads protruded from the window. Presently one of them, an elderly woman, opened the door, and inquired what I wanted.
'Have you any milk to spare?' I said.
'I reckon,' replied the woman.
'I would like to get a few quarts,' I said, handing her my kettle. I took a seat on the door-step, and wondered what these six women were doing in this lonely spot. They evidently lived alone, for not a man was to be seen around. The table was spread for dinner, six cups, six plates, six spoons, and no more. I was about to ask for the man of the house, when the old woman returned with my kettle of milk.
'How much?' I asked, as I thrust my hand deep into my pocket, and drew forth one of the few coins it was my fortune to possess.
'Only four bits,' said the ancient female.
I thought milk must have 'riz' lately, but I paid the money and left.
From observations since taken, I infer these six women were 'grass widows,' whose husbands had enlisted in the rebel army, and left them behind to plunder the Union troops by selling corn-bread and milk for ten times its value.
I took a seat on a log, and congratulated myself on the prospect of a good dinner. By the aid of a stone I managed to crumble 'two shingles' of hard bread into a cup of the milk, and then, with an appetite such as I never enjoyed in America, sat to work. I took one mouthful, when, lo! the milk was sour! Hurling cup and contents toward the hospitable mansion, I fell back upon my regular diet of salt pork.
Leaving the Virginia damsels to plunder the next regiment of Federals that came along, we were soon once more on our way, and on Saturday, the 1st of June, arrived at Clarksburgh. Here we learned that the rebels had left Grafton and gone to Phillippi, some twenty miles back in the country. We remained at Clarksburgh until Sunday morning, when, once more stowing ourselves 'three deep' on flats and stock cars, we proceeded as far as Webster. Here we left the railroad, and pursued the rebels afoot.
Webster is a big name, and there we flattered ourselves we could get some of the comforts of life. But once again we were doomed to disappointment. Two stores, a dozen or so of shanties, and a secession pole, make up this mighty town. Parkersburgh is a 'right smart place;' Clarksburgh 'isn't much to speak of;' the only thing of interest about it is the home of Senator Carlisle; but Webster is a little the worst place I have ever seen. I am sorry to say, in the language of the great man whose name it bears, 'It still lives.'
Observing a shanty on the summit of a small hill, with the words, 'Meals at all hours,' over the door, I wended my way over sundry cow-paths and through by-lanes towards it, until at last, fatigued, and with hands torn and bleeding from catching hold of roots and bushes to keep myself from falling, I arrived at the summit of the hill. A young woman stood in the door-way of the shanty, and I asked her if I could obtain a dinner.
'Yes,' she said. 'Walk in and take a cheer.' She shoved a three-legged stool towards me, and I took it.
She was about eighteen years of age, and had a very pretty face,—though it was thickly covered with a coating of the sacred soil,—a musical voice, and a small hand. Her eyes sparkled like fire-flies on a June night, and her hair hung in wavy ringlets over what would have been an 'alabaster brow,' had it not been for the superabundance of dirt above mentioned. She was the only good-looking woman I saw in Western Virginia.
I took a seat at the table, and from a broken cup drank a few swallows of tolerable coffee. As for the edibles, 'twas the same old story,—corn bread and maple molasses, fried pork and onions. I staid there perhaps fifteen minutes, and learned from my hostess that Webster was, previous to the war 'a right smart village,' but that the male inhabitants had mostly joined the rebel army, then at Phillippi. She, different from most women I met in Virginia, expressed sympathy for the Union cause. It seemed so strange to find a Union woman in that part of the country, I was induced to ask if Webster had the honor of being her birth-place.
'Oh no,' she said; 'I was born in 'Hio.'
That solved the whole mystery. I willingly paid the 'four bits' for my dinner; and, as a storm was coming on, made all haste back to the railroad, where we were getting ready to march on Phillippi, distance thirteen Virginian, or about twenty American, miles.
'Fall in, Company Q!' shouted the orderly. 'Numbers one, two, three, and four, do so and so; five, six, seven, and eight, do this, that, and the other!' So at it we went; and never in my life did I perform a harder afternoon's work than on Sunday, the 2d of June, 1861. It was a warm, sultry day, and our morning's ride in the cars had been dusty and fatiguing; and when, about dusk, a heavy rain-storm set in and drenched us to the skin, we were sorry-looking objects indeed.
Although we had been in service six weeks, we had but just received our uniforms that morning. My pants, when I put them on, were about six inches too long, and the sleeves of my blouse ditto. After marching all night in the rain, my trowsers only came down as far as my knees; they shrank two feet in twelve hours. Many of the men threw away their shoddy uniforms after wearing them one day, as they were totally unfit for use. They tore as easily as so much paper, and were no protection whatever from the weather. Somebody, I don't pretend to say who, made a good thing when he furnished them to the government. No doubt they were supplied by some loyal and respectable citizen, who would not knowingly cheat his country out of a penny! We have reaped a bountiful harvest of such patriots during the past year. May the Lord love them!
At eleven o'clock on the night of the 2d of June we started for Phillippi. It commenced raining about seven o'clock in the evening, and we were all wet to the skin. The night was very dark, and the road, though they called it a 'pike,' was one of the worst imaginable; it wound 'round and round,'—
'It turned in and turned out,
Leaving beholders still in doubt
Whether the wretched muddy track
Were going South or coming back,'—
and seemed to run in every direction but the right one. It was a road such as can be found only in Virginia. The mud was almost up to the hubs of the wagon-wheels; the horses pulled, the drivers laid on the lash and a string of oaths at the same time; the wind blew, and the rain came down in torrents. More than once on that awful march did we lend a helping hand to get the horses out of some 'slough of Despond.' Over the mountains and through the woods we went, at the rate of about two miles an hour. Many gave out and lay down by the wayside; and when at last morning dawned, a more pitiable set of beings never were seen upon earth. The men looked haggard and wan, the horses could hardly stand, and we were in anything but a good condition for invading an enemy's country.
At daylight we were within two miles of Phillippi. Col. (now General) Lander was with the advance, and had discovered that the enemy were ready for a retreat. Their baggage was loaded, and if we did not make the last two miles at 'double-quick,' he was fearful we would be too late to accomplish the object of the expedition. So the order was given, 'Double-quick!' and jaded horses and almost lifeless men rushed forward, buoyed up with the prospect of having a brush with the rascals who had given us so much trouble.
We had gone about a mile and a half, when, at a turn in the road, an old woman rushed out from a log cabin, and, in a loud and commanding voice, exclaimed,—
'Halt, artillery, or I'll shoot every one of you!'
Not obeying the order, she fired three shots at us, none of which took effect. At the same time three men rushed from the back of the house toward the rebel camp at the foot of the hill, shouting at the top of their voices to give warning of our approach. A squad of our fellows took after them, and soon overtook them in a corn-field, when they denied coming from the house, and said they were out planting corn! A likely story, as it was hardly daylight, and the rain was falling in torrents. However, during the forenoon they took oath, and were set free!
Past the log house we went at 'double-quick,' and in less time than it takes to tell it, the artillery took position in a small piece of wood on the summit of a hill overlooking the town. At once the order was given, 'Action front!' and the first the rebels knew of our approach was the rattling of canister among their tents. Out they swarmed, like bees from a molested hive. This way and that the chivalry flew, and yet scarcely knew which way to run. 'Bould sojer boys,' with nothing but their underclothes on, mounted their nags bareback, and fled 'over the hills and far away' towards Beverley, firing as they ran a few random shots. Before the infantry reached the town most of them had made good their escape, leaving behind, however, nearly all their baggage, a large number of horses, wagons, tents, and about eight hundred stand of arms, together with a nicely-cooked breakfast, which they had no idea they were preparing for 'Lincoln's hirelings.'
We took about fifty prisoners, among them the man who wounded Col. (now General) Kelley. They were retained until the next day, when the oath was administered, and they were let loose to rejoin their companions in arms. About four weeks after this, we had the pleasure of retaking, several of these fellows; some of them, in fact, were taken three or four times, each time taking the oath, and being set at liberty, and each time, true to their nature—and Jeff Davis—immediately taking up arms again against the government.
Phillippi, from any of the neighboring hills, or rather mountains, presents a rather picturesque appearance. It was, previous to the war, a place of about one thousand inhabitants. It boasts a good court-house, a bank, and two hotels, and was by far the most civilized-looking town we had then seen in Virginia. But, alas! what a change had come over its once happy populace. When we entered it, not a dozen inhabitants were left. We were told that Phillippi was the head-quarters of rebellion in Western Virginia. Here was published the Barbour County Jeffersonian, a rabid secession newspaper, now no more, for the press was demolished, and the types thrown into a well. The editor had joined the rebel army a few days before our arrival, and was among the loudest denunciators of our government. He boasted he would shed the last drop of his blood (he was very careful as to shedding the first) before he would retreat one inch before the Abolitionists. We afterwards learned from some of his men that he was among the first to mount his horse and run to the mountains; the last that was seen of him he was going at lightning speed toward Richmond, and in all probability il court encore,—he is running yet.
We had taken possession of the town and most of the enemy's baggage and equipments; still our commanding officer was not satisfied, neither were the men. We had intended to completely surround the enemy and to cut off every possible chance of his retreat. The attack was to have been made at five o'clock, A.M.; but one column, that which marched from Grafton, was about twenty minutes too late, and when at last it did make its appearance, it entered town by the wrong road, having been misled by the guide. The consequence was, the enemy retreated on the Beverley road, where they met with little or no resistance. Our men were too much fatigued to follow the fast-fleeing traitors, and most of them made good their escape.
After the excitement of the attack, the men dropped down wherever they stood, in the streets, in the fields, or in the woods, and slept soundly until noon, the rain continuing to fall in torrents. But what was that to men worn out with marching? I never slept better than when lying in a newly-plowed corn-field, with the mud over my ankles, the rain pelting me in the face, and not a blanket to cover me.
Bang! bang! bang! and up I jumped from my bed of mud, thinking the fight had again commenced. Somewhat bewildered, I rubbed the 'sacred soil' from my eyes and looked about me. It was noon; the rain had ceased, and from the constant sound of musketry, I supposed a battle was then raging. But instead of fighting the 'secesh,' I soon found the Indiana boys were making havoc among the fowls of the chivalry. They fired too much at random to suit my taste, and I made tracks for a safer abode. Beating a hasty retreat to the hill where my company was stationed, I found a large crowd gathered around some of the captured wagons, overhauling the plunder. And what a mixed-up mess! Old guns, sabres, bowie-knives, pistols made in Richmond in 1808, old uniforms that looked like the property of some strolling actor, and love-letters which the bold chivalry had received from fair damsels, who all expressed the desire that, their 'lovyers' would bring home, Old Abe's scalp. These letters afforded great amusement to our boys, though it was hard to read many of them, and were they put into print, Artemus Ward would have to look to his 'lorrels.'
Bang! bang! bang! they kept on shooting till dark. It is useless to say we had chickens for supper that night; and I would not be surprised if the chicken crop of Phillippi and vicinity should be rather small for a few years to come.
Wild rumors were running through the camp all day that the 'secesh' had been reinforced, were ten thousand strong, and, with forty pieces of cannon, would attack us that night. Some said they were commanded by Gov. Wise, the lunatic, others by Beauregard, and some positively asserted that Jeff Davis led the rebel forces himself. At all events, it was pretty well settled that we were to be attacked forthwith. Our men slept on their arms, but not a secesh appeared.
I, as usual, was on guard that night, and, feeling that a great responsibility rested on my shoulders, was 'doubly armed.' A well-known professor, a member of the same company as myself, was on the first relief; I was on the second. I went on duty at ten o'clock, P.M., and the professor kindly loaned me his revolver, and, in addition, soon returned with an extra musket, a secession sabre, and one of the captured pistols. Thus loaded down with swords, pistols, and muskets, and guarding a six-pounder, I felt tolerably safe. After walking up and down my beat a few times, I found the two muskets began to feel rather heavy, and the two sabres to be rather uncomfortable dangling about my legs; and thinking that two revolvers and a secesh pistol would be all that I could use to advantage, I divested myself of the extra equipments, and passed the residue of my 'two-hours' watch' in committing to memory 'my last dying words,' for use in case the secesh put an end to my existence.
Our colonel's name was Barnett; the countersign for the night was Buena Vista. About eleven o'clock I observed a man coming towards me. 'Halt!' I exclaimed; 'who goes there?'
'A friendt,' was the reply.
'Advance, friend, and give the countersign.'
The man walked towards me, and whispered in my ear 'Barnett's Sister!' at the same time attempting to pass. Placing my bayonet close against his breast, I ordered him to 'halt!' and called for the corporal of the guard. The Dutchman—for such he was—begged and plead, but it was of no use; I told him he was trying to 'run the guard,' and he must go to the guard-house.
'Barnett's Sister! Barnett's Sister! Barnett's Sister!' shouted the Dutchman. 'I know nothing about Barnett's Sister,' said I; 'stop your noise, or you will rouse the camp.'
Just then, the officer of the guard came round. I stated the case to him, and the man was taken to the guard-house. The next morning he was released, and on inquiry at head-quarters it was found that he had the password, but had confounded 'Buena Vista' with 'Barnett's Sister.' We all enjoyed a good laugh over it, and ever after 'Barnett's Sister' was the password for all who attempted to 'run the guard.'
We lay at Phillippi nearly six weeks. Every day or two an alarm would occur, the long roll would beat, and the men would form in line of battle. It is needless to say the alarms were all false. There are always hundreds of rumors in every camp, and ours was not an exception. But after the first week we paid little attention to the many wild reports which were in circulation. Although Gov. Wise had said he would take dinner in Phillippi or in —— on the fourth of July; notwithstanding Gov. Letcher had issued a proclamation warning us to leave the State in twenty-four hours or he would hang every one of us; although a proclamation dated Staunton, Va., June 7th, 1861, stated to the people of Western Virginia that their little band of volunture (?) had been forced from Phillippi by the ruthless Northern foe, led on by traitors and tories, and that Jeff Davis and John Letcher had sent to their aid a force of cavalry, artillery and rifles; and although the proclamation wound up by saying To-morrow an ARMY will follow! we felt tolerably safe at Phillippi. We had determined, if the aforesaid army did appear, it should have a warm reception.
Every day or two scouting parties went out and captured a few stray 'Bush-Whackers,' to whom the oath was administered, and they were released. Days and weeks passed, but the army of Davis, Beauregard, and Co., failed to appear. They had, however, congregated and entrenched themselves at Laurel Hill, about thirteen miles east of Phillippi.
We were reinforced from time to time, until our force numbered some forty-five hundred men, when Gen. McClellan determined to rout the enemy from Laurel Hill and Rich Mountain. How well he succeeded, history will tell.
On the night of the 6th of July, we left Phillippi for Laurel Hill, starting at midnight. The road was rather rough, but much better than we expected to find it. When we were within about five miles of the enemy's camps; we passed a toll-gate, where an old woman came to the door to 'collect toll.' Some of our boys stopped at the house to get a drink of water, and asked the old lady how far it was to camp,—meaning the rebel camp. 'About four miles,' she said, 'but you can't get in without a pass.'
The artillery was just then passing her door; the boys pointed to that, and told her 'they thought they had a pass that would take them in.'
'Oh!' she exclaimed, as the thought struck her that we were Federals, 'you won't find it as easy work as you did at Phillippi; they're going to fight this time.'
On our return home this same woman was at the door, but she didn't demand toll this time. 'Well, old lady,' said one of our fellows, 'what do you think now about the fighting qualities of your men?'
'They who fight and run away,
Will live to fight another day,'
she exclaimed, and, slamming the door, vanished from sight, I trust forever.
At daylight we drove in the rebel pickets at Laurel Hill. We were within a mile and a half of their main camp, and halted there to await orders from Gen. McClellan, before beginning the attack. He was advancing on the enemy at Rich Mountain and Beverley.
We threw a few shells into the rebel camp, producing great consternation among their men and horses. For four days we kept up skirmishing, but on the fifth day it rained, and little was done. All were anxious to commence the attack, but, as we had heard nothing from Gen. McClellan, all had to 'wait for orders.' That night the enemy, hearing of the Federal victory at Rich Mountain, and the occupation of Beverley by McClellan, and evidently thinking himself in a 'bad fix,' retreated from Laurel Hill toward St. George. In the morning our forces took possession of his camp and fortifications, and part of our column pursued the flying forces, overtaking them at Cornick's Ford, where a sharp engagement ensued, which resulted in a total rout of the rebels, and the death of Gen. Garnett. Only a portion of his army escaped over the mountains to Eastern Virginia.
So hasty was the retreat from Laurel Hill, that the enemy left behind all the sick and wounded, telling them the Union troops would kill them as soon as they took possession of their camp. A large number of tents, a quantity of flour, and a few muskets, fell into our hands. The fortifications at Laurel Hill were strong, and evidently planned and constructed by men who understood their business.
Among the numerous letters which we found in the rebel camp, was one written to one of the Richmond papers, during the siege of Laurel Hill. In that part of the letter which was intended for publication, the writer said:—
'The Yankees have at last arrived, about ten thousand strong. For the past two days we have had some sharp skirmishing, during which time we have killed one hundred of the Hessians. We have, as yet, lost but one man.'
In a private note to the editor, the writer adds:—
'I guess the Yankees have got us this time. There is a regiment here who call themselves the Indiana Ninth, but they lie,—they are regulars. They have got good rifles, and they take good aim. If it wasn't for this, we would attack them.'
This little item shows how the masses of the Southern people are deceived. Through the medium of the press they are made to believe they are gaining great victories, and repulsing the 'abolitionists' at every step, killing hundreds of our men, and losing none of their own. Our total loss at Laurel Hill was six men. The rebel loss, as near as could be ascertained, was forty. The rebel leaders know they are playing a game for life or death, and so long as they can keep in power by deceiving the people, just so long will this rebellion continue. Could the truth be forced upon the people of the South, the rebellion would go down as quickly as it rose.
Many laughable incidents occurred while we were skirmishing with the enemy at Laurel Hill. We received a newspaper containing the message of President Lincoln. One of the Indiana boys, thinking it might do the secesh good to hear a few loyal sentiments, mounted a stump, paper in hand, and exclaimed, 'I say, secesh, don't you want to hear old Abe's message?' He then commenced reading, but had proceeded only a short way, before 'ping, ping' came the rifle balls around the stump; down jumped Indiana, convinced that reading even a President's message amidst a shower of bullets isn't so agreeable, after all.
We staid at Laurel Hill about two weeks. The enemy had been completely routed from that part of Virginia, and our term of enlistment having expired, our thoughts began to turn homeward. That ninety days' soldiering was the longest three months we ever experienced. It seemed an age since we had tasted a good meal, and all were anxious to once more cross the Ohio, and see a civilized country. The long looked-for order came at last, ''Bout face!' and we were on our homeward march. A more jovial, ragged, dirty, and hungry set of men, were never mustered out of service. We reached Camp Chase at Columbus, Ohio, about the last of July, and as each man delivered up his knapsack and etceteras, he felt as if a 'great weight' had been taken from his shoulders. We were once more free men; no one could order us about, tell us where we should or where we should not go. There was no more touching of hats to upstart lieutenants and half-witted captains or colonels. We could go where we liked, and do as we pleased, and not be reported, or sent to the guard-house. If my memory serves me aright, we did do pretty much as we pleased; in other words, for two days, 'we made Rome howl!'
What we saw of Western Virginia and its inhabitants left anything but a favorable impression on our minds. The country is wild and romantic, but good for little or nothing for farming purposes. The houses are mostly built of logs, being little more than mere huts, and around each of these 'mansions' may be seen at least a dozen young 'tow-heads,' who are brought up in ignorance and filth. The inhabitants are lazy and ignorant, raising hardly enough to keep starvation from their doors. School houses are almost unknown; we did not see one in the whole course of our march; the consequence is, not more than one in ten of the population can read or write. And the few who 'can just make out to spell' are worse off than their more ignorant brethren.
'A little learning is a dangerous thing.'
And these people know just enough to make them dangerous. They have read in some of their county newspapers that Vice-President Hamlin is a negro, and that Lincoln is waging this war for the purpose of liberating the slaves and killing their masters. This they believe, and any amount of reasoning cannot convince them to the contrary. It seems to be enough for them to know that they are Virginians; upon this, and this alone, they live and have their being. They are by far the most wretched and degraded people in America,—I had almost said in the world. The women, if possible, are worse than the men; they go dressed in a loose, uncouth manner, barefooted and bareheaded; their principal occupation is chewing tobacco and plundering Union troops by getting ten prices for their eggs, butter, and corn bread. And these are the people our children—and their fathers before them—have been taught to regard as the true chivalry of America! The people of the United States are beginning to see that Virginia and her sons have been greatly over-estimated. That Virginia has produced true and great men, no one will deny. There are a few such still within her borders; but, taking her as a whole, the picture I have drawn is a true one.
By my soldiering experience I learned some things which it would have been impossible to learn had I never 'gone for a soger.' First, I ascertained—shall I say from my personal experience?—that a man dressed in soldier-clothes can stand twice as much bad liquor as one clothed in the garb of a citizen. Secondly, that to be a good soldier a man should be able to go at least forty-eight hours without eating, drinking, or sleeping, and then endure guard-duty all night in a drenching rain, without grumbling or fault-finding. Thirdly, I think I have discovered that the martial road to glory 'is a hard road to travel.'