GENERAL BENJAMIN BUTLER
We landed near this great excavation called “Dutch Gap,” which was to be Butler’s chef d’œuvre, viz., a channel cut across a long peninsula dividing the river at the end into two branches running almost parallel; in front of which the formidable Confederate mortars were continually sending shells all about this locality. A shell had dropped directly into the dredging machine, shattering it completely and it now lay on one side like a huge black mastodon. The channel lacked about twenty-five feet of successful completion, but owing to “orders” no further work was accomplished, and thus ended the great Dutch Gap strategy of Ben Butler.
The small row boat landed us on the muddy shore where little foliage remained to cover the denuded ground of the rough camp of an engineering corps and its guard. Despite the almost constant war courtesy of interchanging shots and shells, roaring on either side from the forts, and generally passing safely above the heads of “Yank” and “Johnnie” alike on each side of the river, they enjoyed many friendly talks across. Thus they broke the monotony of picket duty and gopher holes, while telling camp stories, true or otherwise, as the occasion suggested.
A story was told me that bears out on its face the imprint of possibility during the last days of the rebellion. A daring young “Reb,” tired of life in the swamp and woods, with insufficient rations, while waiting for orders to advance, one dark night swam boldly across the narrow stream and was cordially received.
After enjoying a jolly evening around the camp fire, and especially, a good “square meal,” he said to the Yankee boys, “You uns have plenty of good grub any way, and I’m about starved out. I say, Yanks, suppose you uns just surround me and capture me and march me up to headquarters as a deserter? I’d rather stay on this side and have good rations than to starve in the swamp on the other side.”
This the “Yanks” did very cheerfully, and so another deserter was added to the Union army.
Our party started to walk around what was to have been Ferry Island, where the tortuous river made a sharp turn at the end, almost doubling on itself. An officer walking with me constantly changed from one side to the other. This surprised me and on my asking why he did this he replied “O nothing!” ignoring the question, though he continued changing sides as we walked on the uneven path. I insisted at last upon an explanation. He replied: “Well, you know the rebs are just across this narrow water in the woods, and it wouldn’t look well if a lady should get a stray shot!”
“So you’re making a target of yourself, Major, to gratify my curiosity!” I was insisting on going back, when a “Johnny Reb” called across the stream in a pleasant tone, “Better take those ladies away!”
Mounting the great hill to look into the abandoned ditch where so much time and labor had been lost, we made a strikingly conspicuous group with the officers in uniforms, bright with the sun’s reflections. Suddenly in the midst of witty talk and badinage a shell from the Rebel mortar shrieked over our heads, followed quickly by a second one with a deafening frightful explosion, and for a second we were stunned and almost paralyzed.