Since this paper was prepared, Lieutenant Moies has been “mustered out.” I knew him well as a neighbor and as a soldier. Together we slept on the field with the same starry canopy for our covering, and together on the weary march we shared the scanty contents of the same haversack and drank from the same canteen. For him, “war’s glorious art” had no allurements. He loved his quiet home and the peaceful pursuits of life, and when he gave himself to the service of his country it was because, being a true patriot, he felt that its claims upon him were greater than those of family and friends.
“Wife, children and neighbor,
May mourn at his knell;
He was lover and friend
Of his country as well.”
His rank in the service, when measured by the army standard, was a subordinate one, but had his shoulders been covered with eagles or stars, he could not have been other than the same quiet, unassuming citizen-soldier that he was, winning by his modest demeanor, sterling integrity, and kindliness of heart, the esteem of his brother officers, and the love and affection of his men. I know whereof I speak, when I say that no officer who went from Rhode Island was more respected and beloved by his command than was Lieutenant Thomas Moies, and by none is his death more sincerely mourned than by those who served under him in Virginia in 1862-3. Such was the man—such was the soldier.
Chapter VI.
Elsewhere I have spoken of an “unconditional surrender” Union man whom I overhauled while on picket duty on the Norfolk and Petersburg railroad. All southern men—and women, too, as to that matter—were not so loyal as that old man was, as is shown by the following incident which occurred on the morning of our arrival in Suffolk. While marching down the principal street we were halted for a few minutes. Immediately all the doorsteps of the houses were appropriated by our men to their own use. My doorstep belonged to a house which had all the appearance of being occupied by one of the “first families.” Presently a well dressed, intelligent looking, elderly lady appeared at the door and inquired what regiment ours was. Before time was given me to reply, a comrade who was sharing the step with me, said, “One Hundred and Eleventh Rhode Island!” She then asked, “Is that in North Carolina?” To assist her in locating “Little Rhody,” I remarked that Massachusetts was its nearest neighbor, presuming that all southerners knew where the “bottled up” hero of Dutch Gap belonged when at home. Having straightened out her geography, which seemed considerably mixed, she then wanted to know what we came out there for. I told her we came to fight for the Union. With considerable fire in her eye, and vinegar in her tone, she replied, “They tell me you’ve come down here to fight for the nasty niggers; and if I were a man, I would resist to the death before I would do such a thing!” Here the conversation was suddenly interrupted by the order to “fall in,” and I left the old lady soliloquizing upon the causes which led to the war, and its probable result to both North and South. Whether she had confounded Rhode Island with Roanoke Island by reason of the similarity of names, or whether our sudden appearance in front of her residence had caused her to lose her reckoning generally, I am not sure. Possibly she was not up in geography.
We had our pastimes when in camp. While we were at Suffolk it was not an uncommon thing just after supper to see the men of Companies I and K (commonly known as the Young Men’s Christian Association companies) holding prayer-meetings in the open air and singing revival melodies at the ends of their streets, while the men of the other companies, at the ends of their streets, would be dancing to the music of a violin or banjo, or singing songs of a less spiritual character than those of the Y. M. C. A. companies, all having a good time in their way, and neither infringing nor trespassing upon the rights of the others, although some of the men in the regiment, I feel compelled to say, were not the embodiment of all the Christian virtues.
While we were in winter quarters on Miner’s Hill, the religiously inclined men of the regiment erected a log chapel in which to hold services in the evening and on Sundays. No church bell summoned them to worship, but a few taps of the drum or a few notes from the bugle, or, better still, the singing of some old, familiar hymn learned in boyhood in New England homes, served as a “church call,” and from every part of the camp the men came to reverently worship the God of battles. I like good church music, but believe me when I say that I would not exchange the memory of one of those grand old hymns which “the boys” used to sing with “the spirit, and the understanding also,” at their meetings in that old log chapel, and into which they threw their whole souls, for all of the so called “classical music” which I have since heard rendered by grand organ and artistic quartette on two continents.
One Sabbath while we were in Suffolk, a special service for the soldiers who were on duty there was held in one of the churches, the chaplains of the various regiments officiating. The house was filled to its utmost capacity,—the galleries, the aisles, the pulpit steps and the vestibule,—while many were unable to find even standing room. At the close of the sermon, officers and men knelt together at the same altar, their confessions and supplications ascending to a common Father, and, irrespective of distinctive creed or belief, partook of the Lord’s Supper, realizing as never before the truth that “God is no respecter of persons;” and to one at least of that company of reverent worshipers, the Master’s words, “This do in remembrance of Me,” had a deeper significance than ever before.