THE WINTER AT FALMOUTH—CONTINUED
During the remainder of the winter at Falmouth, I was on as field-officer of the day about every fifth day, so that I was much of the time at the Lacey House, and on the picket-line described in the foregoing chapter. The scenes here enacted constituted my chief experience at this time. The Lacey House was famous during the war as being the head-quarters of either the picket lines between the two armies or of commanding officers of portions of both so frequently that it deserves more than a passing notice. It was a large old-time brick mansion, beautifully situated on the bank of the Rappahannock, just opposite Fredericksburg, and was, at the outbreak of the war, the private residence of Colonel Lacey, who was at the time I write a colonel in the rebel army. The house was very large; its rooms almost palatial in size, had been finished in richly carved hardwood panels and wainscoting, mostly polished mahogany. They were now denuded of nearly all such elegant wood-work. The latter, with much of the carved furniture, had been appropriated for fire-wood. Pretty expensive fuel? Yes, but not nearly so expensive as the discomfort of staying there without a fire, with the temperature just above the freezing-point, and your feet and body wet through from the rain and slush of the storm outside, in which you were doing picket duty. The only other fuel obtainable was a few soggy green logs; whether these had been cut from the old shade trees surrounding its ample grounds or not I do not know. I more than suspect they had, but the only way they could be made to burn in the old-fashioned open fireplaces was to assist the flames with an occasional piece of dry wood, the supply of which, as long as it lasted, was from the panels, wainscoting, and furniture of the house. Later on the interior doors, all of heavy, elegant hardwood and finished in keeping with the other appointments of the place, had to go. This may seem at this distance as vandalism pure and simple. But if the would-be critic will place himself in the shoes of the soldier doing picket duty that winter, with all its hardships, and then remember that Colonel Lacey, the owner of the place, was not only in active rebellion against the government we were fighting to maintain, but was a colonel commanding a rebel regiment as a part of that great rebel army encamped not a rifle-shot away, which made it necessary for us to do this picket duty, he may reach the same conclusion as did our men, that it was not worth while to freeze ourselves in order to preserve this rebel's property. The large and ample grounds had been laid out with all the artistic care a landscape gardener could bestow upon them. Rare plants, shrubs, and trees from all over the world had been transplanted here in great variety. They were now feeling the bitter blight of war. Army wagons and artillery had made sad havoc of the beautiful grounds, and such of the rare trees and shrubbery as interfered with a good vision of the operations of the rebels in and around Fredericksburg had been ruthlessly removed, and this included the larger part of them.
The Christian Commission had its head-quarters in one wing of the house during this winter. It was presided over by Mrs. John Harris, of Philadelphia, a most benevolent and amiable elderly lady. She was assisted by two or three young women, among whom was a daughter of Justice Grier, of the United States Supreme Court. These ladies were engaged in distributing supplies of various kinds, furnished by this association, to the sick and wounded soldiers in the various hospitals. They had an ambulance at their disposal, and one or two orderlies detailed to assist them. Their work was most gracious and helpful, and they were entitled to the greatest credit for their hard and self-sacrificing labors. The red flag of the hospital floated over them, and such protection as it afforded they had; but it may be well understood that this location between two hostile armies, with active hostilities likely to be resumed any moment, and in the midst of a picket force keenly on the alert night and day, was not likely to be selected as a sanitarium for cases of nervous prostration. The men on picket had reason to remember Mrs. Harris, for those located at the Lacey House daily partook of her bounty in the way of hot coffee, and frequently a dish of good hot soup; and the officers stationed there, usually three or four, were regularly invited to her table for all meals. These invitations were sure to be accepted, for they afforded an opportunity for a partially civilized meal. Her meals were always preceded by a "grace" said by herself, while breakfast was followed by a worship service, at which a chapter from the Bible was read and prayer offered by her. These prayers I shall never forget—their sweet fervency, in which the soldiers came in for a large share of her earnest requests. This large-hearted, motherly little woman made a host of friends among the boys in blue that winter. But her motherly kindness was occasionally taken advantage of by some of those sons of Belial. One of them told this story of his former tour of duty: The weather was beastly uncomfortable, from rain and snow making a slush and mud, through which they had tramped until thoroughly soaked. They concluded they must have some hot whiskey punch. Mother Harris, they knew, had all the necessary ingredients, but how to get them was the question. One of them feigned a sudden attack of colic, and was all doubled up on the floor, groaning piteously. Mother Harris was told of it. Of course, she rushed in to render assistance. In reply to her inquiries, the rascal could think of but one thing that would help him, and that was whiskey. A bottle was instantly produced, and a dose administered which gave partial relief; and now if he only had some hot water he was sure it would relieve him. A pitcher of steaming hot water was immediately sent in. Then it was found that the strong liquor nauseated him, and one of the other scamps suggested that perhaps a lemon would relieve that, and a nice lemon was instantly produced. They had plenty of sugar themselves, and so from good Mother Harris's benevolent provision for the colic these rascals deliberately brewed a pitcher full of excellent hot whiskey punch. They had to invent a number of additional lies to keep her out of the room, but they were equal to it. She sent her orderlies in, one after the other, to inquire how the patient was progressing, and the boys secured a proper message back by letting them in for a swig. I hope the good old lady never discovered the fraud. I am sure she would not have believed anybody who might have undertaken to enlighten her, for her confidence in her "boys in blue" was so unbounded.
Almost every tour of picket duty revealed some new incident. Our pickets were now posted in full view of those of the enemy, and the river was so narrow that conversation between the pickets could be carried on without difficulty. Peremptory orders were issued forbidding our pickets from replying, or in any manner communicating with them, but it required the greatest care and vigilance on the part of all the officers of the picket to enforce this order. One of their sentries would hail one of ours with some friendly remark, and it was difficult to suppress the desire to reply. If a reply was not forthcoming, a nagging ejaculation, calculated to provoke, would follow, such as, "What's the matter, Yank, are ye deaf?" "Maybe ye are afeared o' those d—d officers." "We 'uns don't give a d—for our officers," and so volley after volley would follow, whilst poor Yank had to continue silently walking his beat. Sometimes the "Johnny" would wind up with a blast of oaths at his silent auditor. Frequently our men would reply if they thought no officer was near to hear; they seemed to feel that it was only decent to be courteous to them. Strange as it may seem, there was a strong disposition to fraternize whenever opportunity offered on the part of the men of both sides. This was manifested daily on this picket-line, not only in talk across the river, but in communication by means of miniature boats. Our men were generally short of tobacco, and the Johnnies had an abundance of this article of the very best quality; on the other hand, our men were "long" on coffee, of which commodity they were "short." So "Johnny" would fix up a trade. "Say, Yank, if I send you over a boat-load of 'backy,' will ye send her back filled with coffee?" If he got an affirmative reply, which he often did, he would place his little boat in the stream with its rudder so fastened that the current would shoot it across a hundred yards or so further down. Yank would watch his opportunity, get the boat, take out its precious cargo of tobacco, reload it with coffee, reverse the rudder, and send it back to "Johnny," who was watching for it further down the stream. Newspapers soon were called for by "Johnny," and became a regular part of the cargo of these boats, for the rebels were wild to get our papers. The exchange of coffee and tobacco was a comparatively harmless matter and would probably have been winked at, but the sending of our Northern papers into their line, containing news of every movement of our forces, was a thing that must be prohibited. A large part of the special instructions of all picket officers related to the suppression of this traffic. Scarcely a day passed that we did not confiscate one or more of these boats. The tobacco our men were allowed to take, but the boat and all rebel newspapers had to be sent to army head-quarters. Some of these miniature boats were marvels of beauty, and showed mechanical skill in construction of the highest order. Others were rude "dugouts." They were generally about thirty inches long, six to ten inches wide, and about six inches deep. They were therefore capable of holding quite a quantity. It was a traffic very difficult to suppress, for our men wanted the tobacco and were unwilling to take that without sending back the proper quid pro quo. I doubt if it was ever altogether stopped that winter. The desire for tobacco on the part of our men was so great that they would break over, and some of the subordinate officers participated in it. These exchanges generally took place in the very early dawn, when the officer of the day and the officers of the picket were not supposed to be around. The officer of the day was required to make the "rounds" of his picket-line once after midnight, and then if everything was all right he could rest, his officers of the picket being responsible to him for their respective sections of the line. What is known in army regulations as the "grand rounds," a ceremonial visiting of the line by the officer of the day, accompanied by a sergeant and detail, was omitted on the picket-line as too noisy and ostentatious. In its place the officer of the day went over his line as quietly as possible, assuring himself that each man was in his proper place and was alert and doing his duty.
The sleepy time was from two o'clock A.M. until daylight, and this was the time I found it necessary to be on the line. It took from two to four hours to get over the entire line and visit every sentry. The line, as I have stated heretofore, extended from the railroad bridge at Fredericksburg to the village of Falmouth, a distance of two and a half to three miles. In the daytime I could ride over it comfortably, but in the night I had to take it on foot. When these were dark as ink, and rainy, and the ground was slushy and muddy, as it usually was at that time, it was not a very agreeable duty. However, my duty was so much lighter than that of the men (who, though they were only two hours on post at a time, were out in the storm all the while), that I could not complain. The fidelity of our men to duty under these trying circumstances was most remarkable. Twice only that winter did I find a man sleeping on post. In both of these cases the delinquent was scarcely more than a boy, who I really believed told the truth when they said they sat down because unable to stand up any longer, and, of course, instantly fell asleep. I had them relieved and sent back to camp, and did not report their offence.
A disagreeable duty I had to perform occurred one morning just at break of day. I had just returned from my trip over the line and was about entering the Lacey House, when I noticed a man running down towards the water's edge on the other side of the river. On these night tours of duty I wore a large cavalry overcoat with a long cape, which thoroughly concealed my rank and sword. I stepped out to the top of the bank to see what this man was doing, and he hailed me with: "Hello, Yank. I am going to send ye over a nice boat, with tobacco and newspapers. Look out and get her, and send her back with coffee and newspapers, and don't let any of your d—d officers get hold of it. If they catch ye they'll raise h—l with you, and swipe the whole business." I did not say a word, but quietly walked down to where I saw the boat would touch the shore and waited for it. In the mean time he kept up a running fire of admonitions like the above, chiefly directed to the need of watching against the vigilance of our d—d officers. I picked up the boat, took it up the bank, and then threw my coat open, disclosing my sword and my sash as officer of the day. Oh! the profanity and billingsgate that followed beggars description. I thought I had heard swearing before, but never anything to touch this fellow, and I really could not blame him very much. He had simply hailed the wrong man. The man he thought he was hailing, seeing my presence, kept out of the way. The boat was a little beauty, one of the handsomest I ever saw. It contained five or six pounds of the best Virginia plug tobacco and several newspapers from Richmond. I would have been glad to have kept the boat as a souvenir, but had to despatch it to head-quarters with all its contents at once. Of course I never saw it again.
The "Johnnies" were not without their fun, as well as our boys. Several times I was saluted by their pickets as officer of the day. Army regulations require the sentry nearest the picket reserve, on seeing the officer of the day approach, to call out, "Turn out the guard, officer of the day." Thereupon the officer of the picket parades his reserves, which presents arms and is then inspected by the officer of the day. The red sash worn crosswise over the shoulder is the insignia of the officer of the day. Several times that winter, as I was riding along our line, a rebel sentry yelled, "Turn out the guard, officer of the day," and a sergeant paraded his guard, faced towards me across the river, and presented arms. Of course, I lifted my cap in acknowledgment of the compliment, even though it was a bit of deviltry on their part. This indicated a grave want of discipline on the part of their troops. I am sure such an act would not have been thought of by our men.
General Burnside was relieved from command of the army on the 26th of January, 1863, and was succeeded by Major-General Joseph Hooker. "Fighting Joe," as he was familiarly called, was justly popular with the army, nevertheless there was general regret at the retirement of Burnside, notwithstanding his ill success. That there was more than the "fates" against him was felt by many, and whether under existing conditions "Fighting Joe" or any one else was likely to achieve any better success was a serious question. However, all felt that the new commander had lots of fight in him, and the old Army of the Potomac was never known to "go back" on such a man. His advent as commander was signalized by a modest order announcing the fact, and matters moved on without a ripple upon the surface. Routine work, drills, and picket duty occupied all our time. Some of our men were required to go on picket duty every other day, so many were off duty from sickness and other causes. Twenty-four hours on picket duty, with only twenty-four hours off between, was certainly very severe duty, yet the men did it without a murmur. When it is understood that this duty required being that whole time out in the most trying weather, usually either rain, sleet, slush, or mud, and constantly awake and alert against a possible attack, one can form an idea of the strain upon physical endurance it involved.
The chief event preceding the Chancellorsville movement was the grand review of the army by President Lincoln and staff. The exact date of this review I do not remember, but it occurred a short time before the movement upon Chancellorsville. Owing to the absence of Colonel Albright and the illness of Lieutenant-Colonel Shreve, the command of the regiment devolved upon me, and I had a funny experience getting ready for it. As a sort of preliminary drill, I concluded I would put the regiment through a practice review on our drill grounds. To do this properly, I had to imagine the presence of a reviewing officer standing before our line at the proper distance of thirty to forty yards. The ceremony involved opening the ranks, which brought the officers to the front of the line, the presenting arms, and dipping the colors, which the reviewing officer, usually a general, acknowledged by lifting his hat and gracefully bowing. I had reached the point in my practice drill where the "present arms" had been executed, and the colors lowered, and had turned to the front myself to complete the ceremony by presenting sword to my imaginary general, when lo! there rose up in front of me, in the proper position, a real reviewing officer in the shape of one of the worst looking army "bums" I ever saw. He assumed the position and dignified carriage of a major-general, lifted his dirty old "cabbage-leaf" cap, and bowed up and down the line with the grace and air of a Wellington, and then he promptly skedaddled. The "boys" caught the situation instantly and were bursting with laughter. Of course I didn't notice the performance, but the effort not to notice it almost used me up. This will illustrate how the army "bummer" never let an opportunity slip for a practical joke, cost what it might. This fellow was a specimen of this genus that was ubiquitous in the army. Every regiment had one or more. They were always dirty and lousy, a sort of tramp, but always on hand at the wrong time and in the wrong place. A little indifferent sort of service could be occasionally worked out of them, but they generally skulked whenever there was business on hand, and then they were so fertile of excuses that somehow they escaped the penalty and turned up again when the "business" was over. Their one specialty was foraging. They were born foragers. What they could not steal was not to be had, and this probably accounts in a measure for their being endured. Their normal occupation was foraging and, incidentally, Sancho Panza like, looking for adventure. They knew more of our movements, and also of those of the enemy, than the commanding general of either. One of the most typical of this class that I knew was a young fellow I had known very well before the war. He was a shining light in society, occupying a high and responsible business position. His one fault was his good-fellowship and disposition to be convivial when off duty. He enlisted among the first, when the war broke out in 1861, and I did not see him again until one day one of this genus "bummer" strayed into our camp. He stuck his head into my tent and wanted to know how "Fred Hitchcock was." I had to take a long second look to dig out from this bunch of rags and filth my one-time Beau Brummel acquaintance at home. His eyes were bleared, and told all too surely the cause of the transformation. His brag was that he had skipped every fight since he enlisted. "It's lots more fun," he said, "to climb a tree well in the rear and see the show. It's perfectly safe, you know, and then you don't get yourself killed and planted. What is the use," he argued, "of getting killed and have a fine monument erected over you, when you can't see it nor make any use of it after it is done? Let the other fellows do that if they want to. I've no use for monuments." Poor fellow, his cynical ideas were his ruin. Better a thousand times had he been "planted" at the front, manfully doing his duty, than to save a worthless life and return with the record of a poltroon, despised by himself and everybody else.