An Interesting Incident.
It was in the Spring of 1863, and General Banks had inaugurated the campaign which ended in the capture of the last stronghold. We had marched to the very outworks of Port Hudson, and engaged the Confederate forces, on that historic night, when lashed to the maintop, high above the boiling surges, stout-hearted, Farragut, drove his vessels through the storm of shot and shell, that was hurled upon him from the heights above, and cut the Rebel communications between Port Hudson and Vicksburg. These two fortified places were the only ones left on the Mississippi River, not in our hands. Grant, was already hammering at Vicksburg, but before Port Hudson could be invested, it was necessary to dispose of Confederate General Taylor and his forces, who from their position in the South, could fall upon our unprotected rear or make a dash for New Orleans. Returning then, to our camp at Baton Rouge, after a few days' rest, we were suddenly divided into two forces, one marching down through the country, to engage the enemy at New Iberia, and the rest of us sent around by water and up through the Atchafalaya to intercept and cut them to pieces. It was only a partial success. Driven from their position in Fort Bisland, they fell upon us before we were fairly in position, and held us in check while the whole army slipped by. Then commenced a long pursuit, enlivened by daily skirmish and fighting which lasted from the shores of the Gulf to Shreveport, in the extreme northwestern corner of the state where they were driven across the border into Texas.
It was on this march that the incident occurred which I am about to narrate. We had been marching all day, in fact, from before the dawn, trying to reach the Bayou Vermillion, before the enemy could destroy the bridge. Men fell out by the scores, but still we hurried on with all the speed our wearied limbs could support. Just as it was growing too dark to see, a battery opened upon us, and there was a sharp charge of cavalry. We were hastily thrown into position to receive them, but in an instant, wheeling, they dashed across the bridge, destroying it in our very faces before it could be prevented.
The next day was Sunday and while we camped there waiting for the construction of a new bridge, about half the advance division took the opportunity to strip and go in bathing. Suddenly, without an instant's warning, a troupe of cavalry dashed down the opposite bank, and opened fire upon us. Such a spectacle never before was seen. The long roll was sounding and naked men, in every direction were making a dash for their guns, trying to dress as they ran. Some with their trousers on hind side before, didn't know whether they were advancing or retreating, and some ran the wrong way, others, with simply a shirt and cap, were trying to adjust their belts. Officers were swearing and mounted aids were dashing about, trying to make order out of confusion.
The next day we were ordered to Barry's Landing, to act as guard for a steamer coming up through the bayous with supplies, and here my story properly begins. It was April 22, 1863, and the regiment, exhausted by the conflict of the 14th, and the rapid march ensuing, following hard upon the track of Taylor's flying forces, from Franklin to Opelousas, was resting at Barry's Landing, when suddenly the whole camp was thrown into a ferment of excitement by the news that the paymaster had arrived, and would be at headquarters at 12 o'clock. Oh, welcome news to men who had been without pay for six months. How the eye glistened, and the mouth watered for the leeks and flesh-pots of Louisiana!
What visions of Sutler's delicacies opened up once more to those whom long-tick had gradually restricted to a Spartan diet of hard-tack and salt pork. What thoughts of home and the money that could be sent to loved ones far away, suffering, perhaps for lack of that very money—but how to do it,—there was the question. Here we were in the very heart of the Rebel country, two hundred miles at least from New Orleans, in the midst of an active campaign. No opportunity to send letters except such as chance threw in the way, and no certainty that such letters would ever reach their destination. Added to this, came the order to be ready to march at four o'clock. Whither we knew not, but the foe was ahead, and our late experience had taught us that life was but an uncertain element and that a Rebel bullet had a very careless way of seeking out and finding its victim. In the midst of all the bustle and confusion, the sergeant-major, William E. Simonds came tearing along through the camp excitedly inquiring for Lieut. Goodell. That estimable officer, I am sorry to say, having received no pay, owing to some informality in his papers when mustered in from second to first lieutenant, had retired into the shade of a neighboring magnolia tree, and was there meditating on the cussedness of paymasters, mustering officers, the army in general. In fact, everything looked uncommonly black and never before had he so strongly believed in universal damnation. To him, then, thus communing came Sergeant-major Simonds, and said: "You will report for duty at once to headquarters; you are directed to receive the pay of the regiment and proceed forthwith to New Orleans, there to express same home, returning to the regiment as soon thereafter as practicable."
The rest we will let Lieut. Goodell tell in his own way:
How the Pay of a Regiment Was Carried to New Orleans
by Lieutenant Henry Hill Goodell.