The Captured Scout of the Army of the James / A Sketch of the Life of Sergeant Henry H. Manning, of the Twenty-fourth Mass. Regiment

by H. Clay Trumbull

VETERAN RE-ENLISTMENTS.—LOVE FOR THE OLD FLAG.

It was while the regiment was at St. Augustine that the call came from the government for the re-enlistment of its veteran soldiers. It did not take Henry Manning much longer to make up his mind to a second enlistment than it did to the first. Had he been wanted for thirty or fifty years, instead of three or five, he would doubtless have been ready. God be praised that such boys lived, and were willing to die, in the hour of our country's need!

A little incident, occurring as the veterans of the Twenty-fourth left St. Augustine, on the furlough granted them as a consideration of re-enlistment, well illustrated the character and spirit of the soldiers of the war. They were gathered about the head of the dock, just ready to embark for the North, to leave soldier-life for a while behind them. Their thoughts were naturally of their release from service, and of the homes and loved ones to which they were hastening. Their comrades, who were to remain behind, had assembled to see them off: citizens of the old town were also there; and all was glad-hearted cheerfulness. But unexpectedly to nearly all, as they stood thus together, the regimental colors were brought down from Fort Marion, to be taken with them to the North. As the dear old flag came in sight,—the bullet-rent and storm-worn colors which they had followed unflinchingly on the weary march and in the battle's crash, and for which so many whom they loved had died,—instinctively, as by the word of command, every voice was hushed; every farewell stayed; and the soldier group parted and fell back on either hand, in reverent, affectionate regard for that symbol of all that they lived for then; and, as through the open ranks the loved flag was borne down the pier to the steamer's deck,—

"Every foot was quiet, Every head was bare; The soft trade-wind was lifting A hundred locks of hair;"

while tearful eyes, in bronzed and manly faces bore precious testimony to the patriotism and generous devotion of those brave and tender-hearted soldiers. It was with such men and in that spirit that Henry Manning came home, in the spring of 1864, on his veteran furlough.

CAMPAIGNS IT IN VIRGINIA.—VOLUNTEERS AS A SCOUT.

Rejoining his regiment at Gloucester Point, Va., he was in Gen. Butler's expedition up the James River, towards Drewry's Bluff. Early in June, while the Army of the James was shut in the peninsula at Bermuda Hundred, Gen. Butler called for a volunteer scout—or quasi spy—to venture within the enemy's lines, and bring back information of his position and numbers. This call found a ready response in Manning's heart, and he volunteered for the undertaking. He found, as he said in writing to his home of his determination, peculiar satisfaction in the thought that he could now be of real service to the cause he loved. On the vedette-post, in the rifle-pit, or on the battle-line, he must stand or fall as one man, doing only what any lad might compass; but in this new mission, all his nervous energy and cautious shrewdness and consecrated purpose would tell in an effort worthy of a soldier, whether that effort brought success or failure. As expressive of his feelings, he enclosed to his friends the following lines he had clipped from some paper:—

"We must forget all feelings save the one; We must resign all passions save our purpose; We must behold no object save Our Country, And only look on death as beautiful, So that the sacrifice ascend to heaven And draw down freedom on her evermore."

It requires not a little moral courage and true nerve to deliberately leave one's military lines in the face of the enemy, and pass over into the encircling forces of the foe. But Henry Manning had counted the cost of his undertaking; and late on the evening of June 7, 1864, he glided stealthily down the steep right bank of the river James, and along the water's edge in the shade of the heavy foliage, until he had passed the rebel picket in front of the famous "Howlett Battery;" then cautiously, and with bated breath, he crept up the bank, and was within the enemy's intrenchments. Bayonets glistened, lights flashed, voices hummed about him: he was everywhere surrounded by sights and sounds of life, but he saw never a friendly look, heard never a friendly note.

"He hears the rustling flag, And the armed sentry's tramp; And the starlight and moonlight His silent wanderings lamp. With slow tread and still tread, He scans the tented line; And he counts the battery guns By the gaunt and shadowy pine; And his slow tread and still tread Give no warning sound."