I soon came to an open field and saw in the distance a large number of soldiers. One glance convinced me that they were Federals, for they wore United States uniform. Bounding over the field in an instant I had come within a hundred yards of them before I noticed that they were prisoners, guarded by a band of rebels. The first thing that caused me to discover this fact was one of the prisoners waving his hand for me to go in another direction, upon seeing which one of the rebel guards sprang forward and struck the prisoner with the butt of his musket.
This little demonstration revealed to me at once my position, and turning I fled in the direction indicated by the prisoner, when another volley followed me which proved as harmless as the first. I began now to think that I was about as safe inside the rebel lines as anywhere, for their bullets seemed quite harmless so far as I was personally concerned. I remembered that when I was a child, I heard my mother once tell a Scotch Presbyterian clergyman she was afraid I would meet with some violent death, for I was always in some unheard of mischief, such as riding the wildest colt on the farm, firing off my father’s shot-gun, and climbing to the highest point of the buildings. To which the good old predestinarian replied: “Ah weel, my guid woman, dinna fret; it is an auld saying, an’ I believe a true one, ‘A wean that’s born to be hung ’ill ne’er be droon’d.’” Then turning to me and laying his hand on my head, he said: “But, me wee lassie, ye mauna tempt Providence wi’ your madcap antics, or ye may no live oot half your days.” I did not know after all but that the fates were reserving me for a more exalted death on the scaffold at Richmond—for the old minister’s words would occasionally ring in my ears: “If the wean is born to be hung it will ne’er be droon’d”—and, I added, or be shot either. I was now outside of the rebel lines, but I was just between two fires, and tremendous hot ones at that, for the whole lines were a perfect blaze both of musketry and artillery. Nothing but the power of the Almighty could have shielded me from such a storm of shot and shell, and brought me through unscathed. It seems to me now that it was almost as much of a miracle as that of the three Hebrew children coming forth from the fiery furnace without even the smell of fire upon them.
CHAPTER XVII.
WITHDRAWAL TO MALVERN HILL—THE SOLDIER’S LAST WATCH—TROWBRIDGE’S GRAVE—SCENES IN A HOSPITAL—CAPTURE OF THE WOUNDED—A NOBLE SURGEON—LINE OF BATTLE—HARD FIGHTING—THE ENEMY REPULSED—HUNTING FOR FOOD—IN A FARM-HOUSE—PERILOUS POSITION—SECURING THE SPOILS—RELIEF OF THE FAMISHING—SUBLIME SCENE—ON THE MARCH—GENERAL KEYES—GUN-BOATS—ARRIVAL AT HARRISON’S LANDING—SAD CONDITION OF TROOPS—OUR LOSSES—MCCLELLAN’S ADDRESS TO THE ARMY.
When I reached the main army the troops had gained a new position, and were driving the enemy back. The troops were well nigh exhausted, yet fighting bravely and determinedly. Night came and put an end to that day’s battle, but instead of spending the night in taking care of our poor wounded men, we were obliged to retreat, under cover of darkness, to Malvern Hill, and leave our wounded in the hands of the enemy.
Of the many who died from exhaustion, as well as wounds, during our retreat from the vicinity of Richmond, I know of none more worthy of record than that of a young man of my acquaintance who died on the field the night after this battle. He was not wounded, but died at his post from sheer exhaustion. In the course of the evening, I had seen and offered him some brandy from my flask, which I had for the wounded. He was then scarcely able to stand on his feet, yet he refused to take the brandy, saying, “that others needed it more than he did; and besides,” said he, “I never take any intoxicating liquor under any circumstances.”
A notice of his death by an eye-witness, given under the heading, “the Soldier’s Last Watch,” says: “A lonely grave, a little apart from others, stands on the ground of one of the battles fought in the retreat from Richmond, in the summer of 1862, which bears on its wooden head-board simply the name, Trowbridge.
“The turf covers the remains of a youthful soldier who was not only brave and patient, but exemplary as a christian. Those battles renewed from day to day, and attended by so many hardships, destroyed many lives, in addition to those lost in conflict with the enemy. Hundreds and thousands of our gallant men, worn out by marches, fighting, hunger, and loss of sleep, became discouraged, and either recklessly threw themselves into the jaws of death, or fell into the hands of the enemy, because they were unable to keep up with their more robust, though not braver companions.
“The circumstances of the death of one of these silent martyrs to their country were taken down from the lips of a soldier who was with him in his last hours. It is all that may be known, save to a few bleeding hearts, of one who, alas! like so many others, sleeps in that saddest of all places, a battle-field. The worn-out soldier, the day before his death, said to his lieutenant, ‘I am so weak and helpless, I do not know what I can do further.’ He was told to lie down, and get what rest he could on the battle-field. About ten at night, said his companion, as we were talking together, an officer of the company came up, and told us we should retreat at two o’clock in the morning. He ordered us to stand guard till then, two hours each in turn. We took straws, and drew lots to decide who should stand first. The lot fell on Trowbridge. I threw myself on the ground, under a tree, with my blanket drawn over me, and was soon fast asleep. At twelve I was aroused, but said, ‘you must be mistaken; it cannot be five minutes since I lay down.’ We had been ordered not to speak aloud, or to have a light; and he replied in a whisper, ‘Feel the hands of my watch—it is twelve.’