Shall I give you the experience of a wounded soldier? Towards the close of the siege, while in the line of duty, a minie-ball from a Confederate sharpshooter went crashing through his right lung. His comrades bore him back a short distance; the surgeon came and seeing where the soldier had been shot, shook his head and said, “he cannot live.” Comrades gathered around, saying in undertones, “poor fellow, he’s got his discharge.” The soldier closed his eyes, and although gasping for breath, as the warm life blood flowed from his wound and gushed from his mouth, saw something—his past life came before him like a living panorama; the good deeds and the evil of his life appeared in a few moments; he thought he was soon to be ushered into eternity, and how would it stand with him there. He breathed one little prayer: “O, Lord, spare my life and I will serve thee all my days.” Presently the ambulance came and he was lifted tenderly into it, to be conveyed two miles to the rear to the brush hospital. The boys said “good-bye.” He was but a youth, not twenty years of age; had been promoted to First Sergeant after the battle of Shiloh and had endeared himself to all in his company, many of whom were old enough to be his father. Louis LaBrush, a Sergeant of the company, a Frenchman by birth, but a true lover of his adopted country, loved this smooth-faced boy, so badly wounded, and begged permission of the Captain to go with the wounded soldier and watch over him. The Captain, seeing the yearning Look in the eyes of the Sergeant, granted permission, and the ambulance started with the old Sergeant watching with a tender care over the little Orderly Sergeant pillowed on his knee. The sun was just sinking to rest when they reached the hospital, which was only a brush shed covered with branches from the trees, in which were long lines of cots upon which the wounded soldiers lay. As the ambulance drew near the surgeon in charge came out, and looking at the wounded man, said: “Put him out there under that tree; he’ll die tonight,” and the old Sergeant put his darling boy out under the tree, laying him tenderly on the ground. The Sergeant and another comrade of his company, Henry Winter, who was a nurse in the hospital, watched by the boy’s side during the weary hours of the night. At midnight, as the doctor was making his rounds, he observed the Sergeant still under the tree, and went to see if the boy was yet living. Finding that he was, he then made an examination by probing with his fingers into the wounds. The splintered bones pierced the tender flesh and made the boy writhe in pain, although the only protest was the gritting of his teeth. To cause his boy such suffering, after the treatment he had received, was more than the old Frenchman could stand, and he burst forth in a volley of oaths, commanding the doctor to take his hands off immediately or he would kill him, saying, “If he is going to die, let him die in peace; you shall not kill him.” Seeing the fire in the old Sergeant’s eyes, the doctor went away, muttering, “Well, the boy will die anyway.” I want to say right here, that as a rule our surgeons were men of sympathy and did all they could for the soldiers. The example I speak of is one of the exceptions. The next morning the surgeon did not come, but sent word that if the soldier under the tree was still alive, to dress his wound, give him clean clothing and place him on a cot in the hospital. He was alive and that boy recovered, even after the surgeon in the army and the doctors at home said he couldn’t live. That wounded boy lives today and is able to write this book in the year 1915, and he is ever grateful in remembrance of the old French Sergeant and Comrade Henry Winter, whose tender care aided in saving his life.
CHAPTER XIII.
The trite saying of Gen. Sherman that “war is hell” cannot be fully appreciated by the people of this generation; only those who have been through the horrors of war on the battle field and in the hospitals, can fully realize the horrors of war. Let me tell you how one brave man of my company lost his life through the most reckless foolishness. One day during the siege he succeeded in procuring some whisky from some unknown source and drank enough of it to make him half drunk. While in this condition he took it into his head to go out in the open and march out towards Fort Hill, and finding something of interest in the open field, he brought it to camp and boasted to the boys where he got it. Some one went and reported to the First Sergeant that E—— was drunk and had said that he was going to walk right up on top of Fort Hill. The Sergeant detailed a Corporal to watch E—— and keep him in camp, but the soldier having enough whisky in him to make him reckless and without reason or sense, escaped his watch and went boldly up to Fort Hill and climbed the fort, but when on top a bullet from the enemy laid him low. As we boys got the body of our comrade that night and buried it, we could not help but say, that if poor E—— had let the accursed whisky alone he would have been living, and we then declared that liquor was a greater enemy than the men who opposed us with their muskets.
On the 3rd day of July, 1863, a white flag was seen, nearly opposite to the “White House.” Firing ceased in that vicinity and presently several Confederate officers approached our lines to confer with Gen. Grant. The General declined meeting them, but sent word he would meet Gen. Pemberton at 3 o’clock in front of Gen. McPherson’s lines. Soon after Gen. Pemberton came out and met Gen. Grant under a big tree, about midway between the two lines, where they had a conference as to the surrender of Vicksburg, “The Gibralter of America.” After a talk of an hour, possibly, Gen. Pemberton returned inside the fortifications, and then after correspondence lasting until the next day, terms of surrender were finally agreed upon, and on Saturday, July 4, 1863, the anniversary of American Independence, the garrison of Vicksburg marched out of the works it had defended so long, and stacking their arms, hung their colors on the center, laid off their knapsacks, belts and cartridge boxes, and thus shorn of the accoutrements of the soldier, marched down the road into the city. They went through the ceremony with that downcast look, so touching on a soldier’s face. Not a word was spoken, save the few words of command necessary to be given by their officers, and these were given in a subdued manner. What an army it was—30,000 men and 172 cannon. Gen. J. B. McPherson, commanding the 17th Army Corps, addressed a letter to Col. Rawlins, chief of staff to Gen. Grant, saying, “If one regiment goes in advance to the court house to take possession, I respectfully request that it be the 45th Illinois. This regiment has borne the brunt of the battle oftener than any other in my command and always nobly.” Col. Rawlins endorsed this letter, stating that it was left to Gen. McPherson to designate such regiment as he saw proper to go forward and take possession of the court house. Gen. McPherson then sent a letter to Gen. John A. Logan, commanding the third division: “I suggest that the 45th Illinois take the advance in going into the city.” Now the boys in blue take up their line of march into the city. Gen. Badeau, in his history of Gen. Grant says: “Logan’s division was one of those which had approached nearest the works, and now was the first to enter the town. It had been heavily engaged in both assaults and was fairly entitled to this honor. The 45th Illinois Infantry marched at the head of the line and placed its battle-torn flag on the court house in Vicksburg. Gen. Grant and Gen. Logan rode into the town at the head of Logan’s division.”
When inside the works, and in the city, the men of the two armies affiliated at once. Groups of Union and Confederate soldiers could be seen wherever there was a shady place; the Union soldier pumping the rebel and giving him in return for the information hard tack and bacon, which the poor famished fellows accepted with a grateful look. The Confederates reclined on the glass and while munching their hard tack, tell what they “reckon” is their loss; how long they “allowed” to hold out; how our sharpshooters killed “right smart” of their men and they wish “we’uns” and “you’uns” could have this war ended and all live together in peace. Many of the Union and Confederate soldiers were seen walking arm in arm; they felt they were countrymen. Five days’ rations were issued to the prisoners, consisting of bacon, hominy, peas, coffee, sugar, soap, salt and crackers.
Here is what one of the Confederates wrote about it: “How the famished troops enjoyed such bounteous supplies, it is needless to state. For once the brave boys were now objects of their enemy’s charity. They grew jovial and hilarious over the change in their condition. The Yankees came freely among them and were unusually kind. They asked innumerable questions and were horrified at the fact of the men eating mules and rats.” After feeding and paroling this large army of men, for it took several days to parole them, they silently and sadly marched out and off to their homes, while the boys in blue and the people of the North were full of rejoicing. Here is a few lines, composed by one of the boys in blue at the time:
“The armies of the Union
’Round Vicksburg long had lain,
For forty-seven days and nights,
Besieging it in vain.