Drum Taps in Dixie

The Author—A War-Time Photograph.

DRUM TAPS
IN DIXIE

MEMORIES OF A
DRUMMER BOY

1861-1865

BY
DELAVAN S. MILLER

Watertown, N. Y.
Hungerford-Holbrook Co.
1905

Copyrighted 1905
By Delavan S. Miller

Published December, 1905

HUNGERFORD-HOLBROOK CO.
WATERTOWN, N. Y.

Affectionately dedicated
to my Wife and
Children.

Preface

A chance meeting with a comrade who was instrumental in saving from capture a piece of artillery at the second battle of Bull Run suggested one of the several sketches grouped together in this volume.

Memory awakened furnished material for those that followed, each article recalling faces, forms, scenes and incidents from out of the misty past.

“Awake but one, and lo!
What myriads rise!”

The writer has enjoyed his reminiscing. It has been a labor of love, so to speak, enabling him in a measure to live the old days over again.

The articles have been written at odd times after business hours, and should not be scrutenized too closely from a literary standpoint.

The writing of the memories of a drummer boy has been a source of pleasure and rest to the writer, who sincerely hopes that the reading of them may not weary those who, in their hours of rest, may scan these pages.

Delavan S. Miller.

Prelude—The Drum’s Story

Yes, I am a drum, and a very old drum at that. My leather ears are twisted and brown. My shiny sides are scratched and marred. My once beautiful white head is patched and blood-stained. Yet, I am loved and tenderly cared for; have my own cosy corner in the attic and am better provided for than many of the brave men who fought for the Union. So I am content. I have lived my life. Was ever ready for duty. Made lots of noise. Have led men on the march and in battle. Now I am laid aside, growing old like all the boys of ’61.

Drum Taps in Dixie.

CHAPTER I.

OFF FOR THE WAR.

When the news was flashed across the country that Fort Sumter had been fired upon the writer was a 12-year-old boy residing in West Carthage. The events of those days stand forth in his memory like the hillcrests of a landscape.

The shot electrified the north, and the martial current that went from man to man was imparted to the boys. Favorite sports and pastimes lost their zest. Juvenile military companies paraded the streets every evening and mimic battles were fought every Saturday afternoon.

The flag lowered over Fort Sumter was unfurled everywhere. Flags cost money in those days, too, but they were flung to the breeze from the tops of churches, school houses, business places and the homes of the rich and the poor. I used to go up on the roof of my home nearly every day to count the new banners.

The rendezvous for the boys of our neighborhood was Jim Corey’s blacksmith shop. Jim was a typical “village blacksmith” with a hearty greeting for every one, old and young. The boys could always count on Jim’s sympathy if they had a stone bruise, got a licking at home or lacked ten cents of the price of a circus ticket.

Corey’s shop was also a favorite meeting place for the men. Here they would assemble after supper and discuss the all-absorbing topic, the war.

One of the most regular in attendance was “Wash” Hopkins, as he was familiarly called. A particular nail keg with a piece of buffalo skin thrown over the end was the seat always reserved for him. He usually allowed the others to do the talking, but when he had anything to say it was right to the point.

Almost everybody was of the opinion that the South was putting up a big game of bluff and that the affair would blow over quickly.

On one occasion those gathered in the blacksmith shop had been discussing the situation and were pretty unanimous that the rebellion would be crushed out in sixty days. “Wash” roused himself and quietly remarked: “Guess you’d better make it ninety, boys.”

At another time a young man was telling those assembled that he had enlisted in a company of sharpshooters; that they were going to pick off the rebel officers and artillerymen as fast as they showed themselves, which would demoralize the troops and send them flying from the field. “That’s all right,” says “Wash,” “but what do you suppose the other fellows are going to do while you’re shooting at them? Perhaps they may have sharpshooters, too.”

How little I thought in those early days of the war that Corey and I would be soldiering in the same company and regiment a few months later.

I recall the thrilling war meetings that were held in the churches and school houses. There was scarcely a place in the county where there was a store and postoffice that did not have its war meeting each week. It is worthy of mention that the most enthusiastic speakers on such occasions were eager to enlist—others. There comes to my mind the names of several who were always urging others to enlist, but who stayed at home and coined money while others fought, and after the war labored to have refunded to them by the taxpayers the money that they had expended for a substitute.

Carthage sent volunteers promptly in response to Lincoln’s call, and a few days after the fall of Sumter about two dozen young men left to join the old 35th New York infantry.

There was no railroad to Carthage in those days, and they rode away in wagons drawn by four horses. The scene comes before me as I write. The sad partings, the waving banners, the cheers of the multitude who had gathered to see them off to the war. Those were anxious, exciting days that the present generation know but little about.

Among that party of first volunteers was a favorite cousin of the writer who was scarcely seventeen years old. The one thing above all others that I wished as I saw him ride away was that I was old enough to go, too.

Patriotism ran high in Carthage, and the town sent more than its share of volunteers in the early days of the war before there were any big bounties and when the pay was $11 per month.

One bright morning in the fall of 1861 a motherless lad of less than thirteen saw his father go away with a company of men that had been recruited for the Morgan Flying Artillery, then being organized at Staten Island, in New York harbor. He wanted to go with his father, but the suggestion was not listened to.

After the regiment was sent to Virginia Capt. Smith of the Carthage company returned home after more men. He brought a letter to the little lad from his father and, patting the boy on his head, asked him in a joking way how he would like to be a soldier. This gave the boy an opportunity that he was wanting, and he pleaded with the officer to take him back with him. The mother was dead, the home was broken up; the little fellow argued that he would be better off with his father.

The tender hearted captain sympathized with the boy, but said he did not know what he could do with such a little fellow. The boy would not be put off, however. He had inherited persistency from his Scottish ancestors, and after much importuning the captain said that he did not know how it could be managed, but he would try to take the boy back with him.

In March, 1862, when two months past thirteen years old, the one of whom I write started for the war with a squad of recruits in charge of Sergt. Wesley Powell. Strange to relate, this same Powell, two years and a half later, had charge of a detachment of soldiers carrying rations to their comrades on the firing line in front of Petersburg, when a shell burst so close to them that several were stunned, although not seriously injured, and among them was the boy who went to the war with the sergeant so long before.

A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SOLDIER.

Forty-two years and over have not dimmed the recollections of the day when the start was made for the war. The boy got up bright and early and went all around among his neighboring playmates and bade them good-bye. Didn’t he feel important, though?

The party rode to Watertown in wagons, and after a supper at the old American hotel, boarded a train for New York. It was the first ride on the cars for our young volunteer.

The boy might live to be one thousand years old, but he could scarcely forget Broadway as it appeared to him that spring day in 1862.

He remembers that the next day when they were on a train passing through New Jersey, a party of boys from a military school boarded the car. They were dressed in natty new uniforms, of which they were evidently very proud. Sergt. Powell wore the regulation artillery uniform of that period, which was quite stunning with the red facings and brass epaulets, and a hat of black felt caught up at the side and ornamented with a black plume. Powell got into conversation with the school boys and finally brought them over to where his party was seated and said: “I want to have you meet a little boy who, although he is not in uniform, is going to be a real soldier.”

If there are any old veterans reading this, they will have most pleasant recollections and ever feel grateful to the good people of Philadelphia for the treatment they received whenever they passed through the city going to or from the war. No boy in blue was ever allowed to pass through the city without being well fed and comfortably cared for, if he remained there over night. Our party passed the night there and took an early train for Washington.

Baltimore had earned an unenviable reputation by its hostility to the northern soldiers and there was always apprehension that a train bearing any soldiers might be stoned or fired upon. Sergt. Powell was quite a joker and he had worked upon the fears of the party in his charge so much that two or three were badly frightened when the train pulled into the city. The reception was in marked contrast with that in Philadelphia, but the passage through Baltimore was without incident.

From Baltimore to Washington there was abundant evidence that the field of operations was not far distant. The railroad was heavily guarded, and camps of soldiers were frequently seen. The boy who two days before had left a quiet country town had to pinch himself occasionally to see if he were really awake and that it was not all a dream.

Washington swarmed with soldiers. Troops were camped right in the heart of the city. Heavily laden wagons with the wheels in mud and ruts clear up to the hubs were pulled through Pennsylvania avenue by six and eight mule teams. The capitol and the Washington monument were then unfinished.

Our party made a short stay in the city and took boat for Alexandria, an old-time southern town with hordes of negroes, slave pens and other reminders of the ante-bellum days.

It was a three mile walk to the forts occupied by the Second New York Heavy Artillery. The regiment that afternoon was practicing firing the big cannons in Fort Worth. There were some 32 and 64 and two 100-pounders in the fort, and the small boy who had never heard any ordnance except an old moss-back cannon at a Fourth of July celebration remembers that the cold chills went creeping up his back as the party drew near the fort, for the earth fairly trembled when the big “dogs of war” barked. The father had not been notified that his son was coming to join him, and consequently you may be sure that he was more than surprised when he saw an officer leading by the hand a little lad whom he supposed was so far away.

The father was a man of few words—“what couldn’t be cured must be endured,” so he brushed two or three tear drops away and went back to the command of his gun squad and the boy sat down on a pile of cannon balls, smelled burning powder and heard the roar of the big guns until he was not sure but that he would prefer to be back in York state.

This was in the early days of the war and there was not much system about anything. Probably if it had been a year later and the boy had had to pass a regular examination and muster he would have been sent home. But he, with the rest of the recruits, was merged into the company without any formalities. It did puzzle the captain, though, to know what to do with the youngster, and one day when the regiment was out for inspection the colonel said to Capt. Smith: “Mein Gott, captain! pe you taking soldiers from the cradles?”

Sergt. Loten Miller
Father of Author.

Smith said: “I know I have got a number of quite young soldiers, colonel, but you will find that Co. H will keep its end up with any organization in the regiment.”

The first night in camp the boy did not sleep well. The artillery practice in the fort after his arrival and the thunder of the 32 and 64-pounders and the smell of the burning powder weakened his boyish enthusiasm somewhat. And then the bed he had to sleep on was something different from what he had been accustomed to. So after the bugles had sounded “lights out” he lay awake a long time, listening to the singing of the whippoorwills and thought of the great change that had come into his life in so short a time, and wondered if the realities of a soldier’s life would meet his expectations.

A NIGHT ALARM.

Suddenly like a clap of thunder from a clear sky came the report of a musket outside the fort. The bugles sounded the alarm, and the drummers in the neighboring camps rattled off the “long roll” with a recklessness characteristic of youth.

“Turn out! Turn out! Turn out!” the bugles sounded. “Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!” yelled the orderly sergeants, and, half dressed, the men were marched into the fort and stationed at the guns.

The commotion soon subsided and there was not a sound except for the neighing of the horses in the cavalry camps and the whinnering of the mules of the wagon train, and after a couple of hours’ waiting the men were marched back to their company streets. In the morning it was learned that the alarm was occasioned by the attempt of a detachment of Mosby’s men to steal some horses from a cavalry camp.

These midnight excursions of the famous Confederate “Rough Rider” were of frequent occurrence during the first two years of the war.

THE FIRST UNIFORM.

The young recruit’s first uniform was a bad fit. The coat sleeves and pants were several inches too long, but a camp tailor fixed them and the first day the boy wore the suit he did as every other volunteer before him had done, went and posed for a “tintype” before a background representing various scenes of military life. Some of the specimens of the photographer’s art in those days were enough to make a horse laugh.

The Second New York had been organized as a light artillery regiment and were then known as the “Morgan Flying Artillery,” so called in honor of Gov. Morgan, but only one company got their guns and horses when it was decided that no more light batteries were wanted. So the balance of the regiment was turned into heavy artillery (heavy infantry.)

A DRUMMER BOY.

The change called for fifers and drummers instead of buglers, and the Jefferson county boy was the first drummer the regiment had, his drum being a present from the officers at Fort Worth.

A full regimental drum corps was soon organized, and right here it may be proper to say that an old army drum corps in the sixties could make music. A boy would not “pass muster” in those days unless he could do the double and single drag with variations, execute the “long roll,” imitate the rattle of musketry, besides various other accomplishments with the sticks. And when a dozen or more of the lads, with their caps set saucily on the sides of their heads, led a regiment in a review with their get-out-of-the-way-Old-Dan-Tuckerish style of music, it made the men in the ranks step off as though they were bound for a Donnybrook fair or some other pleasure excursion.

THE FIRST DRUM.

It is with feelings of real tenderness that I write of my first drum. It was none of the common sort such as furnished by Uncle Sam, but was the best that money could buy, and was a gift from the officers at Fort Worth in the spring of 1862. A requisition for instruments was a long time in being filled, owing to the vast amount of red tape in use, so the officers at our fort presented me with a drum.

How well I remember the day when I accompanied Capt. Joslin to Washington, and he, taking me into a large music store on Pennsylvania avenue, ordered the clerk to let me have the best drum in the store.

How anxious I was to get back to our camp in Virginia so I could test it, and how my heart went pit-a-pat, as, alone, I marched with my new drum down the line at dress parade the next day. Several months later my precious drum was put out of action by a piece of a rebel shell at Bull Run and was among the trophies gathered up by the confederates in the stampede that followed.

Its loss I regretted exceedingly, for its equal in tone and other good qualities I never tapped the sticks to again. It was a beauty, too; and was my first drum.

DRUMMERS’ DUTIES.

It is hardly to be wondered at that the drummer boys of the 60s got to be very proficient in the handling of the sticks, for when in camp they were having practice from early morn until late at night, and many a time they had to get out in the night and beat the “long roll” for ten or fifteen minutes.

They were the early risers of the camps, too, for at daybreak the fifers and drummers of a regiment would all assemble and sound the reveille, which was several minutes exercise of the most vigorous kind.

The following verses on the reveille were written by a soldier, Michael O’Connor, a sergeant in the 140th New York, and have been pronounced by competent critics as among the “finest lyric lines in the language.”

SONG OF THE DRUMS.
“The morning is cheery, my boys, arouse!
The dew shines bright on the chestnut boughs,
And the sleepy mist on the river lies,
Though the east is flushed with crimson dyes.
Awake! Awake! Awake!
O’er field and wood and brake,
With glories newly born,
Comes on the blushing morn,
Awake! Awake!”
“You have dreamed of your homes and friends all night.
You have basked in your sweetheart’s smiles so bright;
Come part with them all for a while again—
Be lovers in dreams; when awake be men.
Turn out! Turn out! Turn out!
The east is all aglow,
Turn out! Turn out!”
“From every valley and hill there come
The clamoring voices of fife and drum;
And out in the fresh, cool morning air
The soldiers are swarming everywhere.
Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!
Every man in his place.
Fall in! Fall in! Fall in!
Each with a cheerful face.
Fall in! Fall in!”

The next duty of the fifers and drummers was to sound the sick call. The boys made up some appropriate verses which I cannot recall except one line:

“Come and get your quinine, quinine, quinine.”

The drummers were active participants in the guard mounting exercises which took place about 9 o’clock in the morning, and usually there was from one to two hours’ practice among the musicians in the forenoon, which was repeated in the afternoon unless there was a battalion drill, in which case they took part in the manœuvres of the troops.

Their next duty was at dress parade, where they took a prominent part in what is the most pleasing and spectacular affair of the day.

At 9 o’clock they assemble again and beat the tattoo for the evening roll call, and fifteen minutes later taps are sounded and the day’s duties are ended.

In a camp there were always some heavy sleepers and it was the business of the drummers in beating the morning reveille to make noise enough to awake them. Many a time have I seen a fellow rush out of his tent attired in nothing but shirt, drawers and cap and take his place in the ranks hardly in time to answer “here” when his name was called.

THE MUSIC OF THE DRUMS.

Ringing with a siren’s song,
Throbbing with a country’s wrong,
Making patriots brave and strong,
Foes must die or yield.
Calling out the new-born day,
Marking each night’s gentle sway,
Ready whate’er comes.
Calls to duty, calls to play,
Calls for rest and calls for fray
Rolling, roaring all the day,
The Music of the Drums.

Fife and drum have been heard in every camp and upon all of the battlefields of the world. And for a marching column there is nothing like martial music of the good old-fashioned kind, such as inspired the continental heroes at Lexington, Yorktown and Bunker Hill, and rallied the boys of ’61, and later led them in all the marches through the South.

Martial music seems to have gone out of fashion in these up-to-date days, and what little there is, is but a poor apology, with the bugle blasts interjected between the rub-a-dub-dubs of the drummers who hardly know their a b c’s about snare drumming.

I have heard but one good drum corps since the war, and that was at the G. A. R. gathering at Buffalo a few years ago. An old time drum corps, who styled themselves the “Continentals” were present. It was composed of veterans over 70 years of age, and, say, they could double discount any other organization present.

Many of the crack brass bands of the country were there, but they were not in it with the old martial band. Their music—mind the expression, “music”—caught on with all the swell people of the city who thronged the camp waiting for an opportunity to hear them, and the veterans went wild as they heard again the reveille and tattoo and the old familiar strains of “Yankee Doodle,” “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” “Rory O’More,” “The Campbells Are Coming,” “Hail to the Chief,” and many other reminders of the old days.

TWO AMBITIONS.

Two boys when coming home from the war were talking over what they were going to do. One whom we will call Joe said he was going to have all of the strawberry shortcake he wanted, and then he was going to have mother make some of the good old-fashioned flap-jacks that he liked so well. “I am going to have her make them the full size of the round griddle, and as she bakes them I’m going to spread them with butter and shaved up maple sugar until the pile is a foot high and then I’ll sit down and have all the pancakes I want for once. What are you going to do, Bill?”

“Me? I’m going to go to every dance, minstrel show, singing school and revival meeting I can hear of in forty miles, and I’m going home with every pretty girl I get a chance to. And another thing I’m going to do, I’ll sit up nights and burn a light until I get an all fired good ready to go to bed. And I’m goin’ to hire a fifer and drummer to come and play in front of our house every mornin’.”

Drum Corps of The 2nd New York Heavy Artillery.

“Why, Bill, what in thunder you goin’ to do that for? I should think that you’d had enough of fifin’ and drummin’ for awhile.”

“Well,” says Bill, “I’m goin’ to do it, and I’m goin’ to have them play the reveille good and strong for fifteen minutes, and then I’m goin’ to shove up the chamber window and throw my bootjack at ’em, and yell: ‘To h—l with your reveille.’”

RIVAL DRUM CORPS.

The first two years of the war we were brigaded with a certain Massachusetts regiment that was about as fine a body of men as I ever saw together. In fact they looked like a picked lot of soldiers so near of a height were they all.

Their drum corps was a good one, too, but of course the boys of the Second New York thought they were a little better than the Bay State fellows, consequently quite a little rivalry existed between the organizations, and when the regiments were out for a review or brigade drill the stalwart drummers from down East would always try to drown out the lads of the Second Heavy. They were all full grown men while our drum corps was made up of boys all under eighteen years of age. Their music was always of the “When the Springtime Comes, Gentle Annie,” and “Chunks of Pudding and Pieces of Pie,” style, played in 6-8 time, just suited to the stalwart men in their ranks; while ours was more of the “Rory O’More,” “Garry Owen” and “Get-out-of-the-way-Old-Dan-Tucker” sort, which we played 2-4 time, better adapted to the quick-stepping New Yorkers behind us. We had some dandy uniforms, too, and I know we were a trim-looking lot in our close-fitting jackets with plenty of brass buttons and red trimmings, and “McClellan caps” setting saucily on the side of our heads. Harry Marshall, our drum major, was one of the handsomest young fellows that ever led a drum corps down the line on dress parade; and was as good and pure as handsome. He handled his baton with a skill and grace of manner that would have captivated all the pretty girls of a town if we could have marched through its principal street. And when it came to beating a drum he was what the small boys of today would call a “corker.”

Harry was a dandy and no mistake, and when we led the Second Heavy in a review we knew that we were doing it about right.

One day when we were at Arlington the general commanding the brigade ordered the troops out for brigade drill, review, etc. His family and some friends were visiting him and he wished to show the men off to his guests. We went through various brigade evolutions, followed by exhibitions in skirmish drill by detachments from the regiments. The officer who commanded the detachment from the Second New York was Captain Barry, a beau ideal of a soldier, who met his death at Petersburg later in the war. (By the way, I never saw Col. James R. Miller out with old “C” company but what I was reminded of Capt. Barry, both in his looks and soldierly bearing.)

Capt. Barry had the skirmish business down fine and he took Harry Marshall with his drum, and walked out in front of the general and put his men through the various movements for half an hour or more and his commands were not heard only by our drum major, who tapped them out on his drum.

It captivated the general and his guests and when the squad returned to their place with the regiment the ladies in the general’s party clapped their hands and waved their handkerchiefs.

The closing event of the day was the marching in review of the different regiments, and again our boys received a recognition from the reviewing party that must have made the Massachusetts men’s eyes green with envy.

Our regiment was the last to pass, and when we came opposite of the general, we wheeled out and played as the men marched by, and then fell in at the rear of the column, and just as we were marching off the field the general’s young daughter, a miss in her teens—came cantering towards us, and riding up to Harry handed him a beautiful silk flag about three feet long mounted on a dainty light staff such as is used for the headquarters guidons. Harry waved a graceful acknowledgement with his baton and the blushing girl rode back to the reviewing party.

MUFFLED DRUMS.

In the fall of 1862, Jimmie, one of the drummer boys of the Second New York, sickened and died. He had been a slender little fellow, and the Bull Run campaign was too much for him. He lingered along for weeks in the hospital and when he realized that he must answer the last roll call he wished the surgeon to send for his comrades of the drum corps. It was his wish that we should stand at parade rest in the aisle between the cots. From under his pillow he took a little Bible and opening it at the 23d Psalm handed it to Harry Marshall, our drum major, and motioned for him to read the beautiful words. Need I say that there were no dry eyes? And I think from that moment life to most of the boys present had a more serious meaning.

The next Sabbath afternoon with muffled drums and slow, measured tread, we escorted his remains to a little knoll ’neath a clump of pines near Arlington. The chaplain said “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” A volley was fired over the grave, our drums unmuffled and back to camp we went, beating a lively quickstep.

“Fold him in his country’s stars,
Roll the drums and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death be mocking folly!”

CHAPTER II.

THE THORNY PATH OF FOREIGN-BORN OFFICERS.

The soldiers who enlisted early had some fun that the boys missed who went out after things were in good shape and the officers had learned the tactics so they did not have to stop in giving an order until they consulted a drill-book. It took some little time, however, for the young volunteer of ’61 to understand that if he was “just as good as them fellers with the shoulder straps,” that the first word in military tactics was “obey.”

I heard of a lieutenant drilling a squad of recruits who had been neighbors and schoolmates. He put them through with various exercises, such as “right and left face,” “right about face,” “right dress,” “mark time,” etc., and after a while the boys got tired of doing the same things over and over. Finally one spoke up to the officer as follows: “I say, Tom, let’s quit this darn foolin’ and go over to the sutler’s.”

The Second New York Artillery began its career under difficulties. It was cursed with some officers in ’61-’62 whose qualifications only fitted them for service with a mule train.

Men with military training and experience were not plentiful when the war began. Any foreigner with the least bit of military knowledge and who had a fierce looking moustache could easily obtain a commission.

Our first commander was a Colonel Burtnett, who was commonly called “three fingered Jack” by the boys. His command was of brief duration. It was understood that he resigned by request. When he was taking his departure somebody proposed “three groans for our late lieutenant colonel” and they were given with a will.

ONE OF KOSSUTH’S OFFICERS.

Early in the spring of 1862 Col. Gustav von Wagner came to our regiment. He was a Hungarian refugee and had seen service with Kossuth. He claimed to have been chief of artillery under Grant at Fort Donelson, and the Second New York regretted that Grant did not keep him.

The colonel awoke one morning and the first thing his eyes looked upon was a mule dressed in uniform standing demurely in his tent. It was said that he swore in several languages but he never found out who perpetrated the huge joke on him.

The officers of our fort arranged to have a little party one evening, the principal in the arrangements being Lieut. Stewart. The colonel had taken a dislike to Stewart in some way and when he learned what was going on he detailed the lieutenant to command the headquarters guard that night. The colonel occupied a fine house that had been used by Gen. McClellan for his headquarters before he left with his army, and Stewart got even with the colonel by firing off a gun after the party was in full blast. This caused a fright among the pickets who commenced firing, which caused a general alarm that resulted in the breaking up of the party and the regiment had to stand by the guns in the forts all night.

The colonel took the regiment on a long march one day in the direction of Fairfax court house. We skirmished through swamps and waded in streams nearly waist deep. The colonel issued orders that there must not be any “shying” at a mud puddle or creek, every man must go straight through them.

One of our captains was quite a fleshy man and as the weather was very hot the march was hard on him. He was greatly beloved by his men, however, and when we came to the first deep creek two of his soldiers carried him across dry. The colonel rode along just in time to witness the act and he ordered the men to carry the officer back and then the captain was told to wade through.

OLD “QUICKER NOR THAT.”

The most unique character of all was Maj. Roach or old “Quicker-nor-that” as he became known. Maj. Roach was a Scotchman and had seen service in the British army and when he was drilling the regiment and wanted them to close up would yell out, “Quicker-nor-that, there.” “Mind your distance; 18 inches,” and soon the boys got to calling him “Maj. Quicker-nor-that.” A witty Irishman by the name of Mike Lanehan composed some verses, the chorus of which ended with:

“Eighteen inches from belly to back,
Quicker nor that, quicker nor that.”

The boys learned the words and used to sing them at night for Roach’s benefit, which made him furious.

One day when Roach was drilling the men in one of the forts he got hurt on a heavy gun carriage. The major’s tent was just outside the fort and a short cut was made for his benefit by running a plank from the top of the parapet across the ditch, and the injured officer was carried across the plank by two of the men.

A soldier by the name of Pitcher saw them carrying the major across the ditch and sang out, “Dump him, boys, dump the old sinner in the ditch.”

Roach recognized the voice and called back, “I know you, Pitcher, and I’ll break your pitcher for you,” and true to his word he caused the offender to suffer by making a “spread eagle” of him on the wheel of a gun.

Roach’s performances on dress parade and battalion drills made him and us the laughing stock of Phil Kearney’s Jersey brigade and other of McClellan’s troops who were encamped about us.

The major used to prowl around nights and try to find out if any of the sentries were shirking their duties. One night he approached the post of one of our own Co. H. boys whose name was Patrick Devereaux. Pat was a typical son of Erin and withal a good soldier, and as he expressed it did not fear “shoulder straps nor the divil.” He halted old “Quicker-nor-that” and demanded the countersign. This was given and then the major thought he would see if the man knew his duties, and he said, “It’s a pleasant evening, sentry; let me see your gun a minute.” Instantly the point of the bayonet on Pat’s musket was pressed against the officer’s breast, and he was told to “mark time.” Roach thought the man fooling, but Patsy says to him, “Oi’m a bigger man on me post than yersilf, and Oi’l learn ye betther than to be playin’ tricks on a gintleman who is doin’ his duty. Mark time, Oi say, and ye betther step off ‘quicker nor that’ or Oi’l be proddin’ ye wid me bay’net.”

The major swore and threatened, but Pat could not be intimidated and he kept Roach marking time until the officer of the guard relieved him.

Strange to say the major took the matter as a good joke and Devereaux escaped punishment.

A QUIET GAME AFTER TAPS.

I recall another instance when the major got the worst of it. The boys had been forbidden to play cards in their tents after “taps,” when all lights had to be extinguished in the company streets. The cooking shanties were quite a little back of the camp and just over the crest of a deep ravine; so when the boys wanted a quiet game of “5-cent ante” with sutler tickets—for money was pretty scarce then—they would betake themselves to the cook houses where a light could not be seen from the officers’ quarters.

Roach got on to their game, however, and one night planned to surprise them from the rear. He had been observed by someone who notified the poker players and they prepared a little surprise for him. When the major was walking up the back steps Sergt. —— emptied a kettle of bean soup all over him.

The sergeant paid the penalty by losing his chevrons; but I will add that after Roach had been dismissed from the service, the man whom he reduced to the ranks, became one of the best line officers of the regiment and at the assault of Petersburg won a captain’s bars for bravery.

Another odd character among the officers was a certain lieutenant whom the boys named “Spider.”

He was over fond of “commissary” and nearly always wore a pair of rubber boots. The men disliked him and never lost a chance to torment him—when it could be done without being detected—by calling out “here comes ‘Spider’ and his rubber boots.”

CHAPTER III.

LITTLE MAC AND HIS GRAND ARMY—THE SECOND BULL RUN.

Probably the most popular commander of the Union forces in the civil war was General George B. McClellan. Whatever his faults, he was idolized by his men. Historians may write him up or down according to their bias, but the boys who carried the muskets away back in ’62, who were with him at Yorktown, Williamsburg, Malvern Hill, Fair Oaks and Antietam, believed in him and through all the long years since then have had a warm place in their hearts for the memory of Little Mac.

We saw McClellan’s army start out in the spring of ’62 for their Peninsular campaign and our boys were hopping mad to think we were left behind. The great majority of the men really felt that the war would be ended before we had a chance to take a hand in. I may say that the drummer boys, full of young red blood, were as eager for the fray as the older men, but most of us had got enough of war before we reached Appomattox.

THE IDOL OF HIS MEN.

The greatest ovation that the writer ever saw given any general was on the occasion of McClellan’s return to the army after the second battle of Bull Run.

It will be remembered that on his return from the Peninsular campaign he had been relieved and his troops had been ordered to join Pope’s forces. Gen. Pope was the man who, on assuming command a few weeks before, had announced with a flourish of trumpets that his headquarters would be “in the saddle.” But he was no match for “Stonewall” Jackson, who kept him running towards Washington, and would have annihilated his army at Manassas but for the timely arrival of McClellan’s forces. As it was, the army had to take refuge in the defenses of Washington and there was anxiety for the safety of the capitol.

In the emergency President Lincoln appealed to McClellan to go over into Virginia and resume command and reorganize the shattered hosts, and McClellan, putting aside his personal feelings, consented to do so. The condition of the troops was such that they were not inclined to enthuse very much over any officer. They were ragged, nearly shoeless and thoroughly worn out, but when one afternoon word was passed among them that “Little Mac” was coming they rushed to the roadside, flung their caps high in the air and cheered themselves hoarse.

McClellan loved his men and their reception pleased him. He rode the entire length of the lines with bared head, smiling and bowing to the right and left. Two days later he led 90,000 of them over into Maryland, and won a grand victory at Antietam, sending Lee’s hosts back to Virginia again, but it was the bloodiest battle of the war up to that time, for each side had a loss of from 12,000 to 15,000 men.

Lincoln visited the army on the battlefield and personally thanked McClellan for the victory, and the soldiers felt that they were to have their old commander with them to the end, but political influences were at work against him in Washington and he had to retire soon after.

It has always been an open question whether McClellan would not have been the great general of the war if he had been given all the troops he wanted and been allowed to act on his own judgment without dictation from Stanton and Halleck. But it was not until later in the war that those in authority at Washington learned that the general with his troops is the one to command them.

GOING AFTER STONEWALL.

In August, 1862, our regiment received orders to march to join Gen. Pope’s forces, then operating in the vicinity of Culpeper and Gordonsville, and there was great rejoicing among the men, who had begun to fear that the rebellion might collapse without their having a smell of powder.

The shades of evening were coming on when the bugles sounded the “assembly” and we marched away with light hearts and heavy knapsacks, for all green soldiers are bound to overload on their first march.

That night we lay out on the ground alongside of the Orange & Alexandria railroad. When morning dawned we found that there were other troops bound for somewhere, too. Every man made his own coffee and we ate our first meal of “hardtack,” and were not long in finding out that the safest way was to break them in small pieces and sort the worms out.

After that breakfast I went over to a sutler’s tent and filled up my haversack with fried pies, cookies, crackers and other trash that a boy likes.

Late that afternoon we started out on the “pike” in the direction of Fairfax court house and were rushed along at a lively gait until nearly midnight. The men were young and light hearted, and as we marched there was the rollicking laugh, sharp joke, equally as keen a retort, queer and humorous sayings, breaking out from the ranks here and there, and then all would sing, “John Brown’s Body” and “We’ll Hang Jeff Davis to a Sour Apple Tree.”

We halted that night near a little place called Accotink and bivouacked in a large open field, and I recall how quickly the rail fences were converted into huge camp fires, for the Virginia nights are nearly always chilly.

The march was resumed early the next morning and the day was a hot one.

The most aggravating thing to the soldiers on a march is the unevenness of the marching. First you are rushed along so that the short legged ones are compelled to double-quick to keep up, and then there will be a halt of perhaps fifteen to thirty minutes when you are kept standing in the broiling sun; then start again and stop five minutes later.

It struck me as funny that not one person in ten you met in the country knew anything about distances. If you met a colored man and asked how far it was to Manassas he would reply “’Deed, boss, I don’t know, ’spec ’tis a right smart distance.”

Another would say it was eight miles, and after going a mile or two you would ask again and would be told it was ten miles and a “bit.”

NOTHING LIKE HARDTACK.

I found on the second day’s march that the sutler’s “goodies” which I had stocked up with had absorbed a little too much of the flavor of my haversack to be palatable, so I returned to Uncle Sam’s ration of hardtack, salt junk and coffee, which cannot be beaten for a steady diet when campaigning.

We halted for a rest that noon near a beautiful old mansion between Fairfax and Centreville. The boys made themselves pretty free with whatever they wanted around the premises, notwithstanding the protests of the women of the household, one of whom observed that “you’uns think you are right smart now, but if Stonewall Jackson catches you he’ll lick you so you won’t be so peart the next time you come this way.”

We little thought the prediction would come true in a brief twenty-four hours, but such was the case and when hot, tired and choking with thirst and dust, we stopped at the same place the next afternoon, thinking to refresh ourselves with some sparkling water from the “moss covered bucket that hung in the well,” we found that it, and in fact all of the appliances for drawing water had been removed, and, looking back from this distance, I think they served us right.

THE SECOND BULL RUN.

The night of Aug. 26, 1862, our regiment was preparing to go into camp at Bull Run bridge when an excited horseman rode among us and asked for our colonel. The rider proved to be Capt. Von Puttkamer, who with his own battery, the 11th New York, and part of Battery C, 1st New York, had preceded us by a few hours. He reported that the Confederates had attacked Manassas Junction, capturing his battery and all the government stores at that point and he implored our colonel to take his regiment and “git him pack his pattery.”

Col. Von Wagner, after informing him that he “Vas prigadeer sheneral in command,” ordered the captain to lead the way and he would make short work of them “Shonnies.”

After marching and counter-marching around in the darkness part of the night we lay down and waited for morn. Daylight revealed the enemy in force. General Jackson had outwitted Pope completely and had a large part of his army between Pope and Washington.

As soon as it was light enough we moved forward and a little later encountered the enemy near Manassas.

Our skirmishers fired on the rebel cavalry, who retreated after two or three volleys, behind some buildings. Several riderless horses were soon galloping around, so we assumed that the shots had been effective.

Soon the enemy commenced to throw shell at us from numerous guns and maintained a heavy fire for some time. We were ordered to lie down and thus escaped with few casualties. My drum that was on the top of a pile of officers’ luggage in the rear of the line was ruined by a piece of shell.

About 10 o’clock the Confederates attempted to turn our left flank, but our line was changed to intercept the movement, which was unsuccessful. The rebel infantry had been brought up to the front line and were firing at us at a furious rate. It being apparent that we were outnumbered our colonel ordered a retreat, which was conducted in an orderly manner until Gen. Stuart sent his cavalry after us and then a panic ensued.

Just before our march to the front the son of an officer of the regiment came to make his father a visit, and being there when we got orders to take the field, he thought it would be a fine thing to go along and see the sights—a sort of picnic. We, being somewhere near the same age, were in each other’s company a great deal. When the regiment became engaged at Bull Run we were the source of much anxiety to our fathers and, not being of any particular use on the firing line, were sent to the rear, where the baggage wagons and “coffee coolers” were assembled. When the break in the lines occurred and the troops rushed pell mell to the rear there were some lively movements. Everybody went and stood not on the order of their going. Charley Rogers of our company—a former resident of Lorraine—drove a four-horse team which drew a wagon loaded with baggage belonging to the officers of the regiment. Charley saw us boys and called out to “get aboard,” and be “damn lively about it, too.” It was one of the old style government wagons, canvas-covered with a round hole at the rear end. We crawled up in front and sat with our backs against Charley’s seat and facing the rear. Didn’t we get a shaking up, though? For Rogers sent the horses for all they were worth. Occasionally there would be a jam in the road caused by some wagon breaking down. Near Bull Run Bridge a blockade occurred, and while we sat there expecting that the rebel cavalry would swoop down and demand our surrender we were terrorized by seeing the point of a bayonet looking at us through the hole at the rear of the wagon. Before we recovered ourselves enough to speak somebody behind that gun and bayonet gave it a shove and the glittering piece of cold steel passed between us two boys and embedded itself in the back of Charley’s seat. Then the pale face of a soldier was stuck through the hole and instead of a Johnnie reb it was one of our regiment by the name of Hawkins.

When near Bull Run bridge the road became so blocked that we could not move.

A section of a light battery came along and the drivers thought they could pull out to the roadside and pass. In doing so the wheels of one gun sank in the soft ground and, toppling over on the side, became entangled in the fence.

Nearly all of the men deserted it and ran for dear life.

One driver stuck to his horses and plied the whip, but the carriage refused to move.

The enemy were coming steadily on and the bullets began to whistle unpleasantly. We had gotten out of our wagon, intending to go ahead on foot.

About this time along came a member of our company by the name of Will McNeil, who was serving as a teamster. He had abandoned his wagon and was riding one of his big mule team and leading the other.

Hawkins hailed him, saying “See here McNeil, hitch your mules on ahead of these artillery horses and let’s save this gun from capture.”

“All right,” says McNeil, and in less time than it takes to tell it Mc’s mules were made the lead team and McNeil and Hawkins stood at their side and plied the whips, and they lifted the gun and saved it from falling into the hands of the enemy, for it would surely have been captured, but for Hawkins and McNeil.

Between Bull Run and Centreville we met Gen. Taylor and his Jersey brigade that had been sent out by rail from Alexandria to try and regain the lost fight, but Jackson had pushed forward A. P. Hill’s and Bristol’s divisions and several batteries, and the Jersey troops were quickly routed, Gen. Taylor himself losing a leg in the encounter.

The story of the battle, the skeedaddle, etc., is a matter of history. It was a contest of several days and both armies became involved.

Thousands of brave men were killed and wounded and among the officers who gave up their lives on the Union side was the beloved and dashing Gen. Phil Kearney, who made such a record at the battle of Seven Pines.

The story of his conduct that day has been told in verse by the poet, Stedman:

“So that soldierly legend is still on its journey
That story of Kearney who knew not to yield!
’Twas the day when with Jameson, fierce Berry and Birney,
Against twenty thousand he rallied the field.
Where the red volleys poured, where the clamor rose highest,
Where the dead lay in clumps through the dwarf oak and pine,
Where the aim from the thicket was surest and nighest,
No charge like Phil Kearney’s along the whole line.”
********
“He snuffed like his charger the wind of the powder,
His sword waved us on and we answered the sign;
Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his laugh rang the louder;
There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, along the whole line!
How he strode his brown steed! How we saw his blade brighten
In the one hand still left, and the reins in his teeth!
He laughed like a boy when the holidays heighten,
But a soldier’s glance shot from his visor beneath.
Up came the reserves to the melee infernal,
Asking where to go in—thro’ the clearing or pine?
‘O anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all the same, colonel;
You’ll find lovely fighting along the whole line!’”
********

CHAPTER IV.

INCIDENTAL TO BULL RUN.

THE CAPTURE OF UNCLE HAWLEY.

Henry Hawley was his name, but the boys of Company H always called him “Uncle,” and so he appears on our company record.

Hawley was not cut out for a soldier—in fact he was several sizes too large. His corpulency made him appear rather ludicrous when he tried to line up with the slender youths of the company on dress parade.

Tom Murphy, the orderly sergeant, was always yelling out “right dress there, Hawley.”

One Sunday morning the regiment was being inspected by an Irish major and as he came to Hawley he looked him over and remarked that he didn’t know what the h—l anybody was thinking of to enlist a man of his build, and he should think the best thing to do with him was to send him home. “All right, sir,” says Hawley, “I’ll go today, if you please.”

The man was a natural wit and an adept in the use of sarcasm, and had a way of talking back to his superiors that usually put the laugh on them. The truth is the boys of ’61 didn’t stand much “putting on airs” by the officers, and if one did make a show of his authority the men made life miserable for him.

Hawley was finally made to earn his $11 a month (that was our munificent pay then) by doing duty as company cook, a position he filled with credit to himself and satisfaction to his boarders. He was not content to serve up “salt hoss” and boiled beef in the easy manner of most army cooks, but was ever fixing us a nice treat of hash or an “Irish stew” with dumplings, and Hawley’s dumplings became famous throughout the Second Heavy.

Evenings we used to gather around the cook house and listen to Hawley’s impersonations of Shakespearean characters, in which he was very clever, and from Shakespeare he would turn to the Bible, with which he was exceedingly familiar.

When we went to the front Hawley left his camp kettles behind and shouldered a musket. On the retreat from Bull Run Hawley became played out and he declared he could go no further. The boys urged him to keep along with them and not get captured, but Hawley said if they wanted him they would have to take him, which they did and got an elephant on their hands too. Hawley’s account of his experience with the rebels was very funny. They found him lying by the roadside and ordered him to get up and go along with them. He told them he could not march another step, and if they wanted him to go to Libby prison they would have to furnish a conveyance. The rebel officer coaxed, swore and threatened, but all to no purpose. Hawley would not budge an inch. Finally a horse was brought and he was told to mount. Hawley declared he could not and then the officer directed some of the men to assist him, and two guards were ordered to walk by the side of the horse and hold him on. Hawley’s comments about the razor-backed horse and other sarcastic remarks made sport for all except the officer in charge, who threatened more than once to gag his tormentor. The Confederates probably thought the best thing to do was to get Hawley off their hands, so after keeping him in captivity a couple of days they paroled him and sent him inside our lines instead of to Andersonville prison, where so many of his comrades had to go, many never to return.

FINISHED HIS SMOKE IN LIBBY.

An incident of the stampede from Manassas illustrates how unconcerned some are amidst danger and excitement. Jimmy West, a little Irishman of our company, was a character and an inveterate smoker and never lost a chance to indulge himself. After the retreat was well under way, Jimmy bethought himself of his pipe and tobacco, but a match was lacking and none of his nearby comrades had one, so he yelled out to our first sergeant, at the head of the company:

“I say there, orderly, hev’ you a bit of a match about ye?”

“To thunder with your pipe, Jimmy,” responded Sergt. Murphy. “You better be using your short legs pretty lively or you’ll be smoking in Libby prison tomorrow evening,” and sure enough Jimmy was among those captured.

The most ludicrous incident connected with the Bull Run affair occurred near Fairfax Court House when we supposed we were safe from the Confederate cavalry.

Between Centreville and Fairfax we passed the 14th Massachusetts, that had formed a line of battle across the turnpike to arrest the pursuing Confederates.

We breathed somewhat easier after we had put the troops between us and our pursuers.

The day was an intensely hot one, and the hundreds of horses galloping over the turnpike, hauling the heavy wagons, raised clouds of dust that were nearly suffocating, so when we crossed a little stream of water most of the teamsters halted in a large field near by for the purpose of refreshing and resting their exhausted steeds.

The two boys got out of the wagon, stretched their legs and with many others went over to the creek for a wash up.

Among the bathing party were William McNeil and “Hod” Clair of our company, who had made the retreat from Bull Run, one mounted on a mule with nothing but a halter and the other on the confiscated horse of some officer who had been killed in the battle.

While we were splashing the water and having as much sport as any party of youngsters ever did in an old fashioned “swimmin’ hole” in their school boy days, somebody shouted “The rebs are coming,” and sure enough there was a squadron of Confederate cavalry coming at a gallop down a cross road about a mile away. You may be sure that there was some right-smart hustling.

Some grabbed a blouse, cap or shirt while others buckled on their equipments in undress uniform.

My partner and I saved our clothing, but deferred dressing until we were safely in our wagon with Charley Rogers urging his four horses to their utmost speed.

Hod Clair made a most comical figure on the horse, dressed in nothing but his cap, blouse and cuticle, and the officer’s sword dangling against his naked left leg.

IN AFTER YEARS.

A quarter of a century had elapsed after the disbandment of our regiment before I saw the comrade who rode with me from Bull Run. I sat writing at my desk one afternoon when I heard some one asking up in the front part of the store if “Del” was in.

The familiarity with which the questioner handled my name excited my curiosity and looking up I beheld two rather seedy looking individuals with hats in hand elbowing their way down through the store.

The one in advance was apparently a stranger. His companion, however, was a resident of the city, a veteran of my regiment, who bore the scars of battle on his body.

He returned home from the war to learn that while he was away fighting the battles of his country one of the stay-at-homes had been making love to his wife. She went west with her paramour, and the veteran laid down under the load and let the battle of life go against him. He was no common bum, however, if he did try at times to drown his misery in strong drink. He kept pretty clear of evil and low-down associations, even if he had dropped below the level of respectable people. The veteran was a man of intelligence and spent much time with good reading, and it was my pleasure for many years to keep him pretty well supplied. Strange to relate, a publication that was his especial favorite was the old “Christian Union,” now known as the “Outlook.” Of course he held me up now and then for the loan of a dime or quarter. If I hesitated about going into my pocket, he had a way of looking up and reminding me that it was “Just for old acquaintance sake.” Perhaps it would have been better to have refused him, but I had not the heart to say no to one who had blackened his coffee pail over the same campfire with me, had carried part of my traps on many weary marches and had touched elbows with my father on the fighting line. I cannot forget such things and would not if I could.

As the two approached me they halted, saluted, and the old “vet” gave me two or three sly winks, as much as to say, I’ll bet you a “V” you can’t tell who I have here.

I was puzzled, but instinctively felt it was one of the old Co. H. The man had evidently seen better days. He carried his hat in his hand like a well-mannered man, and there were other unmistakable traces of birth and good breeding.

We looked hard at each other. A twinkle came into a pair of black eyes that had once been the handsomest I ever saw in a man’s head. A smile hovered around his mouth, and then out of the misty past came my companion of that memorable ride of long ago. I reached out my hand and said, “It’s George,” and I believe he was more pleased than as if I had handed him a hundred-dollar greenback, which is saying a good deal, for it was plainly evident that his finances were low.

It was the old story. A young man, the son of an officer of our regiment who had been the leading merchant of—well, a smart town not a hundred miles from Watertown, well educated, with prospects in life that were the best, and now the follower of a circus. Always going somewhere and never getting anywhere was the way he put it. Still, my comrade.

I think he held my hand five minutes, and memories of other days were kindled anew. He had forgotten nothing. It was safely stored away in memory and the meeting had tapped it.

Graphically he portrayed the incidents of our Bull Run ride to the amusement of clerks and customers. All at once he recalled that he was in the presence of ladies, and bowing and smiling he gallantly tiptoed his way to the front part of the store and apologized for forcing an old soldier’s story upon them.

No one could have done it with more ease and grace, for, as I have stated, George’s early associations had been of the best. His family was in the swell set of the town in which they lived, and his father was a gentleman of the old school and noted for his polished manners.

“You see, ladies,” said he, “I haven’t been in your beautiful city since war times until this morning. Struck town with Barnum & Bailey’s greatest aggregation on earth.”

“Perhaps traveling with a circus does not meet your approval. I like it, though. Something like soldiering. Always under marching orders. Plenty of fresh air and one never sleeps so good as he does on the ground with only a strip of canvas between him and the heavens.

“When the band is playing and them Wild West fellows are galloping around the ring with the scabbards of their sabres clanging against the stirrup-irons, I just close my eyes and imagine I am with the old second corps again and Gen. Hancock is riding down the lines.

“Suppose you have all heard about the general? Handsomest man and greatest fighter that ever straddled a horse.

“The general and the second corps never missed a fight. Yes, we were with them through it all.

“Gettysburg? Sure! Rube, here, got a couple of bullet holes when we were beating back Pickett’s men that afternoon. The general went down that day, too, and I can shut my eyes and see it all and hear the cheers of the Irish brigade boys when they realized that the battle was won.

“Beg pardon, ladies, but I am in something of a reminiscent mood today, being as I met an old comrade. We have been holding a little reunion. Yes, took a little something in honor of the event.

“‘Del’—er Mr. Miller—was with us from start to finish. Wasn’t much of him but his drum and grit. Legs so short the boys had to carry him across all the creeks. He stuck though and tapped ‘lights out’ down side of Lee’s ‘last ditch’ at Appomattox.”

********

That evening the two veterans of the old second corps partook of the best that the Woodruff house could give and smoked several of Nill & Jess’ Pinks at the expense of one who was glad to do it, “Just for old acquaintance sake.”

WAR IS HELL.

To fully appreciate Gen. Sherman’s definition of war, one needs to be at a field hospital on the outskirts of some great battlefield where the ghastly surroundings of death and suffering are more terrible than on the battlefield itself.

The day after our retreat from Bull Run our regiment was ordered to proceed by train to Fairfax station, where all the wounded were sent for transportation to Washington. We rode on the top of freight cars, every man with a loaded musket ready to shoot any of Mosby’s men who might try to wreck the train. The cars were filled with cots, stretchers, blankets and other supplies for the wounded.

The night was a dark and rainy one, and as we jumped off the cars at the station, which was located in some dense woods, we saw the horrors of war spread out on every side. Acres of ground were covered with bleeding, mangled soldiers, who but a short time before had stood amid the storm of shot and shell, now just as bravely enduring suffering.

The surgeons and their assistants at the amputating tables with coats off and shirt sleeves rolled up, their hands red with blood, worked swiftly to save life, for it is the “first aid” to the wounded that counts.

The spectacular effect was heightened by piles of blazing pitch pine knots, torches and lanterns suspended from the limbs of trees, which imparted a strange wierdness to the scene.

All night long the interminable trains of ambulances and wagons from the battlefield came bringing their loads of sufferers with the smoke of battle upon them. Many were so exhausted that it was necessary to give them stimulants before they could be lifted from the wagons.

The United States Sanitary and Christian commissions were represented by a large number of workers. Women of culture and refinement, from some of the best families in the land, were cutting off the blood-drenched clothing, bathing and bandaging shattered limbs, giving nourishment to the fainting, speaking comforting words and listening to the messages of the dying; and all this going on within the sound of rattling musketry and booming cannon, for it was the night of the fight at Chantilly, when Gen. Jackson attempted to flank Pope’s army and reached a point not far from Fairfax court house.

Our regiment stood in line in a wheat field, just outside of the woods, a good part of the night with the rain falling in torrents and heaven’s artillery vieing with that of the forces engaged.

A drummer boy of our company who had lost his drum at Manassas, was carrying a musket that night and stood in the ranks with his father who was a sergeant in the same command. I need hardly say that the events of that night are graven as with an iron pen on his memory.

The authorities at Washington were fearful of risking any more fighting so near the capital and Gen. Pope was ordered to withdraw his army within the defenses of Washington and the wounded were hurried away from Fairfax station in every kind of conveyance, even hacks and carriages being sent out from Washington.

Our regiment remained until the last wounded man had been sent forward and then set fire to the immense quantities of supplies stored there, to prevent their falling into the hands of the enemy.

Our casualties in the second Bull Run affair were comparatively small, we being engaged only in the first encounter at Manassas Junction, which was merely preliminary to the great battle.

Gen. Stuart’s cavalry did, however, manage to take as prisoners about two hundred of the regiment.

CHAPTER V.

WASHINGTON IN THE SIXTIES.

Washington in the sixties was not the beautiful city that it is today. The nation’s capital was one vast camp of armed men and the city was circled with a cordon of forts and earthworks. Early in the war the Confederate flag could be seen from the dome of the capitol, flying on Munson’s hill, while the exchange of shots by the pickets was heard at the White House more than once.

“‘All quiet along the Potomac,’ they say,
Except now and then a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.”

Pennsylvania avenue, that grand thoroughfare with its wide, long stretch of asphalt, was then supposed to be paved with cobblestones, but they had nearly been crushed out of sight by the heavy government wagons, cannon and artillery caissons, which had cut such deep ruts that the street was almost impassable in muddy weather.

Guards patrolled the sidewalks; troops were constantly passing through the city on their way to Virginia; officers and their orderlies were riding to and fro, and it was said that a boy could not throw a stone at a dog without hitting a brigadier general.

Probably few of the present generation are aware how much of the great civil war was fought within an easy day’s journey of the city. Two of the most celebrated battles of the war, in which 25,000 men were killed and wounded, were fought but twenty-five miles away, and at Arlington there is a monument that marks the resting place of the remains of over 2,100 unknown dead gathered along the route of the army from the Potomac to the Rappahannock.

There is no greater blessing vouchsafed to man than memory, which enables one to live over again the past, and so I recall with pleasure the many happy days in my early army life, when we were doing duty in the forts around Washington, and before the gold plating of a soldier’s life had been worn off by the stern realities of active service.

The city was then encircled by a chain of forts. But time and the elements have nearly obliterated the defenses of Washington, and pretty little villas with sweet and romantic names such as: Rosslyn, Ivanwold, Buena Vista, Carberry Meadows, etc., have replaced them. The prattle and innocent laughter of happy children is heard on the heights or Arlington, instead of bugle calls, the music of bands and the booming of cannon.

Looking backward from a distance of forty years one must admit that it was much more comfortable soldiering around Washington than at the front with such fighters as Grant, Sheridan, Hancock, Warren, Wright, Gibbons and others “pushing things.” It was monotonous, however, and the men grew tired of drills, fancy guard mountings, dress parades, brightening of guns and polishing of brass buttons, and were troubled with the thought that the war might be brought suddenly to a close before they would have an opportunity to win any laurels. But everybody had their ambitions gratified before Lee surrendered, for there was fighting enough to go all around in that affair.

SOME OF THE OLD FORTS.

My first army home was at Fort Worth near Fairfax Seminary, about three miles from Alexandria.

The site of old Fort Worth was a beautiful spot, about three hundred feet above the Potomac, and from its warlike parapets one could behold an entrancing panorama of country. To the south the Fairfax “pike” and the Orange and Alexandria railroad wended their way through as beautiful a little valley as the sun ever shone upon. Twenty-five years after the war I visited the place. The owner of the land on which the fort was built, and who served as a colonel in the Confederate army, then had a beautiful home on the site and utilized the old bomb-proof for an outside cellar. Near his barn was a little of the old parapet remaining and our party stood on the earthworks while our old regimental bugler, a man bent with the weight of more than three score years, sounded reveille, tattoo, and lights out. There were no dry eyes in the party when the last bugle notes echoed and re-echoed through the charming Virginia valley leading out toward Fairfax.

REMORSE REVEALS A CHIVALROUS ACT.

It is hardly necessary to say that we did some pretty deep thinking as we met that day on the old camp ground.

Our comrades stood before us again—boys who had been schoolmates, the companions of our youth. We could almost hear their familiar voices, their songs and sayings, and we thought of where we parted with many of them, here and there along the way from Washington to Appomattox. The thoughts brought keen pangs of sorrow to us, yet withal there were many pleasant recollections revived.

Looking off to the south we saw the same fine old southern mansion that was there in war times. We felt remorse for many foraging expeditions in which the fruit, sweet potatoes, ducks and chickens had been confiscated for the cause of Uncle Sam.

We thought we would go and call on our old neighbors and make the amende honorable.

The fine old southern lady freely forgave us with a graciousness characteristic of the women of the south. An invitation to lunch was extended and accepted. George, a colored boy, was told to go down the “Run” to the mill and tell her son, the colonel (no rank under a colonelcy is recognized in Virginia), to come up to the house and meet some of the old Second New York.

We lunched on the broad veranda and exchanged reminiscences of the days when we were neighbors and enemies, and as the colonel sipped that favorite and refreshing beverage of the south, a mint julep, he told of his wounds at Manassas and how friends had helped him through the lines and back to his old home right under the guns of our fort, where he was secreted until his recovery. His presence there was not unknown to the general commanding the Union forces, who, like a chivalric knight of old, kept the secret for the sake of the mother, and furnished guards to keep intruders away from the house.

The reader must not infer that there was one drop of traitorous blood in the officer’s veins. His name I am not at liberty to divulge, but it is no breach of confidence to say that he was one of the most brilliant generals in the army of the Potomac, whose loyalty was proven on many a bloody battlefield.

Across the valley to the east from Fort Worth, on the Mount Vernon road, was a large fort called Fort Lyon, where the gallant old 94th New York Infantry spent the winter and spring of ’62. An explosion of ammunition in one of the magazines nearly destroyed the fort in 1863, killing and wounding many of the garrison and causing the earth to tremble for miles.

Fort Lyon was nearly on the left of the defenses south of the Potomac, while Fort Marcy, about four miles west of Georgetown and near the famous Chain bridge, guarded the right flank.

Between the two, running parallel with the Potomac, along Arlington heights, was a perfect chain of forts and earthworks, the names of which many northern New York veterans will recall, such as Forts Ellsworth, Ward, Blenkner, Albany, Runyon, Corcoran, Haggerty, Tillinghast, Whipple, Woodbury, Greig, Cass, Dekalb (afterwards Fort Smith), Strong and many others. The Fifth New York Heavy Artillery assisted in the erection of the last named.

The 35th New York, which was the first organization in this section to respond to President Lincoln’s call for troops, garrisoned Fort Tillinghast for a time and assisted considerably in its completion as well as the cutting away of timber in front of the forts south of Arlington.

One of the most prominent forts near Arlington was Fort Corcoran, so named in honor of Col. Michael Corcoran, who led that famous Irish regiment, the 69th New York, to the war, and was captured at the first battle of Bull Run.

This fort was the headquarters of the Second New York Artillery for more than a year and the regiment while there assisted largely in the construction of Fort Whipple, which is now known as Fort Myer, and is kept as a military post by the government. All visitors to Arlington via the Georgetown bridge pass by it.

Fort Stevens, originally called Fort Massachusetts, attained prominence during Gen. Early’s raid in 1864 by reason of having been the scene of some stubborn fighting. It is only about five miles from the capitol and but for the timely arrival of the fighting Sixth corps which Grant sent back from Petersburg, it is probable that the Confederate forces would have entered the city. It was on the ramparts of Fort Stevens that President Lincoln exposed himself to the fire of the enemy.

There were some formidable forts east of the capitol across the “East Branch” on Boone’s Ridge in Prince George’s County, Md. The names of Fort Mahan, Baker, Stanton, Carroll, Greble, Wagner and others will be recalled by all the survivors of that regiment, the pride of Jefferson county, the 10th New York Heavy Artillery, which garrisoned many of them for a long period.

LINCOLN’S PETS.

The 10th New York Heavy Artillery has been referred to as the lucky regiment from Jefferson county. It was organized in September, 1862, and performed garrison duty in the defenses east of Washington until the summer of 1864, when it was ordered to the front. It joined the army at Cold Harbor at about the time Grant was preparing to transfer operations to Petersburg and Bermuda Hundred.