In September the army moved again toward Manassas, about seventy miles distant. When we arrived at Bristow, the next station south of Manassas, an engagement had just taken place, in which Gen. A. P. Hill had been disastrously outwitted by his adversary, General Warren, and the ground was still strewn with our dead. The Federals were drawn up in two lines of battle, the one in front being concealed in the railroad-cut, while the rear line, with skirmishers in front, stood in full view. The Confederates, unaware of the line in the cut, advanced to the attack without skirmishers and were terribly cut up by the front line, and driven back, with a loss of several pieces of artillery and scores of men. The delay caused by this unfortunate affair gave the Federal army ample time to withdraw at leisure. General Lee arrived on the scene just at the close of this affair and was asked, by General Hill, if he should pursue the then retreating Federals. He replied, "No, General Hill; all that can now be done is to bury your unfortunate dead."

After this we returned to the west side of the Rappahannock and encamped at Pisgah Church, overlooking the plains about Brandy Station. As the war was prolonged, Confederate rations proportionately diminished, both in quantity and variety. Consequently, to escape the pangs of hunger, the few opportunities that presented themselves were gladly seized. In the absence of the sportsmen of peace times, game had become quite abundant, especially quail. But our "murmurings," if any there were, did not avail, as did those of the Israelites, "to fill the camp." I soon succeeded in getting an Enfield rifle, a gun not designed for such small game. By beating Minie-balls out flat, then cutting the plates into square blocks or slugs, I prepared my ammunition, and in the first eleven shots killed nine quail on the wing. I was shooting for the pot, and shot to kill.

From this camp our battery was ordered to occupy a fort on the west side of the river, near Rappahannock Station. Immediately across the river Hayes's and Hoke's brigades of Early's division occupied a line of breastworks as a picket or outpost. A pontoon bridge (a bridge of boats), in place of the railroad bridge, which had been burned, served as a crossing. While a dozen or more of our battery were a mile in the rear of the fort, getting a supply of firewood, another member of the company came to us at a gallop, with orders to return as quickly as possible to the fort. On our arrival the indications of an attack from the enemy were very apparent. They must have anticipated immense slaughter, as no less than a hundred of their ambulances were plainly visible. About four P. M. they opened on us with artillery, and from that time until sundown a spirited contest was kept up. While this was in progress their infantry advanced, but, after a brief but rapid fire of musketry, almost perfect quiet was restored.

While working at my gun I received what I thought to be a violent kick on the calf of my leg, but, turning to discover whence the blow came, saw a Minie-ball spinning on the ground. It was very painful for a time, but did not interrupt my service at the gun. It was too dark for us to see what was going on across the river, but the sudden and complete stillness following the firing was very mysterious. While speculating among ourselves as to what it meant, a half-naked infantryman came almost breathless into our midst and announced that both brigades had been captured, he having escaped by swimming the river. One of our lieutenants refused to believe his statement and did the worthy fellow cruel injustice in accusing him of skulking. That his story was true soon became evident. Our situation was now extremely dangerous, as the Federals had only to cross on the pontoon bridge a hundred yards from the fort and "gobble us up." About nine o'clock General Early, with his other two brigades, arrived. After acquainting himself with the surrounding conditions, he asked our batterymen for a volunteer to burn the bridge. To accomplish this would involve extreme danger, as the moment a light was struck for the purpose a hundred shots could be expected from the opposite end, not more than seventy-five yards away. However, William Effinger, of Harrisonburg, Virginia, one of our cannoneers, promptly volunteered to undertake it; and soon had the bridge in flames, the enemy not firing a shot. For this gallant and daring act, Effinger, after a long time, received a lieutenant's commission and was assigned to another branch of the service.

From this perilous situation we came off surprisingly well, but lost Robert Bell, of Winchester, Virginia. He was struck by a large piece of shell, which passed through his body. During the hour he survived, his companions who could leave their posts went to say good-by. He was a brave soldier and a modest, unassuming gentleman as well. The Federals, satisfied with the capture of the two celebrated brigades without loss to themselves, withdrew—and again we returned to the vicinity of Brandy Station.

In an artillery company two sentinels are kept on post—one to see after the guns and ammunition, the other to catch and tie loose horses or extricate them when tangled in their halters, and the like. Merrick's name and mine, being together on the roll, we were frequently on guard at the same time, and, to while away the tedious hours of the night, would seek each other's company. Our turn came while in this camp one dark, chilly night; the rain falling fast and the wind moaning through the leafless woods. As we stood near a fitful fire, Merrick, apparently becoming oblivious of the dismal surroundings, began to sing. He played the role of a lover serenading his sweetheart, opening with some lively air to attract her attention. The pattering of the rain he construed as her tread to the lattice; then poured forth his soul in deepest pathos (the progress of his suit being interpreted, aside, to me), and again fixed his gaze on the imaginary window. Each sound made by the storm he explained as some recognition: the creaking of a bent tree was the gentle opening of the casement, and the timely falling of a bough broken by the wind was a bouquet thrown to his eager grasp, over which he went into raptures. Whether the inspiration was due to a taste of some stimulant or to his recurring moods of intense imagination, I could not say, but the performance was genuinely artistic.

During the last night of our sojourn in this camp I had another experience of as fully absorbing interest. A very tough piece of beef (instead of quail) for supper proved more than my digestive organs could stand. After retiring to my bunk several sleepless hours passed wrestling with my burden. About one o'clock, the struggle being over, with an intense feeling of comfort I was falling into a sound sleep when I heard, in the distance, the shrill note of a bugle, then another and another, as camp after camp was invaded by urgent couriers; then our own bugle took up the alarm and sounded the call to hitch up. Meantime, drums were rolling, till the hitherto stillness of night had become a din of noise. We packed up and pulled out through the woods in the dark, with gun No. 1, to which I belonged, the rear one of the battery. A small bridge, spanning a ditch about five feet deep, had been passed over safely by the other guns and caissons in front, but when my gun-carriage was midway on it the whole structure collapsed. The struggle the detachment of men and horses underwent during the rest of this night of travail constituted still another feature of the vicissitudes of "merry war." Fortunately for us, Lieut. Jack Jordan was in charge, and, as Rockbridge men can testify, any physical difficulty that could not be successfully overcome by a Jordan, where men and horses were involved, might well be despaired of.

After reaching the Rapidan, a day was spent skirmishing with the enemy's artillery on the hills beyond. After which both sides withdrew—we to our former camps.

A short time thereafter I called on my old friends of the College company, whom we seldom met since our severance from the Stonewall Brigade. Two of these college boys, Tedford Barclay and George Chapin, told me that a recent provision had been announced, to the effect that a commission would be granted to any private who should perform some act of conspicuous gallantry in battle, and they had each resolved to earn the offered reward, and to be privates no longer. They were tired of carrying muskets and cartridge-boxes; and, in the next fight, as they expressed it, they had determined to be "distinguished or extinguished."

The determined manner with which it was said impressed me, so that I awaited results with interest. A fortnight had not elapsed before their opportunity came, and they proved true to their resolve. Under a galling fire their regiment hesitated to advance, when the two lads pushed to the front of the line of battle and climbed an intervening fence. Chapin was killed, and Barclay, who survives to this day, received for his daring courage the promised commission as lieutenant.



CHAPTER XXIV

BATTLE OF MINE RUN—MARCH TO FREDERICK'S HALL—WINTER-QUARTERS—SOCIAL AFFAIRS—AGAIN TO THE FRONT—NARROW ESCAPE FROM CAPTURE BY GENERAL DAHLGREN—FURLOUGHS—CADETS RETURN FROM NEW MARKET—SPOTTSYLVANIA AND THE WILDERNESS—RETURN TO ARMY AT HANOVER JUNCTION—PANIC AT NIGHT

The movement in which we were next engaged included the battle of Mine Run, which has been designated by a military critic as "a campaign of strategy," an account of which is, therefore, not within my province. The Federals on this occasion did most of the marching and, after crossing the Rapidan at several different fords, were confronted not far from our quarters at Mine Run, in Orange County. After breaking camp our first intimation that a battle was expected was the invariable profusion of playing-cards along the road. I never saw or heard of a Bible or prayer-book being cast aside at such a time, but cards were always thrown away by soldiers going into battle.

After a spirited engagement between Johnson's division and Warren's corps, the Federals lost time sufficient for the Confederates to construct a formidable line of breastworks. The position occupied by our battery was in the midst of a brigade of North Carolinians who had seen some service in their own State, but had never participated in a real battle. From a Federal shell, which burst some distance overhead, a thin piece twirled downward and fell like a leaf within a few feet of our gun. I saw one of their lieutenants, who was lying in the trench, eye it suspiciously, then creep out and pick it up. Presently the colonel of his regiment passed along and the lieutenant said, as he held up the trophy, "Colonel, just look at this. I was lying right here, and it fell right there." This brigade had no occasion to test its mettle until the following spring, but then, in the great battle of Spottsylvania, it fought gallantly and lost its general—Gary—who was killed.

Naturally, after such a determined advance on the part of the Federals, a general attack was expected; but, after spending two days threatening different portions of our lines, they withdrew in the night, leaving only men sufficient to keep their camp-fires burning for a time, as a ruse. The road along which we followed them for some miles was strewn at intervals with feathers from the beds of the people whose houses they had ransacked.

It was now October, and the chilly autumn nights suggested retiring to more comfortable surroundings. Our battalion of artillery was ordered to Frederick's Hall, on the Chesapeake and Ohio Railroad, about fifty miles from Richmond. In this neighborhood there were quite a number of nice people, whose society and hospitality afforded those of us so inclined much agreeable entertainment. A white paper-collar became no unusual sight, but when two of our members appeared one afternoon adorned with blue cravats a sensation was created.

A member of our battery returned from a visit to a family of former acquaintances some twelve miles from camp, and brought an invitation for some of his friends to accompany him on his next visit. Soon thereafter four of us went, through a drizzling rain, I riding a blind horse, the others on foot. Night overtook us soon after leaving camp, and when, within a mile of our destination, we asked at a house by the roadside for directions as to the way, a gruff voice informed us that an intervening creek was too high to cross, and insisted on our coming in and spending the night. We declined this, and the man said, "Well, I'll send a negro boy with you; but you'll have to come back," which proved to be the case. On our return we were boisterously welcomed. A blazing fire of dry pine soon lit up the room, with its clean, bare floor, and disclosed the figure of our host—Peter Johnson by name—a stout, burly man, clad in homespun and a fur cap. He said his wife and children had been "a-bed" since dark, were tired of his jokes, and that he was delighted to have a fresh audience; that it was past supper-time and some hours before breakfast, but that fasting was nothing new to Confederate soldiers. The names of two of our party, McCorkle and McClintic, he said, were too long and that he would call them Cockle and Flint, but before proceeding further he would give us some music. Forthwith he produced a short flute, took a seat on the foot of the stairs (in the far corner of the room), and played "The Devil's Dream," "The Arkansas Traveler," etc., beating time with his foot.

Here we passed the night in comfortable beds and, after a bountiful breakfast, left with a pressing invitation to return for a rabbit-chase with his hounds, which we gladly accepted and afterward enjoyed. This was typical of eastern Virginia and her hospitable, whole-souled "Tuckahoes," whose houses were never too full for them to hail a passer-by and compel him to come in. This interruption detracted nothing from the pleasure of the visit for which we had originally set out.

A short time after our return to Frederick's Hall our whole artillery command narrowly escaped capture by a band of cavalry raiders under command of Colonel Dahlgren. About fifty of the cannoneers of the battalion had been furnished with muskets and regularly exercised in the infantry drill. When the raiders arrived within a mile of our winter-quarters they inquired of the country people as to the character of troops occupying our camp, and were informed by some negroes that the "men had muskets with bayonets on them." As infantry was not what they were seeking, they gave us the go-by and passed on toward Richmond, the capture of which was the chief object of the expedition. In the attack on Richmond, which occurred in the night, Dahlgren was killed and his command defeated with heavy loss.

Encouraged by the visit already mentioned, I accompanied my friend, Tom Williamson, on a visit by rail to his relations, the Garnetts, near Hanover Junction; thence, after spending the night, to some friends in Caroline County. On our return to camp we found preparations on foot for a move to the front, and although we left camp by eleven o'clock that night not more than three or four miles was traveled by daylight. In the darkness one of our twenty-pounders went over a thirty-foot embankment, carrying the drivers and eight horses into the mud and water at its base.

While on the march later in the day, to save distance, I undertook to pass near a house, in the yard of which were two men with a large Newfoundland dog. A smaller dog, chained to the corner of the house, broke loose as I passed and viciously seized the tail of my overcoat. Instantly, to my dismay, the large dog left the men and dashed straight for me; but, instead of rending me, knocked my assailant heels over head and held him down until secured by the men and chained.

Before reaching the front, it was learned that we had been called out on a false alarm. Our return to Frederick's Hall was by a more circuitous route, near which was an establishment where apple-brandy was for sale. The stock had been heavily watered, and the price of shares (in a drink), even then, too far above par for eleven dollars a month to afford scarcely more than a smell. However, after reaching camp, more than ordinary wrestling and testing of strength were indulged in.

Two years had elapsed since any furloughs had been given, except to the sick and wounded. The granting of them was now revived, and those who had been longest from home were, of course, to be served first. My turn came in March. I shall never forget the impression made on me as I sat at the supper-table at home, on the evening of my arrival. My father, mother, sisters, and little niece were present; and, after the noise, loud talking, etc., in camp, the quiet was painful. It was just as it had always been, except the vacant places of the boys at the front; still, I felt that something was wrong. Equally as impressive was the mild diet of cold bread, milk, and weak-looking tea. The effect was the same as that produced by a sudden transition from a low to a high altitude, or vice versa, requiring time for adaptation, as I soon experienced. My fifteen days' leave of absence having expired, I returned to camp.

To induce the boys who were under age, and still at home, to enlist, a thirty-day furlough was offered to every soldier who would secure a recruit for the service. By this means many boys of only fifteen or sixteen years joined the army, to enable a long-absent kinsman to get home. McClintic, of my mess, got this furlough by the enlistment of his brother, and while at home drummed up the son of a neighbor, William Barger, whom he brought back with him to repeat the operation. To allowing this second furlough the authorities, right or wrong, objected. The matter was compromised by McClintic very generously assigning the young recruit to my credit, by which I got the furlough.

Before my return to the army, at the expiration of the thirty days, the Grant campaign had opened and the great battles of the Wilderness and Spottsylvania had been fought. Our battery had escaped without serious loss, as the character of the country afforded little opportunity for the use of artillery. From Staunton I traveled on a freight train with the cadets of the Virginia Military Institute and their professors, who were now the conspicuous heroes of the hour, having just won immortal fame in their charge, on May 15, at New Market. Among the professors was my friend and former messmate, Frank Preston, with an empty sleeve, now captain of a cadet company, and Henry A. Wise, Jr., who took command of the cadets after the wounding of Colonel Shipp, their commandant.

Our army was now near Hanover Junction, twenty-five miles from Richmond, and engaged in its death struggle with Grant's countless legions. If any one period of the four years of the war were to be selected as an example of Southern endurance and valor, it probably should be the campaign from the Wilderness, beginning May 5 and closing a month later at Petersburg, in which the Confederate army, numbering 64,000 half-clothed, half-fed men, successfully resisted a splendidly equipped army of 140,000—inflicting a loss of 60,000 killed and wounded.

Much has been said and written concerning the comparative equipment, etc., of the two armies. A striking reference to it I heard in a conversation at General Lee's home in Lexington after the war. Of the students who attended Washington College during his presidency he always requested a visit to himself whenever they returned to the town. With this request they were very ready to comply. While performing this pleasant duty one evening, during a visit to my old home in Lexington, Mrs. Lee, sitting in her invalid-chair, was discoursing to me, feelingly, on the striking contrast between the ragged clothing worn by Confederate soldiers as compared with that worn by the Federals, as she had seen the Federal troops entering Richmond after its evacuation. The General, who was pacing the floor, paused for a moment, his eye lighting up, and, at the conclusion of her remarks, said, as he inclined forward with that superb grace, "But, ah! Mistress Lee, we gave them some awfully hard knocks, with all of our rags!"

After parting with my cadet friends at Hanover Junction, soon after day-dawn, I readily found our battery bivouacking in sight of the station. Some of the men were lying asleep; those who had risen seemed not yet fully awake. All looked ten years older than when I had bidden them good-by a month before—hollow-eyed, unwashed, jaded, and hungry; paper-collars and blue neckties shed and forgotten. The contents of my basket (boxes were now obsolete), consisting of pies sweetened with sorghum molasses, and other such edibles, were soon devoured, and I reported "returned for duty." In a few hours we were on the road to Richmond, with the prospect of another sojourn in the surrounding swamps.

On the night of June 1 our battery was bivouacked in the edge of a dense piece of woods, the guns being parked in open ground just outside, while the men were lying in the leaves, with the horses tied among them. About midnight one of the horses became tangled in his halter and fell to the ground, struggling and kicking frantically to free himself. A man close by, being startled from sleep, began halloaing, "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" The alarm was taken up by one after another as each roused from slumber, increasing and spreading the noise and confusion; by this time the horses had joined in, pawing and snorting in terror, completing the reign of pandemonium. As darkness prevented successful running, some of the men climbed trees or clung to them for protection, while the sentinel over the guns in the open broke from his beat, supposing Grant's cavalry was upon us. In a space of two minutes all suddenly became still, the climbers stealthily slid from their trees, and others gingerly picked their way back to their lairs, "ashamed as men who flee in battle." For some time, as the cause and absurdity of the incident was realized, there issued now and then from a pile of leaves a chuckle of suppressed laughter.



CHAPTER XXV

SECOND COLD HARBOR—WOUNDED—RETURN HOME—REFUGEEING FROM HUNTER

After spending the following day and night in "Camp Panic," we moved forward early on the morning of June 3 to the field of the memorable second Cold Harbor. Minie-balls were rapping against the trees as we drove through a copse of small timber to occupy a temporary redoubt in the line of breastworks beyond. While the guns halted briefly before driving in to unlimber, I walked forward to see what was in front. The moment I came into view a Minie-ball sung by my head and passed through the clothes of the cannoneer, Barton McCrum, who was a few steps from me, suggesting to both of us to lie low until called for as videttes. Perched in the tops of the trees beyond the half-mile of open field in our front, the enemy's sharpshooters, with telescope sights on their rifles, blazed away at every moving object along our line. It was noon before their artillery opened on us, and, in the firing which ensued, a large barn a hundred yards in our front was set on fire by a shell and burned to the ground.

An hour or two later, during this brisk cannonade, I, being No. 3, stood with my thumb on the vent as the gun was being loaded. From a shell which exploded a few yards in front I was struck on the breast by the butt-end, weighing not less than three pounds, and at the same time by a smaller piece on the thigh. After writhing for a time I was accompanied to our surgeon in the rear. The brass button on my jacket, which I still have as a memento, was cut almost in two and the shirt button underneath driven to the breast-bone, besides other smaller gashes. A large contusion was made by the blow on my thigh, and my clothing was very much torn. After my wounds had been dressed I passed the night at the quarters of my friend and fellow-townsman, Capt. Charles Estill, of the Ordnance Department, who already had in charge his brother Jack, wounded in a cavalry engagement the day before.

An hour after dark, as I sat by the light of a camp-fire, enjoying the relief and rest, as well as the agreeable company of old friends, the rattle of musketry two miles away had gradually increased into the proportions of a fierce battle. The feelings of one honorably out of such a conflict, but listening in perfect security, may be better imagined than described. This, like a curfew bell, signaled the close of a day of frightful and probably unparalleled carnage. Within the space of a single hour in the forenoon the Federal army had been three times repulsed with a loss of thirteen thousand men killed and wounded; after which their troops firmly refused to submit themselves to further butchery. This statement is made on the evidence of Northern historians.

After a night's rest I was sent to Richmond, where I received a transfer to a hospital in Staunton. Sheridan's cavalry having interrupted travel over the Virginia Central Railroad, I went by rail to Lynchburg, via the Southside Road, with Captain Semmes and eight or ten cadets on their return to Lexington with artillery horses pressed into service. Learning, in Lynchburg, that Hunter's army was near Staunton, I continued with the cadets, riding one of their artillery horses, but was too much exhausted to proceed far, and stopped for the night on the way. Here I learned from refugees that Hunter was advancing toward Lexington. As the whole country seemed now to be overrun by the Federals, to avoid them was very difficult.

I resumed my journey toward home, frequently meeting acquaintances who were seeking safety elsewhere. When within four or five miles of the town, while ascending a long hill, I heard the sound of a drum and fife not far ahead. Presently I recognized the tune played to be "Yankee Doodle." I could not believe it to be the vanguard of Hunter's army, but what on earth could it be? However, at the top of the hill I saw a train of refugee wagons preceded by two negroes who were making the music.

I remained at home only a day and a night, at the expiration of which time General McCausland (the first captain of our battery) with his brigade of cavalry was within a mile of town, closely pursued by Hunter's whole army. I spent half of the night assisting my mother and the servants (our slaves) to conceal from the marauders what flour, bacon, etc., the family still had; and before sunrise the next morning set out, mounted on my father's horse, for a safer place. By this time my wounds had become very painful, and my leg had turned a dark blue color from the thigh to the knee.

A brief account of my experience while refugeeing may be of interest, as it will give an idea of the horror with which our non-combatants regarded the invasion of their homes by our fellow-countrymen of the North, who had now resorted to fire, after learning by bitter experience that the sword alone could not restore us to the blessings of the Union.

My destination was the home of my aunt, Mrs. Allen, forty miles distant, in Bedford County. After passing through the gap between the two peaks of Otter, I reached my aunt's and found there three officers from Louisiana recovering from wounds. After a respite of two days one of the officers, on his return from a neighbor's, brought information that McCausland's command was approaching through the mountain-pass, with Hunter in close pursuit. In a few hours our house of refuge was overrun by McCausland's hungry soldiers. Again I went through the process of helping to hide valuables and packing up what was to be hauled away. I started at dawn next morning with the officers, leaving my aunt and her three daughters very forlorn and unprotected. When I left she gave me the pistol which her son Robert, colonel of the Twenty-eighth Virginia Regiment, was wearing when he fell in Pickett's charge at Gettysburg. In our care were the loaded wagons, negro men, lowing cows, and bleating sheep.

That afternoon, after exchanging my gray for a fleet-footed cavalry horse ridden by one of the officers, I rode back from our place of hiding, some miles south of Liberty, to reconnoiter; but, after passing through the town, met General McCausland at the head of his brigade falling back toward Lynchburg, and rode back a short distance with him to return to my party of refugees, who meantime had moved farther on. Next day I stopped at a house by the wayside to get dinner, and had just taken my seat at the table when there arose a great commotion outside, with cries of "Yankee cavalry! Yankee cavalry!" Stepping to the door, I saw a stream of terrified school-children crying as they ran by, and refugees flying for the woods. In a moment I was on my fleet-footed dun, not taking time to pick up a biscuit of my untasted dinner nor the pillow worn between my crippled leg and the saddle, and joined in the flight. I had noticed a yearling colt in the yard of the house as I entered, and in five minutes after I started a twelve-year-old boy mounted on the little thing, barebacked, shot by me with the speed of a greyhound. A hundred yards farther on I overtook some refugee wagons from about Lexington, whose owners had left them on the road and betaken themselves to the woods; but there still stood by them a mulatto man of our town—Lindsay Reid by name—who indignantly refused to be routed, and was doing his utmost, with voice and example, to stem the tide, saying, "It is a shame to fear anything; let's stand and give them a fight!"

A moment later a negro boy rode by at a gallop in the direction from which the alarm came. In reply to the inquiry as to where he was going, he called out, "After Marse William." Relying on him as a picket, I remained in view of the road. In ten minutes he appeared, returning at full speed, and called out to me, as he rode up, that he had "run almost into them." They were close behind, and I must "fly or be caught." I was well alongside of him as he finished the warning, and for half a mile our horses ran neck and neck. He said he would take me to his old master's, an out-of-the-way place, several miles distant. Arriving there, a nice country house and very secluded, I concealed my horse in the woods as best I could and went to the house, where I was welcomed and cared for by two young ladies and their aged father, Mr. Hurt, who was blind. I was now much exhausted, and determined to take a rest, with the chances of being captured. The occasion of the alarm was a body of Federal cavalry which had been sent on a raid to meet Hunter's army, advancing on Lynchburg.

After two days in this quiet abode I set out to make my way past the rear of Hunter's army and eventually to reach home. On the way to Liberty I was informed that a train of Hunter's wagons and many negroes, under a cavalry escort, were then passing northward through the town. To satisfy myself (being again mounted on my father's gray) I rode to the top of a hill overlooking the place. Then a strikingly pretty young lady of about sixteen, bareheaded (although it was not then the fashion), and almost out of breath, who had seen me coming into danger, ran to meet me and called, "For God's sake, fly; the town is full of Yankees!" Many years after the war a lady friend of Norfolk, Virginia, who was refugeeing in Liberty at the time, told me that she had witnessed the incident, and said that the girl who had run out to warn me had afterward married a Federal officer. I then went around the town and crossed the road a mile west of it, learning that the wagon-train, etc., had all passed.

From this place on, throughout the territory over which this patriotic army had operated, were the desolated homes of helpless people, stripped of every valuable they possessed, and outraged at the wanton destruction of their property, scarcely knowing how to repair the damage or to take up again their broken fortunes. Night had now fallen, but a bright moon rather added to the risks of continuing my journey. An old negro man, however, kindly agreed to pilot me through fields and woods, avoiding the highways, "as far as Colonel Nichol's" (his master's). When near his destination he went ahead to reconnoiter, and soon returned from the house, accompanied by one of the ladies, who told me that their house and premises had been overrun by Yankees all day, and that some of them were still prowling about, and, in her fright, pointed to each bush as an armed foe.

Camp-fires still burning enabled me to steer clear of the road, but it was midnight when I reached my aunt's, and, going to the negro cabin farthest from her dwelling, I succeeded, after a long time, in getting "Uncle" Mose to venture out of his door. He said he thought the Yankees were all gone, but to wait till he crept up to the house and let "Ole Miss" know I was about. He reported the way clear, and I was soon in the side porch. After the inmates were satisfied as to my identity, the door was opened just enough for me to squeeze through. The family, consisting of females, including the overseer's wife, who had come for protection, quietly collected in the sitting-room, where a tallow candle, placed not to attract attention from outside, shed a dim light over my ghostlike companions clad in their night-dresses. The younger ladies were almost hysterical, and all looked as if they had passed through a fearful storm at sea, as various experiences were recounted. The house had been ransacked from garret to cellar, and what could not be devoured or carried off was scattered about, and such things as sugar, vinegar, flour, salt, etc., conglomerately mixed. The only food that escaped was what the negroes had in their cabins, and this they freely divided with the whites.

The next day I concealed myself and horse in the woods, and was lying half-asleep when I heard footsteps stealthily approaching through the leaves. Presently a half-grown negro, carrying a small basket, stumbled almost on me. He drew back, startled at my question, "What do you want?" and replied, "Nothin'; I jus' gwine take 'Uncle' Mose he dinner. He workin' in de fiel' over yander." My dinner was to be sent by a boy named Phil, so I said, "Is that you, Phil?" "Lordy! Is that you, Marse Eddie? I thought you was a Yankee! Yas, dis is me, and here's yer dinner I done brung yer." Phil, who belonged to my aunt, had run off several weeks before, but of his own accord had returned the preceding day, and this was our first meeting.

As Hunter's army was still threatening Lynchburg, to avoid the scouting-parties scouring the country in his rear I set out on Sunday morning to make my way back to Lexington by Peteet's Gap. I was scarcely out of sight—in fact one of my cousins, as I learned afterward, ran to the porch to assure herself that I was gone—when twenty-five or thirty Federal cavalry, accompanied by a large, black dog, and guided by one of my aunt's negroes armed and dressed in Federal uniform, galloped into the yard and searched the house for "rebel soldiers." Passing through the Federal campground, from among the numerous household articles, etc., I picked up a book, on the fly-leaf of which was written, "Captured at Washington College, Lexington, Rockingham County, Virginia." That afternoon, as I was slowly toiling up the steep mountain path almost overgrown with ferns, I was stopped by an old, white-bearded mountaineer at a small gate which he held open for me. While asking for the news, after I had dismounted, he noticed the split button on my coat and my torn trousers, and, pausing for a moment, he said, very solemnly, "Well, you ought to be a mighty good young man." I asked why he thought so. "Well," said he, "the hand of God has certainly been around you."

That night I spent at Judge Anderson's, in Arnold's Valley, and the next day reached Lexington—a very different Lexington from the one I had left a fortnight before. The Virginia Military Institute barracks, the professors' houses, and Governor Letcher's private home had been burned, and also all neighboring mills, etc., while the intervening and adjacent grounds were one great desolate common. Preparations had also been made to burn Washington College, when my father, who was a trustee of that institution, called on General Hunter, and, by explaining that it was endowed by and named in honor of General Washington, finally succeeded in preventing its entire destruction, although much valuable apparatus, etc., had already been destroyed.

Comparisons are odious, but the contrast between the conduct of Northern and Southern soldiers during their invasions of each other's territory is very striking and suggestive; especially when taken in connection with the fact that the Federal army, from first to last, numbered twenty-eight hundred thousand men, and the Confederates not more than six hundred and fifty thousand.

General Early, with three divisions, having been despatched from the army near Richmond, had reached Lynchburg in time to prevent its occupancy by Hunter, who promptly retreated, and his army soon became a mass of fugitives, struggling through the mountains of West Virginia on to the Ohio River. The Confederates at Lynchburg, all told, numbered 11,000 men, the Federals 20,000.

An incident which occurred in Rockbridge County, the participants in which were of the "cradle and grave" classes, deserves mention. Maj. Angus McDonald, aged seventy, having four sons in our army, set out from Lexington with his fourteen-year-old son Harry, refugeeing. They were joined, near the Natural Bridge, by Mr. Thomas Wilson, a white-haired old man; and the three determined to give battle to Hunter's army. From a hastily constructed shelter of rails and stones they opened, with shotguns and pistols, on his advance guard, but, of course, were quickly overpowered. Mr. Wilson was left for dead on the ground, and the McDonalds captured. The father was taken to a Northern prison, but Harry made his escape by night in the mountains, and in turn captured a Federal soldier, whom I saw him turn over to the provost on his return to Lexington. General Early pursued Hunter no farther than Botetourt County, and thence passed through Lexington on his disastrous campaign toward Washington.



CHAPTER XXVI

PERSONAL MENTION OF OFFICERS AND MEN—ROCKBRIDGE ARTILLERY—SECOND ROCKBRIDGE ARTILLERY

As has already been mentioned, the captain under whom the battery was mustered into service was the Rev. Wm. N. Pendleton, rector of the Episcopal Church in Lexington, Virginia, who, after the first battle of Manassas, became chief of artillery of the Army of Northern Virginia. His only son, Alexander S. Pendleton, graduated at Washington College at the age of 18. He entered the army from the University of Virginia at the beginning of the war as lieutenant on General Jackson's staff, and rose through the various grades of promotion to the rank of lieutenant-colonel. After General Jackson's death he continued to fill the position of adjutant to the succeeding commanders of the corps until he fell in battle near Winchester, in 1864. He was one of the bravest and most efficient staff officers in the Army of Northern Virginia.

The captains of the battery under whom I served were three uncommonly brave and capable officers.

The first, William McLaughlin, after making an enviable record with the company, distinguished himself as commander of a battalion of artillery in General Early's company in 1864.

The second, Captain W. T. Poague, whose reputation for efficiency and courage won for him the command of a battalion of artillery in A. P. Hill's corps, was amply equipped with both intelligence and valor to have handled an army division with credit to himself and advantage to the service.

The third, Archibald Graham, who was appointed a sergeant upon the organization of the company, then elected a lieutenant, and for the last two years of the war captain, had the distinction of having been in every engagement in which the battery took part from Hainesville, in 1861, to Appomattox in 1865. His dreamy, brown eyes kindled most at the sound of good music, and where the noise of battle was greatest, and shells flew thickest, there Graham lingered, as if courting danger.

Our First Lieut. W. M. Brown, a brave officer, wounded and captured at Gettysburg, remained in prison from that time until the close of the war.

Lieut. J. B. McCorkle, a noble fellow and recklessly brave, was killed at first Fredericksburg.

As stated in this paper, besides those regularly enrolled in the company were men who did more or less service with it, but whose names do not appear on the roll. For example, Bernard Wolfe, of Martinsburg, served in this capacity for a time previous to and in the first battle of Manassas, and later became major of commissary on General Pendleton's staff.

Chapman Maupin, of Charlottesville, son of Professor Maupin, of the University of Virginia, served during part of the campaign of 1862, was with the battery in several battles, and enlisted afterward in the Signal Corps.

That so many intelligent and educated men from outside of Rockbridge were attracted to this company was primarily due to the fact that the Rev. W. N. Pendleton, its captain until after first Manassas, was a graduate of West Point and was widely known as a clergyman and educator. After his promotion the character of the company itself accomplished the same effect.

Of the names on the roll there were four A. M.'s and a score of students of the University of Virginia. There were at least twenty graduates of Washington College, and as many undergraduates, and many graduates and students of other colleges.

Among the privates in the company was a son and namesake of General R. E. Lee, whose presence in such a capacity was characteristic of his noble father, when it seemed so natural and surely the custom to have provided him with a commission. That the son should have the instincts and attributes of a soldier was not surprising; but, with these inherited gifts, his individuality, in which uniform cheerfulness, consideration for others, and enjoyment of fun were prominent features, won for him the esteem and affection of his comrades. When it fell to his lot, as a cannoneer, to supply temporarily the place of a sick or wounded driver, he handled and cared for his horses as diligently and with as much pride as when firing a gun.

Two sons of Ex-President Tyler, one of whom—Gardiner—represented his district in Congress.

A son of Commodore Porter, of the United States Navy.

Walter and Joseph Packard, descendants of Charles Lee, who was a brother of Light-Horse Harry Lee.

* * * * *

The beautiful character of Randolph Fairfax, a descendant of Lord Fairfax, who was killed on December 13, 1862, on that fatal hill near Fredericksburg, has been worthily portrayed in a memoir by the Rev. Philip Slaughter. More than ten thousand copies of this memoir were distributed through the army at the expense of General Lee, Gen. J. E. B. Stuart, and other officers and men, and no better idea of the exalted character of young Fairfax can be conveyed, than by extracts copied from this little volume:

"'REV. P. SLAUGHTER.

"'DEAR SIR: Please receive enclosed a contribution ($100) to the very laudable work alluded to in church by you to-day. It is very desirable to place the example of Private Randolph Fairfax before every soldier of the army. I am particularly desirous that my command should have the advantage of such a Christian light to guide them on their way. How invincible would an army of such men be!—men who never murmur and who never flinch!

"'Very truly yours, "'J. E. B. STUART.'

"Berkeley Minor says:

"'I knew Randolph Fairfax at the University quite well, but not so intimately as I did after he joined this company (the Rockbridge Battery). For several months before his death I was his messmate and bedfellow, and was able to note more fully the tone of earnest piety that pervaded his words and actions. He was unselfish, modest, and uniformly kind and considerate to all. If there was one trait in him more striking than others, it was his calm, earnest, trustful demeanor in time of battle, resulting, I believe, from his abiding trust in the providence and love of God. Many fine young men have been removed by death from this company, yet I do not think that any has been more deeply lamented than he.'

"Joseph Packard, another of his comrades, writes:

"'His cheerful courage, his coolness and steadiness, made him conspicuous in every battlefield. At the battle of Malvern Hill, where he had received a wound which nine men out of ten would have considered an excuse for retiring from the awful scene, he persisted in remaining at his post, and did the work of two until the battery had left the field. But it was in the bearing, more than in the daring, of the soldier's life that his lovely character displayed itself. He never avoided the most trying and irksome duties. If he had selfishness, those who knew him long and well as schoolmates and comrades never discerned it. More than once I have heard his beautiful Christian example spoken of by irreligious comrades. Bitter and inexplicable as may be the Providence which has removed one so full of promise of good to his fellows, I feel that we may thank God that we have been permitted to witness a life so Christ-like terminated by a death so noble.'

"Captain Poague, commanding the Rockbridge Battery, says in a letter to his father:

"'In simple justice to your son, I desire to express my high appreciation of his noble character as a soldier, a Christian, and gentleman. Modest and courteous in his deportment, charitable and unselfish in his disposition, cheerful and conscientious in his performance of duty, and upright and consistent in his walk and conversation, he was a universal favorite in the company, and greatly beloved by his friends. I don't think I have ever known a young man whose life was so free from the frailties of human nature, and whose character in all aspects formed so faultless a model for the imitation of others. Had his influence been restricted to the silent power and beauty of his example, his life on earth, short as it was, would not have been in vain. The name of Randolph Fairfax will not soon be forgotten by his comrades, and his family may be assured that there are many who, strangers as they are, deeply sympathize with them in their bereavement.'

"The following from General Lee will be a fit climax to the foregoing tributes:

"'CAMP FREDERICKSBURG, December 28, 1862.

"'MY DEAR DOCTOR: I have grieved most deeply at the death of your noble son. I have watched his conduct from the commencement of the war, and have pointed with pride to the patriotism, self-denial, and manliness of character he has exhibited. I had hoped that an opportunity would have occurred for the promotion he deserved; not that it would have elevated him, but have shown that his devotion to duty was appreciated by his country. Such an opportunity would undoubtedly have occurred; but he has been translated to a better world for which his purity and his piety have eminently fitted him. You do not require to be told how great his gain. It is the living for whom I sorrow. I beg you will offer to Mrs. Fairfax and your daughters my heartfelt sympathy, for I know the depth of their grief. That God may give you and them strength to bear this great affliction is the earnest prayer of your early friend,

"'R. E. LEE.' "'Dr. Orlando Fairfax.'"



A son and two nephews of Hon. A. R. Boteler.

A son of Governor Gilmer, of Virginia.

S. H. Letcher, brother of War-Governor John Letcher.

Mercer Otey, graduate of Virginia Military Institute and son of Bishop Otey, of Tennessee.

Launcelot M. Blackford, A. M., of University of Virginia, who became adjutant of the Twenty-sixth Virginia Infantry, and Superintendent of the Alexandria High School from the close of the war to the present time—forty-one years. He has said to the writer since the war that he cherished the fact of his having been a private in the Rockbridge Artillery with more pride than he felt in any honors he has since achieved.

Robert A. Gibson, of Petersburg, Virginia, now a bishop of Virginia.

Livingston Massie, of Waynesboro, who became captain of another battery and was killed in General Early's battle of Winchester.

Hugh McGuire, of Winchester, brother of Dr. Hunter McGuire, medical director of Jackson's corps, whose gallantry won for him a captaincy in cavalry and lost him his life on the retreat to Appomattox.

Boyd Faulkner, of Martinsburg, son of Hon. Charles J. Faulkner.

Two Bartons from Winchester.

Two Maurys and three Minors from Charlottesville.

Other members of the company, of whom much that is interesting could be written, were Edgar and Eugene Alexander, of Moorefield, West Virginia, uncles of the authoress, Miss Mary Johnston. The first named lost an arm at Fredericksburg, the second had his thigh-bone broken at second Manassas.

William H. Bolling, of Petersburg, Virginia, the handsomest of eight handsome brothers and a most polished gentleman.

Holmes Boyd, of Winchester, now a distinguished lawyer of that city.

Daniel Blaine, of Williamsburg, since the war a Presbyterian divine.

Robert Frazer, of Culpeper, an accomplished scholar and prominent educator.

William L. Gilliam, of Powhatan County.

Campbell Heiskell, of Moorefield.

J. K. Hitner, who, though a native of Pennsylvania, fought through the war for the South.

William F. Johnston, of Rockbridge, a sterling man and soldier.

Edward Hyde, of Alexandria, an excellent artist, who devoted most of his time in camp to drawing sketches of army life. He has recently written me that his drawings were lost in a canoe in which he attempted to cross James River on his journey from Appomattox. Otherwise some of them would have appeared in this book.

Otho Kean, of Goochland County, Virginia.

John E. McCauley, of Rockbridge, sergeant of the battery.

William S. McClintic, now a prominent citizen of Missouri.

D. D. Magruder, of Frederick County, Virginia.

Littleton Macon, of Albemarle County, whose utterances became proverbial.

Frank Meade and Frank Nelson, of Albemarle County.

W. C. Gordon, of Lexington, Virginia.

Jefferson Ruffin, of Henrico.

J. M. Shoulder, of Rockbridge.

W. C. Stuart, of Lexington, Virginia.

Stevens M. Taylor, of Albemarle County, Virginia.

Charles M. Trueheart, now a physician in Galveston, Texas.

Thomas M. Wade, of Lexington, Virginia.

W. H. White, of Lexington, Virginia.

Calvin Wilson, of Cumberland County.

John Withrow, of Lexington, Virginia.

William M. Wilson, of Rockbridge, who went by the name of "Billy Zu.," abbreviated for zouave; and many other fine fellows, most of whom have long since "passed over the river."

A. S. Whitt, gunner of the fourth piece, whose failure to throw a twenty-pound shell "within a hair's breadth and not miss" could be attributed only to defective ammunition.

In this company were all classes of society and all grades of intelligence, from the most cultured scholars to the lowest degree of illiteracy. We had men who had formerly been gentlemen of leisure, lawyers, physicians, students of divinity, teachers, merchants, farmers and mechanics, ranging in age from boys of seventeen to matured men in the forties and from all parts of the South and several from Northern States, as well as Irish and Germans. At one camp-fire could be heard discussions on literature, philosophy, science, etc., and at another horse-talk. The tone of the company was decidedly moral, and there was comparatively little profanity. In addition to the services conducted by the chaplain of the battalion, Rev. Henry White, prayer-meetings were regularly held by the theological students. Then we had men that swore like troopers. "Irish Emmett," whose face was dotted with grains of powder imbedded under the skin, could growl out oaths through half-clenched teeth that chilled one's blood.

One man, Michael, a conscript from another county, a full-grown man, weighing perhaps one hundred and seventy-five pounds, was a chronic cry-baby; unfit for other service, he was assigned assistant at the forge, and would lie with face to the ground and moan out, "I want to go home, I want to go home," and sob by the hour.

Another, a primitive man from the German forests, whose language was scarcely intelligible, lived entirely to himself and constructed his shelter of brush and leaves—as would a bear preparing to hibernate. In his ignorance of the use of an axe I saw him, in felling a tree, "throw" it so that it fell on and killed a horse tied nearby. On seeing what he had done, his lamentation over the dying animal was pathetic.

As a school for the study of human nature, that afforded in the various conditions of army life is unsurpassed—a life in which danger, fatigue, hunger, etc., leave no room for dissimulation, and expose the good and bad in each individual to the knowledge of his associates.

It sometimes fell to my lot to be on guard-duty with Tom Martin, an Irishman who was over forty-five and exempt from military service, but was soldiering for the love of it. Sometimes he was very taciturn and entirely absorbed with his short-stemmed pipe; at other times full of humor and entertaining. He gave me an account, one night while on post, of what he called his "great flank movement"—in other words, a visit to his home in Rockbridge without leave. After Doran, another Irishman, had been disabled at Malvern Hill and discharged from service, he became a sort of huckster for the battery and would make trips to and from Rockbridge with a wagon-load of boxes from our homes and also a supply of apple-brandy. While camped at Bunker Hill in the fall of 1862, shortly after Doran arrived with his load, Captain Poague, observing more than an ordinary degree of hilarity among some of the men, had the wagon searched, the brandy brought forth, confiscated, and emptied on the ground. Martin, greatly outraged at the illtreatment of a fellow-son of Erin, and still more so at the loss of so much good liquor, forthwith resolved to take his revenge on the Captain by taking "French leave."

To escape the vigilance of provost-guards and deserter-hunters, he made his way to the foothills of the North Mountain, and in the course of his journey stumbled on a still-house in one of its secluded glens. To the proprietor, who was making a run of apple-brandy, and who proved to be "a man after me own heart," Martin imparted his grievances. "I tould him," said he, "I hadn't a cint, but he poured me a tin chuck-full. With thanks in me eyes I turned off the whole of it, then kindled me pipe and stood close by the still. Ah! me lad, how the liquor wint through me! In thray minits I didn't care a domn for all the captins in old Stonewall's army!"

With various adventures he made his way home, returned to the company of his own accord, was wounded at Gettysburg, captured, and spent the remainder of war-time in prison.

Rader, who drove the lead-horses at my gun almost throughout the war, is mentioned elsewhere, but his record, as well as his pranks and drollery, coupled with his taciturnity, were interesting. While sitting on his saddle-horse in one battle he was knocked full length to the ground by a bursting shell. When those nearby ran to pick him up they asked if he was much hurt. "No," he said, "I am just skeered to death." At Sharpsburg, while lying down, holding his gray mares, a shell tore a trench close alongside of him and hoisted him horizontally into the air. On recovering his feet he staggered off, completely dazed by the concussion. In the first battle of Fredericksburg he was struck and disabled for a time. At Gettysburg, as the same animals, frightened by a bursting shell, wheeled to run, he seized the bridle of the leader just as it was struck by a shell, which burst at the moment, instantly killing the two grays and the two horses next to them, and stunning Rader as before. But, with all of his close calls, his skin was never broken. Instead of currying his horses during the time allotted for that work he seemed to occupy himself teaching them "tricks," but his was the best-groomed team in the battery.

While on guard one cold night, as the wagon drivers were sleeping quietly on a bed of loose straw near a blazing fire, I saw Rader creep up stealthily and apply a torch at several places, wait until it was well ignited, and then run and yell "Fire!" then repeat the sport an hour later. Vanpelt carried an enormous knapsack captured from Banks and branded "10th Maine." While halting on the march it was Rader's amusement, especially when some outsider was passing by, to set his whip-stock as a prop under it, go through the motions of grinding, and rattle off the music of a hand-organ with his mouth until chased away by his victim. He mysteriously vanished from Rockbridge after the war, and has never since been located.

One of the most striking characters in the company was "General" Jake, as we called him, whose passion for war kept him always in the army, while his aversion to battle kept him always in the rear. After serving a year with us, being over military age, he got a discharge, but soon joined the Rockbridge cavalry as a substitute, where six legs, instead of two, afforded three-fold opportunities. An interview between the "General" and one of our company, as he viewed the former and was struck with his appearance, was as follows:

"Well, 'General,' you are the most perfect-looking specimen of a soldier I ever beheld. That piercing eye, the grizzly mustache, the firm jaw, the pose of the head, that voice—in fact, the whole make-up fills to the full the measure of a man of war."

The "General," with a graceful bow and a deep roll in his voice, replied, "Sire, in enumerating the items which go to constitute a great general I notice the omission of one requisite, the absence of which in my outfit lost to the cause a genius in council and a mighty leader in battle."

"What was that, 'General'?"

"Sire, it goes by the name of Cour-ridge."

* * * * *

Estimates of things are governed by comparison, and no better idea of the Southern army could be had than that given by a knowledge of its numbers, equipment, etc., as compared with those of its adversary throughout the four years of the war. This can be illustrated by a sketch of the Rockbridge Artillery in that respect, beginning with its entrance into service, as a type of the whole army.

The guns with which this company set out from Lexington were two smooth-bore six-pound brass pieces used by Stonewall Jackson for drilling the cadets at the Virginia Military Institute, which were coupled together and drawn by one pair of horses to Staunton. I must pause here and relate an incident which occurred at that period, in which these guns played a part. Among the cadets was one—Hountsell—who was considered as great an enigma as Jackson himself. In some of the various evolutions of the drill it was necessary for the cadets to trot. This gait Hountsell failed to adopt, and was reported to the superintendent with the specification "for failing to trot." Hountsell handed in his written excuse as follows, "I am reported by Major Jackson for failing, at artillery drill, to trot. My excuse is, I am a natural pacer." It would be interesting to know the workings of Stonewall's mind when perusing this reply.

After reaching Harper's Ferry two more six-pound brass pieces were received for this battery from Richmond. As there were no caissons for these four guns, farm-wagons were used, into which boxes of ammunition, together with chests containing rations for the men, were loaded. In addition to friction-primers of modern invention at that time for firing cannon, the old-time "slow matches" and "port-fires" were in stock. So that, in preparing for battle with General Patterson's army at Hainesville on July 2, 1861, the ammunition-boxes, provision-chests, etc., being loaded indiscriminately into the same wagon, were all taken out and placed on the ground. The "port-fire," adjusted in a brass tube on the end of a wooden stick, was lighted, and the stick stuck in the ground by the gun, to give a light in case the friction-primer failed. This provision was due to the fact that Captain Pendleton was familiar with the "port-fire," in vogue when he attended West Point. On finding that the friction-primer was reliable, the "port-fires" were left sticking in the ground when the guns withdrew, and were captured and taken as curiosities by the Federals.

After returning to Winchester, ammunition-chests were ordered to be made by a carpenter of the town. Gen. Joe Johnston, then in command of the forces, went in person with Lieutenant Poague, and, as the latter expressed it, reprimanded this carpenter most unmercifully for his tardiness in the work. The chests were then quickly completed and placed on wagon-gears, which outfits served as caissons, and thus equipped the battery marched to and fought at first Manassas. From captures there made, these crude contrivances were replaced with regular caissons, and for two of the six-pound brass pieces two rifled ten-pound Parrotts were substituted and two heavier six-pound brass pieces added, making a six-gun battery. Also the farm-wagon harness was exchanged for regular artillery harness.

The revolution in the character of Confederate field ordnance thenceforward continued, and every new and improved weapon we had to confront in one battle we had to wield against our foes, its inventors, in the next.

For a short time previous to and in the battle of Kernstown the battery had eight guns, two of which, made at the Tredegar Works in Richmond, were of very inferior quality and were soon discarded. The long and trying campaign of 1862 gradually reduced the number of guns to four, two of which were twenty-pound Parrotts captured at Harper's Ferry, one a twelve-pound Napoleon captured at Richmond, and one a six-pound brass piece. The two last were replaced by two more twenty-pound Parrotts captured from Milroy at Winchester in June, 1863. Each of these guns required a team of eight horses and as many to a caisson. They were recaptured at Deep Bottom below Richmond in July, 1864.

The battery's connection with the Stonewall Brigade was severed October 1, at the close of the memorable campaign of 1862, and under the new regime became a part of the First Regiment Virginia Artillery, commanded by Col. J. Thompson Brown, afterward by Col. R. A. Hardaway. This regiment was made up of the second and third companies of Richmond Howitzers, the Powhatan battery commanded by Captain Dance, the Roanoke battery commanded by Captain Griffin, and Rockbridge battery commanded by Captain Graham, with four guns to each of the five batteries.

Our new companions proved to be a fine lot of men, and with them many strong and lasting friendships were formed.

An idea of the spirit with which the Southern people entered into the war can best be conveyed by some account of the wild enthusiasm created by the troops and the unbounded hospitality lavished upon them as they proceeded to their destinations along the border.

The Rockbridge Artillery traveled by rail from Staunton to Strasburg. On their march of eighteen miles from there to Winchester they were preceded by the "Grayson Dare-devils" of Virginia, one hundred strong, armed with Mississippi rifles and wearing red-flannel shirts. A mile or two in advance of this company was the Fourth Alabama Regiment, numbering eight hundred men. The regiment, on its arrival at Newtown, a small village six miles from Winchester, was provided by the citizens with a sumptuous dinner. Then the "Dare-devils" were likewise entertained; but still the supplies and hospitality of the people were not exhausted, as the battery, on its arrival, was served with a bountiful meal.

When the battery reached Winchester their two small guns were stored for the night in a warehouse, and the men lodged and entertained in private houses. On the following day the company went by rail to Harper's Ferry, arriving there after dark. The place was then under command of Col. T. J. Jackson, who was soon after superseded by Gen. Joseph E. Johnston. The trains over the B. & O. Railroad were still running. Evidences of the John Brown raid were plainly visible, and the engine-house in which he and his men barricaded themselves and were captured by the marines, commanded by Col. R. E. Lee, of the United States Army, stood as at the close of that affair.

One or both sections of the battery were often engaged in picket service along the Potomac between Shepherdstown and Williamsport, in connection with the Second Virginia Regiment, which was composed of men from the adjoining counties. Their camps and bivouacs were constantly visited by the neighboring people, especially ladies, who came by the score in carriages and otherwise, provided with abundant refreshments for the inner man. As described by those who participated in it all, the days passed as a series of military picnics, in which there was no suspicion or suggestion of the serious times that were to follow. During the progress of the war, while these outward demonstrations, of necessity, diminished, the devotion on the part of the grand women of that war-swept region only increased.

I have not undertaken to describe scenes or relate incidents which transpired in the battery before I became a member of it. But there is one scene which was often referred to by those who witnessed it which is worthy of mention. It occurred in the fall of 1861, near Centerville, when a portion of the army, under Gen. Joe Johnston, was returning from the front, where an attack had been threatened, and was passing along the highway. A full moon was shining in its splendor, lighting up the rows of stacked arms, parks of artillery, and the white tents which dotted the plain on either side. As column after column, with bands playing and bayonets glistening, passed, as it were, in review, there came, in its turn, the First Maryland Regiment headed by its drum corps of thirty drums rolling in martial time. Next came the First Virginia Regiment with its superb band playing the "Mocking-Bird," the shrill strains of the cornet, high above the volume of the music, pouring forth in exquisite clearness the notes of the bird. Scarcely had this melody passed out of hearing when there came marching by, in gallant style, the four batteries of the Washington Artillery, of New Orleans, with officers on horseback and cannoneers mounted on the guns and caissons, all with sabers waving in cadence to the sound of their voices, singing, in its native French, "The Marseillaise," that grandest of all national airs.

The younger generation cannot comprehend, and express surprise that the old soldiers never forget and are so wrought up by the recollections of their war experiences; but to have participated in a scene such as this will readily explain why a soul should thrill at its recurring mention.

In 1883, nearly twenty years after the war, I was called to Cumberland, Maryland, on business. By reason of a reunion of the Army of the Cumberland being held there at the time, the hotels were crowded, making it necessary for me to find accommodations in a boarding-house. Sitting around the front door of the house, as I entered, were half a dozen Federal soldiers discussing war-times. The window of the room to which I was assigned opened immediately over where the men sat, and as I lay in bed I heard them recount their experiences in battle after battle in which I had taken part. It stirred me greatly. Next morning they had gone out when I went down to breakfast, but I told the lady of the house of my interest in their talk of the previous night. At noon the same party was sitting in the hall, having finished their dinners, as I passed through to mine. They greeted me cordially and said, "We heard of what you said about overhearing us last night; take a seat and let's discuss old times." My answer was, "I have met you gentlemen already on too many battlefields with an empty stomach, so wait till I get my dinner." With a hearty laugh this was approved of, and I joined them soon after. Most of them were from Ohio and West Virginia. They said, though, as I was but one against six, to say what I pleased; and for an hour or more we discussed, good-humoredly, many scenes of mutual interest.

* * * * *

The following lines are recalled from Merrick's songs:

"Och hone, by the man in the moon! You taze me all ways that a woman can plaze; For you dance twice as high with that thief, Pat McGhee, As you do when you're dancing a jig, Love, with me; Though the piper I'd bate, for fear the old chate Wouldn't play you your favorite chune.

"Och hone, don't provoke me to do it, For there are girls by the score That would have me and more. Sure there's Katy Nale, that would jump if I'd say, 'Katy Nale, name the day.' And though you are fresh and fair as the flowers in May, And she's short and dark as a cowld winter's day, If you don't repent before Easter, when Lent Is over, I'll marry for spite."

SAINT PATRICK

"A fig for St. Denis of France! He's a trumpery fellow to brag on. A fig for St. George and his lance! Who splitted a heathenish dragon. The saints of the Welshman and Scot Are a pair of pitiful pipers, Both of whom may just travel to pot, Compared with the patron of swipers— St. Patrick of Ireland, my boy!

"Och! he came to the Emerald Isle On a lump of a paving-stone mounted; The steamboat he beat by a mile, Which mighty good sailing was counted. Said he, 'The salt-water, I think, Makes me most bloodily thirsty, So fetch me a flagon of drink To wash down the mullygrubs, burst ye! A drink that is fit for a saint.'

"The pewter he lifted in sport, And, believe me, I tell you no fable, A gallon he drank from the quart And planted it down on the table. 'A miracle!' every one cried, And they all took a pull at the stingo. They were capital hands at the trade, And they drank till they fell; yet, by jingo! The pot still frothed over the brim.

"'Next day,' quoth his host, 'is a fast And there is naught in my larder but mutton. On Friday who would serve such repast, Except an unchristianlike glutton?' Says Pat, 'Cease your nonsense, I beg; What you tell me is nothing but gammon. Take my compliments down to the leg And bid it walk hither, a salmon.' The leg most politely complied.

"Oh! I suppose you have heard, long ago, How the snakes, in a manner quite antic, He marched from the County Mayo And trundled them into the Atlantic. So not to use water for drink, The people of Ireland determined. And for a mighty good reason, I think, Since St. Patrick has filled it with vermin And vipers and other such stuff.

* * * * *

"The people, with wonderment struck At a pastor so pious and civil, Cried, 'We are for you, my old buck! And we'll pitch our blind gods to the devil Who dwells in hot water below.'

"Och! he was an iligant blade As you'd meet from Fairhead to Killkrumper, And, though under the sod he is laid, Here goes his health in a bumper! I wish he was here, that my glass He might, by art-magic, replenish— But as he is not, why, alas! My ditty must come to a finish, Because all the liquor is out."

* * * * *

THE SECOND ROCKBRIDGE ARTILLERY

The second Rockbridge Artillery Company, organized July 10, 1861, like the first Rockbridge Artillery, was commanded by a clergyman, the Rev. John Miller, of Princeton, New Jersey, as captain. In honor of his wife's sister, Miss Lily McDowell, daughter of Governor McDowell, of Virginia, who furnished in large part the outfit of this company, it was named "McDowell Guards." She also paid a bounty to a youth under military age to serve as her personal representative in this company. Miss McDowell afterward became the wife of Major Bernard Wolfe, whose service with the Rockbridge Battery has been mentioned.

Owing to lack of artillery equipment, the McDowell Guards served as infantry until January, 1862, in the Fifty-second Virginia Regiment, in West Virginia. I heard Captain Miller relate this anecdote, which occurred in the battle of Alleghany Mountain, December 12, 1861: A boy in his company was having a regular duel with a Federal infantryman, whose shots several times passed close to the boy's head. Finally, when a bullet knocked his hat off, he defiantly called out to his adversary, "Hey! You didn't git me that time, nuther. You didn't git me nary a time!"

In the early part of 1862 the McDowell Guards secured artillery and did excellent service in McIntosh's battalion of A. P. Hill's corps until the close of the war.



CHAPTER XXVII

OAKLAND—RETURN TO CAMP—OFF DUTY AGAIN—THE RACE FROM NEW MARKET TO FORT GILMORE—ATTACK ON FORT HARRISON—WINTER-QUARTERS ON THE LINES—VISITS TO RICHMOND

The desolation and dejection of the people of Lexington hastened my departure, but before returning to the army I spent two weeks most delightfully at "Oakland," the hospitable home of Mrs. Cocke, in Cumberland County, Virginia. This was the last opportunity I had of enjoying the "old plantation life," the like of which can never again be experienced. It was an ideal life, the comforts and advantages of which only those who followed it could appreciate. Two of Mrs. Cocke's sons, who had passed many years at school and college in Lexington, were at home—one on sick-leave; the other, still a youth, equipping himself for the cavalry service, which he soon entered. William, the eldest son, had been killed at Gettysburg and his body never recovered.

Every day at twelve o'clock sharp delicious watermelons were brought from the icehouse to the shade of the stately oaks which adorned the spacious lawn; then, two hours later, after a sumptuous dinner, a small darky brought from the kitchen a shovel of coals (matches were not a Southern product) to light our pipes. So the time passed. It was to this hospitable home that General Lee retired with his family immediately after Appomattox, and was living on this estate when he accepted the presidency of Washington College.



My wounds being now sufficiently, or rather temporarily, healed, I embarked about bedtime at Cartersville on the canal packet boat. On my way to a berth in the cabin I noticed, by the dim light, a striking-looking man clad in white lying in his berth. On the deck of the boat were a score or more of negroes, male and female, singing so boisterously that the other passengers could not sleep. Such conduct at this time was felt to be significant, and the more so as the officers of the boat refrained from interfering. Without intimation there was a leap from my neighboring bunk, a hurried scramble up the stairway, followed by a volley of—secular language, with a demand for instantaneous choice between "dead silence and dead niggers." Thenceforward stillness prevailed, broken at intervals when the plaintive windings of the packet horn, rising and falling with the motion of the tandem team, heralded our approach to a lock. Who that ever boarded that ancient craft, or dwelt within its sound, will cease to recall the associations awakened by the voice of the old packet horn?

Next morning I recognized my fellow-countyman, Bob Greenlee, of the First Virginia Cavalry, as the man whose eloquence had terrorized the negroes. Greenlee has been aptly styled "a rare bird," and the accounts he gave of experiences during his sick-leave, from which he was now returning, were as good as "David Harum."

I found the battery stationed at New Market, on the north side of the James, near Dutch Gap. During my absence it had suffered the only serious loss of the kind it had experienced during the war—the capture of all four of its twenty-pound Parrott guns at Deep Bottom. The horses, as usual, had been taken to the rear for safety. The infantry support had been out-flanked, leaving our guns almost surrounded, so that the cannoneers escaped with difficulty—only one of them, Andrew Darnall, being captured.

The ranks of the company had been considerably depleted by chills and fever, so prevalent in that swampy region, and one death had occurred—that of John Gibbs, a most excellent soldier. Less than a week's sojourn was sufficient to poison my blood and reopen an old wound received two years before. I was sent to Richmond, but twenty-four hours' experience in a hospital among the sick, the wounded, and the dying induced me to get a discharge and work my way, by hook and crook, back to Oakland, where I underwent a severe visitation of chills and fever. This, however, was soon broken up by quinine, and I again rejoined the battery.

The summer now drawing to a close had been a most trying one, and the future offered no sign of relief. The situation was one of simply waiting to be overwhelmed. That the fighting spirit was unimpaired was demonstrated in every encounter, notably the one on July 30, at The Crater, near Petersburg.

During the night of September 28 there was heard the continued rumbling of wheels and the tramp of large forces of the enemy crossing on the pontoon bridges from the south to the north side of the James. At dawn next morning we hurriedly broke camp, as did Gary's brigade of cavalry camped close by, and scarcely had time to reach high ground and unlimber before we were attacked. The big gaps in our lines, entirely undefended, were soon penetrated, and the contest quickly became one of speed to reach the shorter line of fortifications some five miles nearer to and in sight of Richmond. The break through our lines was on our right, which placed the Federals almost in our rear, so that a detour of several miles on our part was necessary. On the principle that the chased dog is generally the fleetest, we succeeded in reaching the breastworks, a short distance to the left of Fort Gilmore, with all four guns, now ten-pound Parrotts, followed by the straggling cannoneers much exhausted. I vividly recall George Ginger, who was No. 1 at one of the guns, as he came trotting in with the gun-rammer on his shoulder, which he had carried five miles through brush and brake for want of time to replace it on the gun-carriage.

Much has been written about the defense of Fort Gilmore, and much controversy as to who deserved the credit. The fact that a superb fight was made was fully apparent when we entered the fort an hour later, while the negroes who made the attack were still firing from behind stumps and depressions in the cornfield in front, to which our artillery replied with little effect. The Fort was occupied by about sixty men who, I understood, were Mississippians. The ditch in front was eight or ten feet deep and as many in width. Into it, urged on by white officers, the negroes leaped, and to scale the embankment on the Fort side climbed on each other's shoulders, and were instantly shot down as their heads appeared above it. The ground beyond was strewn with dead and wounded. A full regiment had preceded us into the Fort, but the charge on it had been repulsed by the small force before its arrival.

Next morning we counted twenty-three dead negroes in the ditch, the wounded and prisoners having previously been removed. There was great lamentation among them when "Corporal Dick" fell. He was a conspicuous leader, jet black, and bald as a badger. A mile to the right of Fort Gilmore and one-fourth of a mile in advance of our line of breastworks was Fort Harrison, which was feebly garrisoned by reserves. This force had been overpowered and the Fort taken by the Federals. Two days later, and after it had been completely manned with infantry and artillery, an unsuccessful attempt was made to recapture it, of which we had a full view. The attack was made by Colquitt's and Anderson's brigades, while General Lee stood on the parapet of Fort Gilmore with field-glass in hand, waving his hat and cheering lustily. Of course our loss in killed, wounded, and captured was very heavy. This ended the fighting, except sharpshooting, on the north side of the James.

During our stay in Fort Gilmore a company of Reserves from Richmond took the place of the regular infantry. They were venerable-looking old gentlemen—lawyers, business men, etc., dressed in citizens' clothes. In order to accustom them to the service, we supposed, they were frequently roused during the night to prepare for battle. After several repetitions of this they concluded, about two o'clock one night, that it was useless to retire again and go through the same performance, so a party of them kindled a fire and good-humoredly sat around in conversation on various subjects, one of which was infant baptism. My bedfellow, Tom Williamson, a bachelor under twenty years of age, being deeply interested in this question, of paramount importance at this time, forthwith left his bunk, and from that time until daylight theology was in the air.

Our battery changed from the Fort to a position one-fourth of a mile to the left of it, the two sections being placed a hundred yards apart, where we remained until March.

It seems remarkable even now, after a lapse of over forty years, that under such conditions and without the slightest reasonable hope of ultimate success we could have passed six months, including a severe winter, not only moderately comfortable, but ofttimes with real pleasure. Huts and hovels of as varied architecture as the scarcity of material at our disposal could be shaped into, rose above or descended below the ground. The best shelters were built of pine logs six or eight inches in diameter, split in half, with the bark-side out. From a swamp a quarter of a mile in the rear, in which the trees had been previously felled for military operations, we carried our fuel. Several hundred negroes had been impressed, in neighboring counties within Confederate lines, to work on the adjacent fortifications, which, by their industry, soon became very strong. In our immediate front, manning the Federal works, were negro troops whose voices could be distinctly heard in darky songs and speech, and their camp-fires were in full view.

It was at this time that General Early was distinguishing himself in the Shenandoah Valley with repeated defeats in battle, the first news of which reached us in a peculiar way; that is, when the news reached Grant's lines a shotted salute in celebration was fired at us, thus "killing two birds with one stone." These volleys of shot and shell produced consternation among the negroes working on our fortifications. Panic-stricken, they would break for the rear, casting aside picks, shovels, or anything that retarded speed; and to get them and their scattered tools gathered up after such a stampede required several days. I was requested, by a negro who had just experienced one of these escapades, to write a letter for him to his home people. He dictated as follows:

* * * * *

"My dear Wife: I take this opportunity of taking you down a few words and telling you of the terrible bumming we was under yesterday. The shells fell fast as hail and lightened as from a cloud, and we had a smart run. Give my love to Mammy and tell her how we is sufferin' for somethin' to eat."

* * * * *

Then followed some other pieces of news; then love to various kinsmen, with a message to each of how they were "sufferin' for somethin' to eat."

The space between the two sections of our battery was occupied by infantry. I particularly remember the Nineteenth Georgia Regiment, a game body of men, whose excellent band furnished us fine music. It was ordered, during the winter, to North Carolina and lost—killed in battle soon after—its colonel and adjutant, Neil and Turner. A mile in rear of our lines stood a church, a substantial frame building, which, for want of better use, was converted into a theater. As in the recent drafting every department of life had been invaded, a very respectable element of a histrionic turn was to be found in the ranks. The stage scenery, as one would imagine, was not gaudy and, of course, did not afford equipment for high art in the strict sense; but the doleful conditions of home life now in vogue in the South and the desperate straits for food and existence in camp afforded a fund of amusement to those of us who were inclined to pluck sport from hopeless conditions.