But can I stand the day of battle? Have I not argued myself into a less readiness to kill? Will these thoughts or fancies—coming to me I know not whence, and bringing to me a mental disturbance incomprehensible and unique—comfort me in the hour of danger? Will not my conscience force me to be a coward? Yet cowardice is worse than death.

I could not sleep; I was farther from sleep than ever. I rose, and walked through long lines of sleeping men—men who on the morrow might be still more soundly sleeping.

Captain Haskell was standing alone, leaning against the parapet. I approached. He spoke kindly, "Jones, you should be asleep."

"Captain," I said; "I have tried for hours to sleep, but cannot."

"Let us sit down," said he; "and we will talk it over by ourselves."

His tone was unofficial. The Captain, reserved in his conduct toward the men, seldom spoke to one of them except concerning duties, yet he was very sympathetic in personal matters, and in private talk was more courteous and kind toward a private than toward an equal. I understood well enough that it was through sympathy that he had invited me to unburden.

"Captain," I said, "I fear."

"May I ask what it is that you fear?"

"I fear that I am a coward."

"Pardon me for doubting. Why should you suppose so?"

"I have never been tried, and I dread the test."

"But," said he; "you must have forgotten. You were in a close place when you were hurt. No coward would have been where you were, if the truth has been told."

"That was not I; I am now another man."

"Allow me again to ask what it is that you seem to dread."

"Proving a coward," I replied.

"You fear that you will fear?" said he.

"That is exactly it."

"Then, my friend, what you fear is not danger, but fear."

"I fear that danger will make me fear."

"I imagine, sir, that danger makes anybody fear—at least anybody who has something more than the mere fearlessness of the brute that cannot realize danger."

"Do you fear, too, Captain?"

The Captain hesitated, and I was abashed at my boldness. I knew that his silence was rebuke.

"I will tell you how I feel, Jones, since you permit me to speak of myself," he said at last; "I feel that life is valuable, and not to be thrown away lightly. I want to live and not die; neither do I like the thought of being maimed for life. Death and wounds are very distasteful to me. I feel that my body is averse to exposing itself to pain; I fear pain; I fear death, but I do not fear fear. I do not think the fear of death is unmanly, for it is human. Those who do not fear death do not love life. Please tell me if you love life."

"I do not know, Captain; I suppose I do."

"Do you fear death?"

"What I fear now is cowardice. I suppose that if I were indifferent to death I should have no fear of being afraid."

"I am sure that you kept your presence of mind the other day, in the swamp," said he.

"I don't think I had great fear."

"Yet you were in danger there."

"Very little, I think, Captain."

"No, sir; you were in danger. At any moment a bullet might have ended your life."

"I did not realize the situation, then."

"Well, I must confess that you had the advantage of me, then," said he.

"What? You, Captain? You felt that you were in danger?"

"Yes, Jones; every moment I knew our danger."

"But you did not fear."

"May I ask if you do not regard fear as the feeling caused by a knowledge of danger?"

"I know, Captain,—I don't know how I know it,—but I know that a man may fear and yet do his duty; but there are other men, and I am afraid that I am one of them, who fear and who fail in duty."

"I congratulate you, sir; I wish all our men would fear to fail in duty," said he; "we should have an invincible army in such case. An army consisting, without exception, of such men, could not be broken. It is those who flee, those who fail in duty, that cause disorganization. The touch of the elbow is good for the weak, I think, sir; but for the man who will do his duty such dependence should not be taught. Good men, instructed to depend on comrades will be demoralized when comrades forsake them. Our method of battle ought to be changed. Our ranks should be more open. Many reasons might be urged for that change, but the one we are now considering is enough. The close line makes good men depend on weak men; when the weak fail, the strong feel a loss which is not really a loss but rather an advantage, if they could but see it so. Every man in the army ought to be taught to do his whole duty regardless of what others do. Those who cannot be so taught ought not to fight, sir; there are other duties more suited to them."

"And I fear that my case is just such a one," I said.

"There is fear and fear," said he; "how would you like for me to test you now?"

"To test me?"

"Yes; I can make you a proposition that will test your courage." His voice had become stern.

I hesitated. What was he going to do? I could not imagine. But I felt that to reject his offer would be to accept fully the position into which my fears were working to thrust me.

"Do it, Captain," said I; "make it. I want to be relieved of this suspense."

"No matter what danger you run? Is danger better than suspense concerning danger?"

I reflected again. At last I brought up all my nerve and replied, "Yes, Captain, danger is better than fear."

"Why did you hesitate? Was it through fear?"

"Yes," said I; "but not entirely through fear; I doubted that I had the right to incur danger uselessly."

"And how did you settle that?"

"I settle that by trusting to you, Captain."

He laughed; then he said: "The test that I shall give you may depress you, but I am sure that you are going to be as good a soldier as Company H can boast of having. Lieutenant Rhett, only yesterday, remarked that you were the best-drilled man in the company, and showed astonishment that a raw recruit, in less than two weeks, should gain such a standing. I thought it advisable to say to him that your education had included some military training, and he was satisfied." The Captain had dropped his official manner. "It is clear to me, Jones, that you are more nearly a veteran than any of us. I know that you have been in danger and have been wounded, and your uniform, which you were wearing then, showed signs of the very hardest service. I have little doubt, sir, that you have already seen battle more than once."

"But, Captain, all that may be true and yet do me no good at all. I am a different man."

"Since you allow me to enter into your confidence,—which I appreciate,—I beg to say that your fears are not unnatural; I think every man in the company has them. And I dare say, as a friend, that you feel fear more sensitively because you live in the subjective; you feel thrown back on yourself. Confess that you are exclusive."

"I am forced to be so, Captain."

"The men would welcome your companionship, sir."

"Yes, sir; but it is as you say: I feel thrown back on myself."

"And I think—though, of course I would not pretend to say it positively—that is why your fears are not unnatural, though peculiar; I fancy that you heighten them by your self-concentration. The world and objects in it divert other men, while your attention is upon your own feelings. Pardon me for saying that you think of little except yourself. This new old experience of battle and peril you apply without dilution to your soul, and you wonder what the effect will be. The other men think of other men, and of home, and of a thousand things. You will be all right in battle. I predict that the excitement of battle will be good for you, sir; it will force you out of yourself."

"I have tried lately to take more interest in the world of other men and other things," I said.

"Yes; I was glad to see you playing marbles to-day. Shall I give you that test?"

"Yes, sir; if you please."

"I think, however, that you have already given proof that you do not need it," said he.

"How so, Captain?"

"Why, we've been talking here for ten minutes since I proposed to test you, and you have shown no suspense whatever in regard to it. Have you lost interest in it?"

"Not at all, Captain; I have only been waiting your good time."

"And therein you have shown fortitude, which may differ from courage, but I do not think it does. I am confident you will at once reject my proposition. I don't know that I ought to make it; but, having begun, I'll finish. What I propose is this: I will assign you some special duty that will keep you out of battle—such as guarding the baggage, or other duty in the rear."

I was silent. An instant more, and I felt hurt.

"Why do you hesitate?"

"Because I did not think—" I stopped in time.

"I know, I know," said he, hastily; "and you must pardon me; but did you not urge me on?"

"I confess it, Captain; and you have done me good."

"Of course, Jones, you know that I did not expect you to accept my offer, which, after all, was merely imaginary. Now, can you not see that what you fear is men's opinions rather than danger? You are not intimidated at the prospect of battle."

"I fear that I shall be," said I.

"And yet, when I propose to keep you out of battle, your indignation seems no less natural to yourself than it does to me."

"Is not that in keeping with what I have said about my fears?"

"Oblige me by explaining."

"I fear to show you my fear. Do I not refuse your offer for the purpose of concealing my fear?"

"And to conceal your imaginary fears, you accept the possibility—the strong possibility—of death," said he, gravely.

"Yes," I replied; "I do now, while death seems far, but what I shall do when it is near is not sure."

"You are very stubborn," said the Captain, in a stern voice, assuming again the relation of an officer.

"I do not mean it that way, Captain."

"You have determined to consider yourself a coward, or at least to cherish fear; and no suggestion I can make seems to touch you."

"I wish I could banish fear," said I.

"Well, sir, determine to do it. Instead of exerting your will to make yourself miserable, use it for a better purpose."

"How can a man will? How can he know that his resolution will not weaken in the time of trial?"

"It is by willing to do what comes next that a man can again will and will more. Can you not determine that you will do what you are ordered to do? Doubtless we shall march, to-morrow; have you not decided that you will march with us?"

"I had not thought of so simple a thing. Of course, Captain, I expect to march."

"And if the march brings us upon the battlefield, do you not know that you will march to the battlefield?"

"I expect to go into battle, of course, Captain. If I did not, I should have no fear of myself."

"Have as great fear of yourself as you wish. Do you intend to run away when we get into battle?"

"I have no such intention; but when the time comes, I may not be able to have any intention at all."

"At what point in the action do you expect to weaken?"

"How can I have any expectation at all? I am simply untried, and fear the test."

"You can determine that you will act the man," said he. Then, kindly: "I have no fears that you will do otherwise, but"—and here his voice again became stern—"the determination will rid you of your present fears. Exert your will, and this nightmare will go."

"Can a man will to do an unknown thing in the future?"

"You can. You can drive away your present fear of yourself, at the very least."

"How can I do it, Captain?"

"I shall give you one more test."

"Do anything you wish, Captain; only don't propose anything that would confirm my fear."

"Look at me—now. I am going to count three—understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"When I say 'three,' you will determine to continue in your present state of mind—"

"No, no, Captain; I can't do that!"

"Why, you've been doing nothing else for the last hour, man! But allow me to finish. You are going to determine to remain as you are, or you will determine to conquer your fears. Now, reflect before I begin."

There was a pause.

"Ready!" said the Captain; "hold your teeth together. When I say three, you act—and act for life or death—ONE—TWO—"

If he ever said three, I did not hear it; at the word "two" all my fears were gone.

"Well, my friend, how is it now?" he asked gently, even hesitatingly.

"Captain," said; "I am your grateful servant. I shall do my duty."

"I knew, sir, that your will was only sleeping; you must excuse me for employing a disagreeable device in order to arouse it. If I may make a suggestion, I would now beg, while you are in the vein, that you will encourage henceforth, the companionship of the men."

"It will be a pleasure to do so, hereafter, Captain."

"And I am delighted with this little episode, sir," said he; "I am sincerely glad that the thought of confiding in me presented itself to your mind, since the result seems so wholesome."

"Good night, Captain," said I.

But he did not let me leave without thus having reasserted his character as my commander.

"Go back and get all the sleep you can; you will have need for all your physical strength to-morrow—and after."

I was almost happy.



XXV

IN THE GREAT BATTLE

"If I should tell thee o'er this thy day's work, Thou'lt not believe thy deeds; but I'll report it." —SHAKESPEARE.

It is said that a word may change a life. Actually? No, not of itself; the life which is changed must be ready for the word, else we were creatures dominated by our surroundings.

I had been a fragment,—a sort of moral flotsam cast up by an unknown sea,—and I had found a rude harbour in Company H. If I touched a larger world, it was only through the medium of the company in its relations to that world. I had formed some attachments,—ties which have lasted through life thus far, and will always last,—but these attachments were immediate only, and, so far as I felt, were almost baseless; for not directly could I see and feel what was felt by the men I loved. Outside the narrow bounds of the company my world was all abstract. I fought for that world, for it appealed to my reason; but it was with effort that I called before my mind that world, which was a very present help to every other man. The one great fact was war; the world was an ideal world rather than a reality. And I frequently felt that, although the ideal after all is the only reality, yet that reality to me must be lacking in the varying quality of light, and the delicate degrees of sweetness and truth which home and friends and all the material good of earth were said to assume for charming their possessors. The day brought me into contact with men; the night left me alone with myself. In my presence men spoke of homes far away, of mothers, of sisters, of wives and children. I could see how deep was the interest which moved them to speak, and, in a measure, they had my sympathy; yet such interest was mystery rather than fact, theoretical rather than practical. I could fill these pages with pathetic and humorous sayings heard in the camps, for my memory peculiarly exerted itself to retain—or rather, I should say, spontaneously retained—what I saw and heard; saw and heard with the least emotion, perhaps, ever experienced by a soldier. Absorbed in reflections on what I heard, and in fancies of a world of which I knew so little, it is not to be doubted that I constructed ideals far beyond the humdrum reality of home life, impracticable ideals that tended only to separate me more from other men. Their world was not my world; this I knew full well, and I sometimes thought they knew it; for while no rude treatment marked their intercourse with me, yet few sought me as a friend. My weak attempts to become companionable had failed and had left me more morose. But for the Captain and for Joe Bellot, I should have been hopeless.

Such had been my feelings before I had willed; now, in a degree, everything was changed; indifference, at least, was gone, and although I was yet subject to the strange experience which ruled my mind and hindered it, yet I knew that I had large power over myself, and I hoped that I should always determine to live the life of a healthy human being, that I should be able to accept the relationships which, through Company H, bound me to all men and all things, and that my interest henceforth would be diversified—touching the world and what is in it rather than myself alone. But this was mere hope; the only certain change was in the banishment of my former indifference.

* * * * *

The morning of Thursday, the 26th of June, passed away, and we yet held our place in the line. At two o'clock the long roll was heard in every regiment. Our knapsacks had been piled, to be stored in Richmond.

"Fall in, Company H! Fall in, men! Fall in promptly!" shouted Orderly-sergeant Mackay.

By fours we went to rear and left, then northward at a rapid stride. Some of the men tried to jest, and failed.

At three o'clock we were crossing Meadow Bridge; we could see before us and behind us long lines of infantry—Lee's left wing in motion.

Beyond the bridge the column filed right; A.P. Hill came riding back along the line of the Light Division.

Suddenly, from over the hills a mile and more away, comes the roar of cannon. We leave the road and march through fields and meadows; the passing of the troops ahead has cleared the way; we go through gaps in rail fences.

And now we hear the crash of small arms, and smoke is rising from our left oblique. We are yet under the hill. We halt and wait. The noise of battle grows. Sunset comes—we move. The next company on our right is passing through a gap in a fence. A shell strikes the topmost rail at the left and hurls it clear over their heads. Then I see men pale, and I know that my own face is white.

Shells fly over us. We lie down on the slope of a hill which rises to our left, and darkness grows, and the noises cease. No breaking of ranks for rest or for water; the long night through we lie on our arms.

Morning comes; we have no water; the men eat their rations dry. At sunrise the march is again begun, through fields and woods and down country roads; we go southeast.

The Yankees have gone. At nine o'clock we halt; a field. Company C, the right of the regiment; is thrown forward as skirmishers.

Again we march; again we halt, the brigade in line of battle. An orderly comes to Captain Haskell.

"Company H! ATTENTION!"

Every man is in his place—alert.

"Forward—MARCH!"

"By the right flank—MARCH!"

"HALT!—FRONT!"

"Company—as skirmishers—on the right file—take intervals—double-quick—MARCH!"

I did not have very far to go. The company was deployed on the left of Company C. Then we went forward in line for half a mile or more, through woods and fields, the brigade following in line of battle.

About eleven o'clock we had before us an extensive piece of open land—uncultivated, level, and dry. In the edge of the woods we had halted, so that we might not get too far ahead of the brigade. From this position we saw—some six hundred yards at our left oblique—a group of horsemen ride out into the field, seemingly upon a road, or line, that would intersect our line of advance. Our men were at once in place. The distance was too great to tell the uniforms of the party of horsemen; but, of course, they could be only Yankees.

Captain Haskell ordered Dave Bellot to step out of the line. The horsemen had halted; they were a small party, not more than fifteen or twenty. Captain Haskell ordered Bellot to take good aim at the most eligible one of the group, and fire.

Bellot knelt on one knee, raised his sight, put his rifle to his shoulder, and lowered it again. "Captain," said he, "I am afraid to fire; they may be our men."

The Captain made no reply; he seemed to hesitate; then he put his handkerchief on the point of his sword and walked forward. A horseman advanced to meet him. Captain Haskell returned to Company H, and said, "They are General Jackson and his staff."

Again we went forward. Prom the brow of a hill we could see tents—a camp, a Yankee camp—on the next hill, and we could see a few men running away from it. We reached the camp. It had been abandoned hurriedly. Our men did not keep their lines perfectly; they were curious to see what was in the tents. Suddenly the cracking of rifles was heard, and the singing of bullets, and the voice of Captain Haskell commanding, "Lie down!"

Each man found what shelter was nearest. I was behind a tent. The Yankee skirmishers were just beyond a little valley, behind trees on the opposite hill, about two hundred yards from us. I could see them looking out from behind the trees and firing. I took good aim at one and pulled the trigger; his bullet came back at me; I loaded and fired; I saw him no more, but I could see the smoke shoot out from the side of the tree and hear his bullet sing. I thought that I ought to have hit him; I saw him again, and fired, and missed. Then I carefully considered the distance, and concluded that it was greater than I had first thought. I raised the sliding sight to three hundred yards, and fired again at the man, whom I could now see distinctly. A man dropped or leaped from the tree, and I saw him no more; neither did I see again the man behind the tree.

We had had losses. Veitch and Crawford had been shot fatally; other men slightly. The sun was shining hot upon us. The brigade was behind us, waiting for us to dislodge the skirmishers. Suddenly I heard Captain Haskell's voice ordering us forward at double-quick. We ran down the hill into the valley below; there we found a shallow creek with steep banks covered with briers. We beat down the briers with our guns, and scrambled through to the other side of the creek in time to see the Yankees run scattering through the woods and away. We reached their position and rested while the brigade found a crossing and formed again in our rear. I searched for a wounded man at the foot of a tree, but found none; yet I felt sure that I had fired over my man and had knocked another out from the tree above him.

We advanced again, and had a running fight for an hour or more. At length no Yankees were to be seen; doubtless they had completed the withdrawing of their outposts, and we were not to find them again until we should strike their main lines.

Now we advanced for a long distance; troops—no doubt Jackson's—could be seen at intervals marching rapidly on our left, marching forward and yet at a distance from our own line. We reached an elevated clearing, and halted. The brigade came up, and we returned to our position in the line of battle—on the left of the First. It was about three o'clock; to the right, far away, we could hear the pounding of artillery, while to the southeast, somewhere near the centre of Lee's lines, on the other side of the Chickahominy perhaps, the noise of battle rose and fell. Shells from our front came among us. A battery—Crenshaw's—galloped headlong into position on the right of the brigade, and began firing. The line of infantry hugged the ground.

Three hundred yards in front the surface sloped downward to a hollow; the slope and the hollow were covered with forest; what was on the hill beyond we could not see, but the Yankee batteries were there and at work. A caisson of Crenshaw's exploded. Troops were coming into line far to our right.

General Gregg ordered his brigade forward. We marched down the wooded slope, Crenshaw firing over our heads. We marched across the wooded hollow and began to ascend the slope of the opposite hill, still in the woods.

The advance through the trees had scattered the line; we halted and re-formed. The pattering of bullets amongst the leaves was distinct; shells shrieked over us; we lay down in line. Between the trunks of the trees we could see open ground in front; it was thick with men firing into us in the woods. Those in our front were Zouaves, with big, baggy, red breeches. We began to fire kneeling. Leaves fell from branches above us, and branches fell, cut down by artillery. Butler, of our company, lying at my right hand, gave a howl of pain; his head was bathed in blood. Lieutenant Rhett was dead. Rice, at my left, had found whiskey in the Yankee camp. He had drunk the whiskey. He raised himself, took long aim, and fired; lowered his gun, but not his body, gazing to see the effect, and yelled, "By God, I missed him!" McKenzie was shot. Lieutenant Barnwell was shot. The red-legged men were there and thicker. Our colour went down, and rose. We had gone into battle with two colours,—the blue regimental State flag, and the battle-flag of the Confederate infantry. Lieutenant-colonel Smith had fallen.

A lull came. I heard the shrill voice of Gregg:—

"Bri-ga-a-a-de—ATTENTION!"

"Fi-i-i-x—BAYONETS!"

"For-w-a-r-d—" and the next I knew men were dropping down all around me, and we were advancing. But only for a minute did we go forward. From front and left came a tempest of lead; again the colours—both—fell, and all the colour-guard. The colonel raised the colours. We staggered and fell back; the retreat through the woods became disorder.

On top of our hill I could see but few men whom I knew,—only six, but one of the six was Haskell. The enemy had not advanced, but shell and shot yet raked the hill. Crenshaw's battery was again in full action. We hunted our regiment and failed to find it. Some regiment—the Thirtieth North Carolina—was advancing on our right. Captain Haskell and his six men joined this regiment, placing themselves on its left. The Thirtieth went forward through the woods—reached the open—and charged.

The regiment charged boldly; forward straight it went, no man seeing whither, every man with his mouth stretched wide and his voice at its worst.

Suddenly, down to the ground fell every man; the line had found a sunken road, and the temptation was too great—down into the friendly road we fell, and lay with bodies flat and faces in the dust.

The officers waved their swords; they threatened the men; the men calmly looked at their officers.

A man on a great horse rode up and down the line urging, gesticulating. He got near to Haskell—

"Who are you?" shouted our Captain.

"Captain Blount—quartermaster fourth North Carolina."

"We will follow you!" shouted Haskell.

Blount rode on his great horse—he rode to the centre of the Thirtieth—he stooped; he seized the colour—he lifted the battle-flag high in the air—he turned his great horse—he rode up the hill.

Then those men lying in the sunken road sprang to their feet, and followed their flag fluttering in front, and made the world hideous with yells.

And the red flag went down—and Blount was dead—and the great horse was lying on his side and kicking the air—and the hill was gained.

The Thirtieth was disorganized by its advance. Another North Carolina regiment came from the right rear. Haskell and his six were yet unbroken; they joined the advancing regiment, keeping on its left, and charged with it for another position. Believe it or not, the same thing recurred; the regiment charged well; from the smoke in front death came out upon it fast; a sunken road was to be crossed, and was not crossed; down the men all went to save their lives.

And the officers waved their swords, and the men remained in the road.

Now the Captain called the six, and ran to the centre of the regiment; he snatched the flag and rushed forward up the slope—he looked not back, but forward.

The six were on the slope—the Captain was farthest forward—one of the six fell—in falling his face was turned back—he saw that the regiment was yet in the sunken road, and he shouted to his Captain and told him that the regiment did not follow.

The Captain came back, and said tenderly, "Ah! Jones? What did I tell you? Are you hurt badly? I will send for you."

Then the Captain and five turned away to the right, for the flag would not be taken back to the regiment lying down.

On an open hill between the two battling hosts I was lying. The bullets and shells came from front and rear. The blue men came on—and the others went back awhile. I fired at the blue men, and tried to load, but could not. I felt a great pain strike under my belt and was afraid to look, for I knew the part was mortal. But at length I exerted my will, and controlled my fear, and saw my trousers torn. My first wound had deadened my leg, but I felt no great pain—the leg was numb. The new blow was torture. I managed to take down my clothing, and saw a great blue-black spot on my groin. I was confused, and wondered where the bullet went, and perhaps became unconscious.

Darkness was coming, and Jones or Berwick, or whoever I was, yet lay on the hill. Now there were dead men and wounded men around me. Had a tide of war flowed over me while I slept? A voice feebly called for help, and I crawled to the voice, but could give no help except to cut a shoe from a crushed foot. The flashes of rifles could be seen,—the enemy's rifles,—they came nearer and nearer, and I felt doomed to capture.

Then from the rear a roar of voices, and in the gathering gloom a host of men swept over me, disorderly, but charging hard—- the last charge of Gaines's Mill.

"What troops are you?" I had strength to ask, and two replied:—

"Hood's brigade."

"The Hampton Legion."

* * * * *

Night had come. The great battle was won. Lights flashed and moved and disappeared over the hills and hollows of the field,—men with torches and lanterns; and names of regiments were shouted into the darkness by the searchers for wounded friends who replied, and for others who could not. At last I heard: "First South Carolina! First South Carolina!" and I gathered up my strength and cried, "Here!" Louis Bellot and two others came to me. They carried me tenderly away, but not far; still in the field of blood they laid me down on the hillside—and a night of horror passed slowly away.

* * * * *

The next morning, June 28th, they bore me on a stretcher back to the field hospital near Dr. Gaines's, just in rear of the battlefield. Our way was through scattered corpses. We passed by many Zouaves, lying stiff and stark; one I shall always call to mind: he was lying flat on his back, the soles of his feet firm on the ground, his knees drawn up to right angles above, and with his elbows planted on the grass, his fingers clinched the air. His open mouth grinned ghastly on us as we went by.

At the field hospital the dangerously wounded were so numerous that I was barely noticed; a brief examination; "flesh wound"—that was all. I had already found out that the bullet had passed entirely through the fleshy part of my thigh, and I had no fears; but the limb now gave me great pain, and I should have been glad to have it dressed. I was laid upon the ground under a tree and remained there until night, when I was put with others into an ambulance and taken to some station on some railroad—I have never known what station or what road. The journey was painful. I was in the upper story of the ambulance. We jolted over rough roads, halting frequently because the long train filled the road ahead. The men in the lower story were badly wounded, groaning, and begging for this or that. I did not know their voices; they were not of our company. But some time in the night I learned somehow—I suppose by his companion calling his name—that one of the men below me was named Virgil Harley. Harley? I thought—Virgil Harley? Why, I knew that name once! Surely I knew that name in South Carolina! And I would have spoken, but was made aware that Virgil Harley was wounded unto death. When we reached the railroad, I was taken out and lifted into a car, I asked about Virgil Harley. "He is dead," was the answer.

Then I felt more than ever alone because of this slightest opportunity, now lost forever. Virgil Harley might have been able to tell me of myself. He was dead. I had not even seen him. I had but heard his voice in groans that ended in the death-rattle.



XXVI

A BROKEN MUSKET

"What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time? If thou remember'st ought, ere thou cam'st here, How thou cam'st here, thou may'st."—SHAKESPEARE.

When the train of wounded arrived in Richmond, it was early morning. Many men and women had forsaken their beds to minister unto the needs of the suffering; delicacies were served bountifully, and hearts as well as stomachs were cheered; there were evidences of sympathy and honour on every hand.

Late in the forenoon I was taken to Byrd Island Hospital—an old tobacco factory now turned into something far different. My clothing was cut from me and taken away. Then my wound—full of dirt and even worms—was carefully dressed. The next morning the nurse brought me the contents of my pockets. She gave me, among the rest, a marble and a flattened musket-ball, which, she had found in the watch-pocket of my trousers. Now I recalled that I had put my "taw" in that pocket; the bullet had struck the marble, which had saved me from a serious if not fatal wound.

The ward in which I found myself contained perhaps a hundred wounded men, not one of whom I knew, though there were a few belonging to my regiment—other companies than mine. Acquaintance was quickly made, however, by men on adjoining cots; but no man, I think, was ever called by his name. He was Georgia, or Alabama,—his State, whatever that was. My neighbours called me, of course, South Carolina.

Many had fatal wounds; almost every morning showed a vacant cot. I remember that the man on the next cot at my left, whose name in ward vernacular was Alabama, had a story to tell. One morning I noticed that he was wearing a clean white homespun shirt on which were amazingly big blue buttons. I allowed myself to ask him why such buttons had been used. He replied that, a month before he had been on furlough at his home in Alabama, and that his mother had made him two new shirts, and had made use of the extraordinary objects which I now saw because they were all she had. He had told her jestingly that she was putting that big blue button on the middle of his breast to be a target for some Yankee; and, sure enough, the wound which had sent him to the hospital was a rifle shot that struck the middle button. I laughed, and Alabama laughed, too, but not long. He died.

For nearly two months I remained in this woful hospital. Life there was totally void of incident. After the first week, in which we learned of the further successes of the Confederate arms and of our final check at Malvern Hill, anxiety was no longer felt concerning Lee's army, now doing nothing more than watching McClellan, who had intrenched on the river below Richmond, under the protection of the Federal fleet. We learned with some degree of interest that another Federal army was organizing under General Pope somewhere near Warrenton; but Southern hopes were so high in consequence of the ruin of McClellan's campaign, and the manifest safety of Richmond, that the new army gave us no concern; of course I am speaking of the common soldiers amongst whom I found myself.

At the end of a fortnight my wound was beginning to heal a little, and in ten days more I began to hobble about the room on crutches. On the first day of August I was surprised to see Joe Bellot enter the ward. The brigade had marched into Richmond, and was about to take the cars for Gordonsville in order to join Jackson, who was making head against Pope. It was only a few minutes that Bellot could stay with me; he had to hurry back to the command.

Then I became restless. The surgeons told me that I could get a furlough; but what did I want with a furlough? To go home? My home was Company H.

I was limping about without crutches, and getting strong rapidly, when the papers told us of Jackson's encounter with Banks at Cedar Run. Then my feverish anxiety to see the one or two persons in the world whom I loved became intense. I walked into the surgeon's office, keeping myself straight, and asked an order remanding me to my company. He flatly refused to give it. Said he, "You would never reach your company; where is it, by the way?"

"Near Gordonsville, somewhere," said I.

"I will find out to-day; come to me to-morrow morning."

On the next day he said, "Your regiment is on the Rapidan. You would have to walk at least twenty miles from Gordonsville; it would be insane."

"Doctor," said I, "I am confident that I can march."

"Yes," said he; "so am I; you can march just about a mile and a half by getting somebody to tote your gun and knapsack. Come to me again in about a week."

I came to him four days afterward, and worried him into giving me my papers, by means of winch I got transportation to Gordonsville, where I arrived, in company with many soldiers returning to their commands, on August 22d. From Gordonsville I took the road north afoot. There was no difficulty in knowing the way, for there was no lack of men and wagons going and returning. I had filled a haversack with food before I left Richmond—enough for two days. My haversack, canteen, and a blanket were all my possessions.

At about two o'clock the next day, as I was plodding over a hot dusty road somewhere in Culpeper County, I met a wagon, which stopped as I approached. The teamster beckoned to me to come to him. He said: "Don't go up that hill yonder. There is a crazy man in the road and he's a-tryin' to shoot everybody he sees. Better go round him." I thanked the teamster, who drove on. At the foot of the ascending hill I looked ahead to see whether there was a way to get round it, but the road seemed better than any other way. Heavy clouds were rolling up from the south, with wind and thunder. A farmhouse was on the hill at the left of the road; I wanted to get there if possible before the rain. In the road I saw nobody. I walked up the hill, thinking that, after all, my friend the wagoner was playing a practical joke upon me. All at once, from the side of the road, a Confederate soldier showed himself. He sprang into the middle of the road some six paces in front of me, presented his gun at me with deliberate aim, and pulled the trigger without saying a word. Altogether it was a very odd performance on his part and an unpleasant experience for me. When his gun failed to fire, he changed his attitude at once, and began the second part of his programme. He dropped his piece to the position of ordered arms, kept himself erect as on dress-parade, raised his right hand high, and shouted, "The cannons! the cannons!"

I stood and looked at him ten seconds; then I tried to slip round him, keeping my eyes on him, however, for fear that his gun might, after all, be loaded; he faced me again, and repeated his cry, "The cannons! the cannons!"

The rain was beginning to fall in big drops. I rushed past him, and seeing—nearer to me than the house—some immense haystacks with overhanging projections resulting from continued invasion by cattle, I was soon under their sheltering eaves. As I ran, I could hear behind me the warning voice of the soldier, who evidently had lost his reason in battle.

* * * * *

As night fell on the 24th I was standing behind a tree, waiting to surprise Company H. I had reached the lines while they were moving; Hill's Light Division was passing me. Soon came General Gregg, riding at the head of his brigade; then one regiment after another till the last—the First—appeared in sight, with Company C leading. I remained behind the tree; at last I could see Captain Haskell marching by the side of Orderly-sergeant Mackay; then I stepped out and marched by the side of the Captain. At first, in the twilight, he did not know me; then, with a touch of gladness in his voice, he said: "I did not expect you back so soon. Are you fully recovered?"

"I report for duty, Captain," I replied.

He made me keep by his side until we halted for the night, and had me tell him my experiences in the hospital and on the road. He informed me briefly of the movements which had taken place recently. The regiment had been under fire in the battle with Banks, but had not suffered any loss. On this day—the 24th—the regiment had been under fire of the Federal artillery on the Rappahannock. We were now near the river at a place called Jeffersonton, and were apparently entering upon the first movements of an active campaign.

The company was much smaller than I had known it. We had lost in the battles of the Chickahominy many men and officers. Disease and hardship had further decreased our ranks. Captain Haskell was almost the only officer in the company. My mess had broken up. There were but four remaining of the original nine, and these four had found it more convenient for two men, or even one, to form a mess. I found a companion in Joe Bellot, whose brother had been wounded severely at Gaines's Mill. Bellot had a big quart cup in which we boiled soup, and coffee when we had any, or burnt-bread for coffee when the real stuff was lacking. Flour and bacon were issued to the men. We kneaded dough on an oilcloth, or gum-blanket as the Yankee prisoners called it, and baked the dough by spreading it on barrel-heads and propping them before the fire. When these boards were not to be had, we made the dough into long slender rolls, which, we twined about an iron ramrod and put before the fire on wooden forks stuck in the ground. My haversack of food brought from Richmond was exhausted; this night but one day's ration was issued.

* * * * *

On the next morning Jackson began his movement around Pope's right. I had no rifle, or cartridge-box, or knapsack, and managed so as to keep up. Being unarmed, I was allowed to march at will—in the ranks or not, as I chose. The company numbered thirty-one men. The day's march was something terrible. We went west, and northwest, and north, fording streams, taking short cuts across fields, hurrying on and on. No train of wagons delayed our march; our next rations must be won from the enemy. Jackson's rule in marching was two miles in fifty minutes, then ten minutes rest,—but this day there was no rule; we simply marched, and rested only when obstacles compelled a halt,—which loss must at once be made up by extra exertion. At night we went into bivouac near a village called Salem. We were now some ten or fifteen miles to the west of Pope's right flank.

There were no rations, and the men were broken and hungry. A detail from each company was ordered to gather the green ears from some fields of corn purchased for the use of the government. That night I committed the crime of eating eighteen of the ears half roasted.

At daylight on the 26th we again took up the march. I soon straggled. I was deathly sick. Captain Haskell tried to find a place for me in some ambulance, but failed. I went aside into thick woods and lay down; I slept, and when I awoke the sun was in mid-heaven, and Jackson's corps was ten miles ahead, but I was no longer ill. The troops had all passed me; there were no men on the road except a few stragglers like myself. I hurried forward through White Plains—then along a railroad through a gap in some mountains—then through Gainesville at dark—and at last, about ten o'clock at night, after questioning until I was almost in despair, I found Company H asleep in a clover field. Still no rations.

Before dawn of the 27th we were waked by the sound of musketry toward the east—seemingly more than two miles away. We moved at sunrise, and soon reached Manassas Junction, already held by our troops. Up to this time I had been unarmed, and all the men destitute of food; here now was an embarrassment of riches. I got a short Enfield rifle, marked for eleven hundred yards. Everything was in abundance except good water. The troops of Jackson and Ewell and Hill crammed their haversacks, and loaded themselves with whatever their fancies chose—ludicrous fancies in too many cases. Hams could be seen on bayonets. Comstock got a lot of smoking tobacco and held to it tenaciously, refusing to divide. Cans of vegetables, and sardines, and preserved fruits; coffee, sugar, tea, medicines—everything, even to women's wearing apparel, was taken or burnt. Our regiment lay by a muddy pool whose water we were forced to drink, though filth—even horses' bones—lay on its margin, and I know not what horrors beneath its green, slimy surface. Before daylight of the 28th we marched northward in the glare of the burning cars and camps. We crossed Bull Run on a bridge, some of the men fording; here we got better water, but not good water.

In the forenoon we readied Centreville and halted. Nobody seemed to know the purpose of this movement toward the north. Were we making for Washington? I had the chance of speaking to the Captain. He told me that he thought Jackson's corps was in a close place, but that he had no doubt we should be able to hold our own until Longstreet could force his way to our help. We were between Pope's army and Washington, and it was certain that Pope would make every effort to crush Jackson.

About two o'clock the troops were put in motion, heading west, down the Warrenton pike. It now appeared that only A. P. Hill's division had marched to Centreville; the other divisions of Jackson's corps were at the west, and beyond Bull Run. After matching a mile or two we could see to the eastward and south, great clouds of dust rolling up above the woods, evidently made by a column in march upon the road by which, we had that morning advanced from Manassas to Centreville. We knew that Pope's army—or a great part of it—was making that dust, and that Pope was hot after Jackson. We crossed Bull Run on the stone bridge and halted in the road. It was about five o'clock; the men were weary—most of us had loaded ourselves too heavily with the spoils of Manassas and were repenting, but few had as yet begun to throw away their booty. My increased burden bore upon me, but I had as yet held out; in fact, the greater part of my load—beyond weapon, and accoutrements—consisted in food which diminished at short intervals. We could not yet expect rations.

We had rested perhaps half an hour. Again we were ordered to march, and moved to the right through woods and fields, and formed line facing south. How long our line was I did not know; I supposed the whole of Hill's division was there, though I could see only our regiment. Soon firing began at our right and right front; it increased in volume, and artillery and musketry roared and subsided until dark and after. At dark, the brigade again moved to the right, seemingly to support the troops that had been engaged, and which we found to be Ewell's division.

We lay on our arms in columns of regiments. We were ordered to preserve the strictest silence. We were told that a heavy column of the enemy was passing just beyond the hills in front of us. Suddenly the sound of many voices broke out beyond the hills. The Federal column was cheering. Near and far the cry rose and fell as one command after another took it from the next. What the noise was made for I never knew; probably Pope's sanguine order, in which he expressed the certainty of having "the whole crowd bagged," had been made known to his troops for the purpose of encouraging them. Our men were silent, even gloomy, not knowing what good fortune had made our enemies sound such high, triumphant notes; yet I believe that every man, as he lay in his unknown position that night, had confidence that in the battle of the morrow, now looked for as a certainty, the genius of Lee and of Jackson would guide us to one more victory.

Early on the morning of Friday, the 29th, we moved, but where I do not know—only that we moved in a circuitous way, and not very far, and that when we again formed line, we seemed to be facing northeast. Already the sound of musketry and cannon had been heard close in our front. Our regiment, left in front, was in the woods. We brought our right in front, and then the brigade moved forward down a slope to an unfinished railroad.

Comstock had given away all of his smoking tobacco, saying that he would not need it.

Company H had been thrown out to left and front as skirmishers. The regiment moved across the railroad and through the woods into the fields beyond, far to the right of the position held by Company H. The regiment met the enemy in heavy force; additional regiments from the brigade were hurried to the support of the First, which, by this time, was falling back before a full division of the enemy. The brigade retired in good order to the railroad, and Company H was ordered back into the battle line on the left of the First.



It was almost ten o'clock. Four companies of the First regiment, under Captain Shooter, were now ordered forward through the woods as skirmishers; on the left of this force was Haskell's company. We came up with the enemy's skirmishers posted behind trees, and began firing. We advanced, driving the Yankee skirmish-line slowly through the woods. After some fluctuations in the fight, seeing that our small force was much too far from support, order was given to the skirmishers to retire; a heavy line of the enemy had been developed. This order did not reach my ears. I suppose that I was in the very act of firing when the order was given. While reloading, I became aware that the company had retired, as I could see no man to my right or left. Looking round, I saw the line some thirty yards in my rear, moving back toward the brigade. Now I feared that in retreating, my body would be a target for many rifles. The Yankees were not advancing. I sprang back quickly from my tree to another. Rifles cracked. Again I made a similar movement—and again—at each tree, as I got behind it, pausing and considering in front. At last I was out of sight of the enemy, and also out of sight of Company H.

The toils of the last week had been hard upon me. My wounded leg had not regained its full strength. I was hot and thirsty as well as weak. I crossed a wet place in the low woods and looked for water. Still no enemy was pursuing. I searched for a spring or pool, following the wet place down a gentle slope, which inclined to my right oblique as I retreated. Soon I found a branch and drank my fill; then I filled my canteen and rose to my feet refreshed.

Just below me, uprooted by some storm, lay a giant poplar spanning the little brook. I stepped upon the log and stood there for a second. Here was a natural retreat. If I had wanted to hide, this spot was what I should have chosen. The boughs of the fallen tree, mingling with the copse, made a complete hiding-place.

The more I looked, the more the spot seemed to bind me. I began to wonder. Surely this was not my first sight of this spot. Had I crossed here in the morning? No; we had moved forward much to the right. What was the secret of the influence which the spot held over me? I had seen it before or I had dreamed of it. I was greatly puzzled.

On the ground lay the broken parts of a rust-eaten musket. I picked up the barrel; it was bent; I threw it down and picked up the stock. Why should I be interested in this broken gun? I knew not, but I knew that I was drawn in some way by it. On the stock were carved the letters J.B. Who had owned this gun? John Brown? James Butler? Then the thought came suddenly—why not Jones Berwick? No! That was absurd! But why absurd? Did I know who I was, or where I had been, or where I had not been?

A shot and then another rang out in the woods at my left; I dropped the gun and ran.

I soon overtook Company H retiring slowly through the woods. And now we made a stand, as the brigade was in supporting distance. Our position was perhaps three hundred yards in front of the brigade, which was posted behind the old railroad. Thick woods were all around us. Soon the blue skirmishers came in sight, and we began firing. The Federals sprang at once to trees and began popping away at us. The range was close. Grant was mortally hit. My group of four on that day was reduced to one man. Goettee fell, and Godley. We kept up the fight. But now a blue line of battle could be seen advancing behind the skirmishers. They kept coming, reserving their fire until they should pass beyond their skirmish-line. We should have withdrawn at once, but waited until the line of battle had reached the skirmishers before we were ordered to fall back. When we began to retire, the line of battle opened upon us, and we lost some men.

Company H formed in its place on the left of the First, which was now the left regiment of the brigade, of the division, and of the corps. Company H was in the air at the left of Jackson's line.

General Lee had planned to place Jackson's corps in rear of Pope's army, without severing communication with Longstreet; but the developments of the campaign had thrown Jackson between Pope and Washington while yet the corps of Longstreet was two days' march behind, and beyond the Bull Run mountains. Pope had made dispositions to crush Jackson; to delay Longstreet he occupied with a division Thoroughfare Gap,—through which Jackson had marched and I had straggled on the 26th,—and with his other divisions had marched on Manassas. Jackson had thus been forced to retreat toward the north in order to gain time. When Hill's division reached Centreville, it turned west, as already related, and while Pope was marching on Centreville Jackson was marching to get nearer Longstreet. This placed Ricketts's division of Pope's army, which had occupied Thoroughfare Gap for the purpose of preventing the passage of Longstreet, between Longstreet and Jackson. Ricketts was thus forced to yield the gap after having delayed Longstreet during the night of the 28th. Pope could now have retired to Washington without a battle, but he decided to overwhelm Jackson before Longstreet could reach the field, and attacked hotly on the Confederate left.

The battle of Friday, the 29th of August, was fought then in consequence of the double motive already hinted at, namely, that of Pope to overwhelm Jackson, and of Jackson to resist and hold Pope until Longstreet came. Jackson's manoeuvres had brought him within six hours' march of Longstreet, and while Jackson's men were dying in the woods, Longstreet's iron men, covered with dust and sweat, were marching with rapid and long strides to the sound of battle in their front, where, upon their comrades at bay, Pope was throwing division after division into the fight.

Upon the left of Company H was a small open field, enclosed by a rail fence; the part of the field nearest us was unplanted; the far side of the field—that nearest the enemy—was in corn. The left of our line did not extend quite to the fence, but at some times in the battle we were forced to gather at the fence and fire upon the Federals advancing through the field to turn our left.

Company H had hardly formed in its position upon the extreme left before the shouts of the Federal line of battle told of their coming straight through the woods upon us. They reached the undergrowth which bordered the farther side of the railroad way. The orders of their officers could be heard. We lay in the open woods, each man behind a tree as far as was possible; but the trees were too few. The dense bushes, which had grown up in the edge of the railroad way, effectually concealed the enemy. We were hoping for them to come on and get into view, but they remained in the bushes and poured volley after volley into our ranks. We returned their fire as well as we could, but knew that many of our shots would be wasted, as we could rarely have definite aim, except at the line of smoke in the thick bushes.

Now the firing ceased, and we thought that the enemy had retired; but if they had done so, it was only to give place to a fresh body of troops, which opened upon us a new and terrific fire. We had nothing to do but to endure and fire into the bushes. If our line had attempted to cross the railroad, not one of us would have reached it; the Federals also were afraid to advance.

Again there came a lull in the fight, but, as before, it was only premonitory of another tempest of balls. How many attacks we stood that day nobody on our side clearly knew. Again the Federal lines gave way, or were relieved. Our line still held. The woods were thick with dead. Comstock was dead. Bail was dead. Bee and Box were dead. Joe Bellot was fearfully wounded. Many had been carried to the rear, and many yet lay bleeding in our ranks, waiting to be taken out when the fight ceased. Each man lay behind the best tree he could get; the trees had become more plentiful. We fired lying, kneeling, standing, sometimes running; but the line held. If we had had but the smallest breastwork!—but we had none.

In the afternoon the Federals tried more than once to throw a force around our left—through the open field; but each time they were driven back by our oblique fire, helped by a battery which we could not see, somewhere in our rear. I now suppose that before this time Longstreet had formed on Jackson's right; the sounds of great fighting came from the east and southeast.

We had resisted long enough. Our cartridges were gone, although our boxes had more than once been replenished, and we had used up the cartridges of our wounded and dead.

Just before the sun went down, the woods suddenly became alive with Yankees. A deafening volley was poured upon our weakened ranks,—no longer ranks, but mere clusters of men,—but the shots went high; before the smoke lifted, the blue men were upon us; they had not waited to reload.

Many of our men had not a cartridge, but the enemy were so near that every shot told.

Their line is thinned; they come still, but in disconnected groups; they are almost in our midst; straight toward me comes a towering man—his sleeves show the stripes of a sergeant. His great form and his long red hair are not more conspicuous than the vigour of his bearing. He makes no pause. He strikes right and left. Men fall away from him. Our group is scattering, some to gain time to load, others in flight. The great sergeant rushes toward me; his gun rises again in his mighty hands, and the blow descends. I slip aside; the force of the blow almost carries him to the ground, but he recovers; he comes again; again he swings his gun back over his shoulder, his eyes fixed upon my head where he will strike. I raise my gun above my head—at the parry. Suddenly his expression yields—a look as if of astonishment succeeds to fixed determination—and at the same instant his countenance passes through an indescribable change as the blood spouts from his forehead and he falls lifeless at my feet, slain by a shot from my rear[7].

[7] The attack at sunset described by Mr. Berwick was made by Grover's brigade, of Hooker's division, and succeeded in driving back Gregg's worn-out men, who were at once relieved by Early's brigade of Ewell's division. [ED.]

Confusion is everywhere. Ones, twos, groups, are beginning to flee from either side. Here and there a small body of men yet hold fast and fight. The shouting is more than the firing. At my right I see our flag, and near it a flag of the Federals.

In a moment comes a new line of the enemy; our ranks—what is left of them—must yield. We begin to run. I hear Dominic Spellman—colour-bearer of the First—cry out, "Jones, for God's sake, stop!" I turn. A few have rallied and are bringing out the flag. Our line is gone—broken—and Jackson's left is crumbling away. Defeat is here—in a handbreadth of us—and Pope's star will shine the brightest over America; but now from our rear a Confederate yell rises high and shrill through the bullet-scarred forest, and a fresh brigade advances at the charge, relieves the vanquished troops of Gregg, and rolls far back the Federal tide of war. It was none too soon.

On the morning of the 29th of August thirty-one men had answered roll-call in Company H. On the morning of the 30th but thirteen responded; we had lost none as prisoners.

The 30th was Saturday. The division was to have remained in reserve. We were yet lying in the woods, some hundreds of yards in the rear of our position of the 29th, and details were burying our dead, when we were ordered to form. We marched some distance to the left. A low grass-covered meadow was in our front, with a rail fence at the woods about three hundred yards from us. Bullets came amongst us from the fence at the woods, toward which we were marching in column of fours, right in front. I heard the order from Major McCrady—"Battalion—by companies!" and Haskell repeated—"Company H!"—then McCrady—"On the right—by file—into line—MARCH!" This manoeuvre brought the regiment into column of companies still marching in its former direction, Company H being the rear of all.

Again I heard McCrady—"Battalion—by companies!" and Haskell again—"Company H!"—then McCrady—"Left—half wheel!" and Haskell—"Left wheel!"—then McCrady—"Forward into line," and both voices—"Double-quick—MARCH!"

It was a beautiful manoeuvre, performed as it was under a close fire and by men battle-sick and void of vanity. The respective companies executed simultaneously their work, and as their graduated distances demanded, rushed forward, with a speed constantly increasing toward the left company, Company H, which wheeled and ran to place, forming at the fence from which the enemy fled. We lost Major McCrady, who fell severely wounded.

For the remainder of that bloody day the First was not engaged. We heard the great battle between Lee and Pope, but took no further part.

On the first of September, as night was falling, we were lying under fire, in a storm of rain, in the battle of Ox Hill, or Chantilly as the Yankees call it. The regiment did not become engaged.

The campaign of eight days was over.



XXVII

CAPTAIN HASKELL

"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. The soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar; Not in entire forgetfulness, And not in utter nakedness, But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God who is our home."—WORDSWORTH.

I believe I have already said that in the battle of Manassas Joe Bellot was severely wounded. My companion gone, I messed and slept alone.

For a day or two we rested, or moved but short distances. On one of these days, the company being on picket, the Captain ordered me to accompany him in a round of the vedettes. While this duty was being done, he spoke not a word except to the sentinels whom he ordered in clear-cut speech to maintain strict vigilance. When the duty had ended, he turned to me and said, "Let us go to that tree yonder."

The point he thus designated was just in rear of our left—- that is, the left of Company H's vedettes—and overlooked both vedettes and pickets, so far as they could be seen for the irregularities of ground. Arriving at the tree, the Captain threw off all official reserve.

"Friday was hard on Company H," he said; "and the whole company did its full duty, if I may say so without immodesty."

"Captain," I replied, "I thought it was all over with us when the Yankees made that last charge."

"As you rightly suggest, sir, we should have been relieved earlier," said he; "I am informed that in the railroad cut, a little to the right of our position, the men fought the enemy with stones for lack of cartridges."

"Yes, sir; I have heard that. Can you predict our next movement?"

"I know too little of strategy to do that," he said; "but I am convinced that we cannot remain where we are."

"Why?" I asked.

"I venture the opinion that we are too far from our supplies. I am told that we cannot maintain the railroad back to Gordonsville. The bridges are burnt; I doubt that any steps will be taken to rebuild them, as they would be constantly in danger from the enemy's cavalry. I am informed that McClellan's whole army, as well as Burnside's corps from North Carolina, has joined Pope; General McClellan is said to be in command. If Pope's army, which we have just fought, was larger than ours, then McClellan's combined forces must be more than twice as great as General Lee's."

"Yet some of the men think we shall advance on Washington," said I.

"The men discuss everything, naturally," he replied; "I speculate also. It seems to me that every mile of a further advance would but take from our strength and add to that of our enemy's. If we could seize Washington by a sudden advance—but we cannot do that, I think, and as for a siege, I suppose nobody thinks of it. Even to sit down here could do us no good, I imagine; our communications would be always interrupted."

"Then we shall retreat after having gained a great victory?" I asked.

"It would give me great pleasure to be able to tell you. I am puzzled," he replied. "The victory may be regarded as an opportunity to gain time for the South to recuperate, if we make prudent demonstrations; but an actual advance does not appear possible. General Lee may make a show of advancing; I dare say we could gain time by a pretence of strength. Does not such manoeuvre meet your view? But we are fearfully weak, and our enemies know it or should know it."

I understood well enough that the Captain's question was but an instance of his unfailing habit of courtesy.

"Then what is there for us to do? If we ought not to stay here, and ought not to advance on Washington, and ought not to retreat, what other course is possible?"

"There seems but one, sir. I hear that the best opinion leans to the belief that General Lee will cross the Potomac in order to take Harper's Ferry and to test the sentiment of the Maryland people."

"What is at Harper's Ferry, Captain?"

"I am informed that there is a great quantity of supplies and a considerable garrison."

"But could such an effort succeed in the face of an army like McClellan's?"

"If the Federals abandon the place, as they ought to do at once, I should think that there would then be no good reason for this army's crossing the river. But military success is said to be obtained, in the majority of cases, from the mistakes of the losers. It might be that we could take Harper's Ferry at very little cost; and even if we should fail, we should be prolonging the campaign upon ground that we cannot hope to occupy permanently, and living, in a sense, upon the enemy. What I fear, however, is that the movement would bring on another general engagement; and I think you will agree with me in believing that we are not prepared for that."

"Harper's Ferry is the place John Brown took," said I.

"You are right, sir; do you remember that?"

"That is the last thing that I remember reading about—the last experience I can remember at all; but in the light last Friday there happened something which gives me a turn whenever I think of it."

"May I ask what it was?"

"I saw a spot which I am sure—almost sure—I had seen before."

"Some resemblance, I dare say. I often pass scenes that are typical. Near my father's home I know one spot which I have seen in twenty other places."

"Yes, sir; I know," said I. "But it was not merely the physical features of the place that awoke recognition."

"Oblige me by telling me all about it," he said kindly.

"You remember the position to which the four companies advanced as skirmishers?"

"Distinctly. We did very well to get away from it," said the Captain.

"And you remember the order to fall back?"

"Certainly, since I took the initiative."

"Well, I did not hear the order. I suppose that I fired at the very moment, and that the noise of my gun prevented my hearing it. At any rate, a few moments afterward I saw that I was alone, and retreated as skilfully as I knew how. The company was out of sight. I saw some signs of water, and soon found a branch, at a place which impressed me so strongly that for a moment I forgot even that the battle was going on. I am almost certain that I had quenched my thirst at that spot once before. Besides, there was an extraordinary—"

"Jones," interrupted the Captain, "you may have been in the first battle of Manassas. Why not? But if you saw the place in last year's battle, you came upon it from the east or the south. The positions of the armies the other day were almost opposite their positions last year. In sixty-one the Federals had almost our position of last Friday. It will be well to find out what South Carolina troops were in the first battle. By the way, General Bee, who was killed there, was from South Carolina; I will ask Aleck to tell us what regiments were in Bee's brigade."

"Captain," said I, "when I saw that spot I felt as though I had been there in some former life."

"Yes? I have had such feelings. More than once I have had a thought or have seen a face or a landscape that impressed me with such an idea."

"Do you believe in a succession of lives?"

"I cannot say that I do," he replied; "but your question surprises me, sir. May I ask if you remember reading of such subjects?"

"No, I do not, Captain; but I know that the thought must have once been familiar to me."

"I dare say you have read some romance," said he "or, there is no telling, you may have known some one who believed, the doctrine; you may have believed it yourself. And I doubt that mere reading would have influenced your mind to attach itself so strongly to thoughtful subjects. I find you greatly interested philosophy. I think it quite probable, sir, without flattery, that at college your professor had an apt student."

"But you do not believe the doctrine?"

"I believe in Christ and His holy apostles, sir; I believe that we live after death."

"And that I shall be I again and again?"

"Pardon me for not following you entirely. I believe that you will be you again; but my opinion is not fixed as to more than one death."

"Do you believe that when you live again you will remember your former experiences?"

"I lean to that belief, sir, yet I consider it unimportant; I might go so far as to say that it makes no difference."

"But how can I be I if I do not remember? What will connect the past me with the present me? I have a strange, elusive thought there, Captain. It sometimes seems to me that I am two,—one before, and another now,—and that really I have lived this present time, or these present times, in two bodies and with two minds."

"Allow me to ask if it is not possible that your strange thought as to your imagined doubleness is caused by your believing that memory is necessary to identity?"

"And that is error?" I asked.

"You say truly, sir; it is error. Your own experience disproves it. If memory is necessary, you have lost your personality; but you have a personality,—permit me to say a strong one,—and whose have you taken?"

"I do remember some things," said I.

"Then do you not agree with me that your very memory is proof that you are not double? But, if you please, take the case of any one. Every one has been an infant, yet he cannot remember what happened when he was in swaddling clothes, though he is the same person now that he was then, which proves that although a person loses his memory, he does not on that account, sir, lose his identity."

"Then what is the test of identity, Captain?"

"It needs none, sir; consciousness of self is involuntary."

"I have consciousness of self; yet I do not know who I am, except that I am I."

"Every man might say the same words, sir," said he, smiling.

"And I am distinct? independent?"

"Jones, my dear fellow, there are many intelligent people in the world who, I dare say, would think us demented if they should know that we are seriously considering such a question."

This did not seem very much of an answer to my mind, which in some inscrutable way seemed to be at this moment groping among fragments of thoughts that had come unbidden from the forgotten past. I felt helpless in the presence of the Captain; I could not presume to press his good-nature. Perhaps he saw my thought, for he added: "A man is distinct from other men, but not from himself. He constantly changes, and constantly remains the same."

"That is hard to understand, Captain."

"Everything, sir, is hard to understand, because everything means every other thing. If we could fully comprehend one thing, even the least,—if there be a least,—we should necessarily comprehend all things," said the Captain.

Then he talked at large of the relations that bind everything—and of matter, force, spirit, which he called a trinity.

"Then matter is of the same nature with God?" I asked; "and God has the properties of matter?"

"By no means, sir. God has none of the properties of matter. Even our minds, sir, which are more nearly like unto God than is anything else we conceive, have no properties like matter. Yet are we bound to matter, and our thoughts are limited."

"How can the mind contemplate God at all?"

"By pure reason only, sir. The imagination betrays. We try to image force, because we think that we succeed in imaging matter. We try to image spirit. I suppose that most people have a notion as to how God looks. Anything that has not extension is as nothing to our imagination. Yet we know that our minds are real, though we cannot attribute extension to mind. Divisibility is of matter; if the infinite mind has parts, then infinity is divisible—which is a contradiction."

"Then God has no properties?"

"Not in the sense that matter has, sir. If God has one of them, He has all of them. If we attribute extension to Him, we must attribute elasticity also, and all of them. But try to think of an elastic universal."

"Captain, you said a while ago that everything is matter, force, and spirit. Do you place force as something intermediate between God and matter?"

"Certainly, sir; force is above matter, and mind is above force."

"I have heard that force is similar to matter in that nothing of it can be lost," said I.

"When and where did you hear that?" asked the Captain, looking at me fixedly, almost sternly.

The question almost brought me to my feet. When and where had I heard it? My attention had been so fastened on the Captain's philosophy that it now seemed to me that I had become unguarded, and that from outside of me a thought had been sent into my mind by some unknown power; I could not know whence the thought had come. I had suddenly felt that I had heard the theory in question. I knew that, the moment before, I could not have said what I did. But I had spoken naturally, and without feeling that I was undergoing an experience. I stared back at Captain Haskell. Then I became aware of the fact that at the moment when I had spoken I had known consciously when it was and where it was that I had heard the theory, and I felt almost sure that if I had spoken differently, if I had only said, "From Mr. Such-a-one, or at such a place or time, I had heard the theory," I should now have a clew to something. But the flash had vanished.

"It is lost," I said.

"I am sorry," said he.

"It is like the J.B. on the broken gun," said I.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I did not finish, telling you of my experience at that spot where I got water last Friday. Right in that spot was a broken gun with J.B. on the stock."

"Are you sure, Jones?"

"I picked up both pieces of the gun and looked at them closely."

"Perhaps your seeing J.B. on the gun gave rise to your other reflections."

"Not at all; the gun came last, not first."

"What you are telling me is very remarkable," said the Captain; "you almost make me believe that you are right in saying that your name is Jones Berwick. However, J.B. is no uncommon combination of initials. Suppose Lieutenant Barnwell had found the gun."

"If he had found J.G.B. on it, he would have wondered," said I.

"True; but do you know that J.G.B. is many times more difficult than J.B.?"

"No, Captain; I hardly think so; these are the days of three initials."

"Yes, you are right in that," he said.

"And I know I am right about my name." said I.

"Still, the whole affair may be a compound of coincidences. We have three—or did have three—other men in the company whose initials are J.B.,—Bail, Box, and Butler. Of course you could not recognize your own work in the lettering?"

"No, sir; anybody might have cut those letters; just as anybody might imitate print. And I think, Captain, that there is not another J.B. in Lee's army who would have supposed for an instant that he had any connection with that gun."

"Suppose, then, that I call you Berwick hereafter?"

"No, I thank you, Captain. I'd rather be to you Jones than Berwick. Beside, if you should change now, it would cause remark."

"I think I shall ask my brother Aleck to find out what South Carolina regiments were in the first battle of Manassas," said he. "You may go with me to see him to-night if you will."

That night Captain A.C. Haskell, the assistant adjutant-general, was able to inform me that Bee's brigade had not been composed of troops from South Carolina, although General Bee himself was from that state. After hearing my description of the place which I thought I had revisited, he expressed the opinion that no Confederate troops at all had reached the spot in the battle of sixty-one. The place, he said, was more than a mile from the position of the Confederate army in the battle; still, he admitted, many scattered Federals retreated over the ground which interested me so greatly, and it was possible that some Confederates had been over it to seek plunder or for other purposes; but as for pursuit, there had been none. I asked if it could have been possible for me to be a prisoner on that day and to be led away to the rear of the Federals. "If so," he replied, "you would not have been allowed to keep or to break your gun. Moreover, the whole army lost in missing too few men to base such a theory on; the loss was just a baker's dozen in both Beauregard's and Johnston's forces. For my part, I think it more likely that, if you were there at all, you were there as a scout, or as a vedette. General Evans—Old Shanks, the boys call him—began the battle with the Fourth South Carolina. He was at Stone Bridge, and found out before nine o'clock that McDowell had turned our left and was marching down from Sudley. You might have been sent out to watch the enemy; yet I am confident that Evans would have used his cavalry for that purpose, for he had a company of cavalry in his command. A more plausible guess might be that you were out foraging that morning and got cut off. I will look up the Fourth South Carolina for you, and try to learn something. Yet the whole thing is very vague, and I should not advise you to hope for anything from it. I am now convinced that you did not originally belong to this brigade. You would have been recognized long ago. By the way, I have had a thought in connection with your case. You ought to write to the hotel in Aiken and find out who you are."

"I wonder why I never thought of that!" I exclaimed. "I suppose that a letter addressed to the manager would answer."

"Certainly."

"But—" I began.

"But what?"

"If I write, what can I say? Can I sign a letter asking an unknown man to tell me who I am?"

"Write it and sign it Berwick Jones," said Captain Haskell, who by this speech seemed to give full belief that my name was reversed on the roll of his company.

As we walked back to our bivouac that night I asked the Captain whether, in the improbable event of our finding that I had belonged to the Fourth, I could not still serve with Company H. He was pleased, evidently, by this question, and said that he should certainly try to hold me if I wished to remain with him, and should hope to be able to do so, as transfers were frequently granted, and as an application from me would come with peculiar force when the circumstances should be made known at headquarters. Of course, there would be no difficulty unless the application should be disapproved by my company commander, that is, the commander of my original company.

* * * * *

I wrote a letter, addressed "Manager of Hotel, Aiken, S.C." inquiring if a man named Jones Berwick had been a guest at his house about October 17, 1859, and if so, whether it was possible to learn from the hotel register, or from any other known source, the home of said Berwick.

To anticipate; it may be said here that no answer ever came.



XXVIII

BEYOND THE POTOMAC

"Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, And we are graced with wreaths of victory; But, in the midst of this bright-shining day, I spy a black, suspicious, threat'ning cloud, That will encounter with our glorious sun." —SHAKESPEARE.

We left the position near Fairfax Court-House early in September, and marched northward, crossing the Potomac on the 5th at White's Ford near Edwards's Ferry. We reached Fredericktown in Maryland about midday of the 6th, after a fatiguing tramp which, for the time, was too hard for me. My wound had again given me trouble; while wading the Potomac I noticed fresh blood on the scar.

We rested at Fredericktown for three or four days. One morning Owens of Company H, while quietly cooking at his fire, suddenly fell back and began kicking and foaming at the mouth. We ran to him, but could do nothing to help him. He struggled for a few moments and became rigid. Some man ran for the surgeon; I thought there was no sense in going for help when all was over. The surgeon came and soon got Owens upon his feet. This incident made a deep impression on me. It seemed a forcible illustration of the trite sayings: "Never give up," "While there's life there's hope," and it became to me a source of frequent encouragement.

* * * * *

On the 10th we marched westward from Fredericktown. In the gap of the Catoctin Mountains we came in sight of the most beautiful valley, dotted with farms and villages. Where the enemy was, nobody seamed to know.

We passed through Middletown and Boonsboro, and recrossed the Potomac at Williamsport, where we learned definitely that Longstreet's wing of the army had been held in Maryland. We marched southward to Martinsburg. The inhabitants were greatly rejoiced, and were surprised to find Confederate troops coming amongst them from the north. At Martinsburg were many evidences that we were near the enemy. Captain Haskell said that it was now clear that Lee intended to take Harper's Ferry, and that Longstreet's retention on the north side of the Potomac was part of the plan. We destroyed the railroad near Martinsburg, moving along it toward the east. Late in the forenoon of the 13th we came in sight of Harper's Ferry. The short siege of the place had already been begun; cannon from our front and from a mountain side on our right were throwing shells into the enemy's lines, and the enemy's batteries were replying.

On the night of the 14th Gregg's brigade marched to the right. We found a narrow road running down the river,—the Shenandoah,—and move on cautiously. There were strict orders to preserve silence. The guns were uncapped, to prevent an accidental discharge. In the middle of the night we moved out of the road and began to climb the hill on our left; it was very steep and rough; we pulled ourselves up by the bushes. Pioneers cut a way for the artillery, and lines of men drew the guns with ropes.

When morning came our guns commanded the intrenchments of the enemy. Our batteries were in full action, the brigade in line of battle. The enemy replies with all his guns, but they were soon silenced. A brigade at our left seemed ready to advance; the enemy's artillery opened afresh. Then from our left a battery stormed forward to a new position much nearer to the enemy. We were ordered to fix bayonets and the line began to advance, but was at once halted. Harper's Ferry had been surrendered, with eleven thousand prisoners and seventy pieces of artillery, and munitions in great quantity.

We had been hearing at intervals, for the last day or two, far-off sounds of artillery toward the north. On the night after the surrender, A.P. Hill's men knew that theirs was the only division at Harper's Ferry, the two other divisions of Jackson's corps having marched away, some said to the help of Longstreet on the north side of the Potomac; then we felt that some great event was near, and we wondered whether it should befall us to remain distant from the army during a great engagement.

The 16th passed tranquilly. Sounds of artillery could be heard in the north and northwest, but we had nothing to do but to rest in position while our details worked in organizing the captured property. The prisoners were not greatly downcast. We learned that they were to be released on parole. Crowds of them had gathered along the roads on the 15th to see Stonewall Jackson whenever he rode by, and they seemed to admire him no less than his own men did. Late in the afternoon the regiment marched out of the lines of Harper's Ferry and bivouacked for the night some two miles to the west of the town.

On the 17th the division was put in motion on a road running up the Potomac. The march began, at sunrise. Soon the sounds of battle were heard far in front, and the step was lengthened. The day was hot, and the road was dusty. Frequently we went at double-quick. About one o'clock we waded the Potomac below Shepherdstown. Beyond the river the march turned northeast—a rapid march; many men had fallen out before we reached the river; now many more began to straggle. All the while the roar of a great battle extended across our front, mostly in our left front. We passed through a village called Sharpsburg. Its streets were encumbered with wagons, ambulances, stragglers, wounded men, and all the horrid results of war that choke the roads in rear of an army engaged in a great battle.

Beyond the village we turned to the right. We marched up one side of a hill and down the other side. On the slope of the opposite hill we halted, some of the troops being protected by a stone fence. The noise of battle was everywhere, and increasing at our right, almost on our right flank. Wounded men were streaming by; the litter-bearers were busy. Nothing is so hard to bear as waiting while in expectation of being called on to restore a lost battle from which the wounded and dead are being carried. Our time was near.

Thick corn was growing on the hillside above us. General Gregg dismounted. His orders reached our ears and were repeated by the colonels and the captains. We were to advance.

While Jackson had marched south from Maryland in order to effect the capture of Harper's Ferry, Longstreet had retired before McClellan, who had collected an immense army and had advanced. The North had risen at the first news that Lee had crossed the Potomac and McClellan's army, vast as it was, yet continued to receive reinforcements almost daily; his army was perhaps stronger than it had been before his disastrous campaign of the Chickahominy, his troops on James River had marched down the Peninsula and had been taken in transports to Fredericksburg and Alexandria. Porter's and Heintzelman's corps of McClellan's army had fought under Pope in the second battle of Manassas. Now McClellan had his own army, Pope's army, Burnside's corps, and all other troops that could be got to his help. To delay this army until Jackson could seize Harper's Ferry had been the duty intrusted to Longstreet and his lieutenants. But Longstreet with his twenty thousand were now in danger of being overwhelmed. On the 15th, in the afternoon of the surrender at Harper's Ferry, two of Jackson's divisions had marched to reenforce Longstreet. Had not time been so pressing, Hill's division would not have been ordered to assault the works at Harper's Ferry—an assault which was begun and which was made unnecessary by the surrender.

McClellan knew the danger to Harper's Ferry and knew of the separation of the Confederate forces. A copy of General Lee's special order outlining his movements had fallen into General McClellan's hands. This order was dated September 9th; it gave instructions to Jackson to seize Harper's Ferry, and it directed the movements of Longstreet. With this information, General McClellan pressed on after Longstreet; he ordered General Franklin to carry Crampton's Gap and advance to the relief of Harper's Perry.

On Sunday, the 14th, McClellan's advanced divisions attacked D.H. Hill's division in a gap of South Mountain, near Boonsboro, and Franklin carried Crampton's Gap, farther to the south. Though both of these attacks were successful, the resistance of the Confederates had in each case been sufficient to gain time for Jackson. On the 15th Harper's Ferry surrendered, and McClellan continued to advance; Longstreet prepared for battle.

The next day, at nightfall, the Federals were facing Lee's army, the Antietam creek flowing between the hostile ranks.

At 3 P.M. of the 17th, A.P. Hill's division, after a forced march of seventeen miles, and after fording the Potomac, found itself in front of the left wing of the Federal army,—consisting of Burnside's corps,—which had already brushed away the opposition in its front, and was now advancing to seize the ford at Shepherdstown and cut off Lee from the Potomac.