A.P. Hill rode into battle at the head of his division. The few brigades which, had been opposed to Burnside had offered a stout resistance, but, too weak to resist long, had fallen back to our right. Into the gap we were ordered. In the edge of the corn a rabbit jumped up and ran along in front of the line; a few shots were fired at it by some excited men on our left. These shots seemed the signal for the Federals to show themselves; they were in the corn, advancing upon us while we were moving upon them. There were three lines of them. Our charge broke their first line; it fell back on the second and both ran; the third line stood. We advanced through the corn, firing and shouting. The third line fired, then broke; now we stood where it had stood, on the top of the hill. A descending slope was before us, then a hollow—- also in thick corn—and an open ascent beyond. Behind the brow of this next hill a Federal battery made its presence felt by its fire only, as the guns and men were almost entirely covered. This battery was perhaps four hundred yards from us, and almost directly in front of the left wing of the First. The corn on our slope and in the hollow was full of Federals running in disorder. We loaded and fired, and loaded and fired. Soon the naked slope opposite was dotted with fleeing men. We loaded and fired, and loaded and fired.

In a thick row of corn at the bottom of the hill I saw a bayonet glitter. The bayonet was erect, at the height of the large blades of corn. The owner of the bayonet had squatted in the corn; he was afraid to run out upon the naked hillside behind him, and he had not thought too well. He had kept his gun in his hand, with the butt on the ground, and the sun's rays betrayed him. Nothing could be seen but the bayonet. I fired at the ground below the bayonet. The bayonet fell.

An officer was riding back and forth on the open hillside, a gallant officer rallying his men. None would stop; it was death to stop. He threatened, and almost struck the men, but they would run on as soon as his back was turned. They were right to run at this moment, and he was wrong in trying to form on the naked slope. Beyond the hilltop was the place to rally, and the men knew it, and the gallant officer did not He rode from group to group of fleeing men as they streamed up the hill. He was a most conspicuous target. Many shots were fired at him, but he continued to ride and to storm at the men and to wave his sword. Suddenly his head went down, his body doubled up, and he lay stretched on the ground. The riderless horse galloped off a few yards, then returned to his master, bent his head to the prostrate man, and fell almost upon him.

The Federal infantry could now be seen nowhere in our front. On our left they began to develop and to advance, and on the right the sound of heavy fighting was yet heard. The enemy continued to develop from our left until they were uncovered in our front. They advanced, right and left; just upon our own position the pressure was not yet great, but we felt that the Twelfth regiment, which joined us on our left, must soon yield to greatly superior numbers, and would carry our flank with it when it went. The fight now raged hotter than before. I saw Captain Parker, of Company K, near to us. His face was a mass of blood—his jaw broken. The regiment was so small that, although Company H was on its left, I saw Sam Wigg, a corporal of the colour-guard, fall—death in his face. Then the Twelfth South Carolina charged, and for a while the pressure upon us was relieved; but the Twelfth charged too far, and, while driving the enemy in its front, was soon overlapped, and flanked. Upon its exposed flank the bullets fell and it crumbled; in retiring, it caught the left of the First, and Company H fell back. Now the enemy moved on the First from the front and the regiment retired hastily through the corn, and formed easily again at the stone fence from which it had advanced at the beginning of the contest. The battle was over. The enemy came no farther, and the fords of the Potomac remained to Lee.

All the night of the 17th and the day of the 18th we lay in position. A few shells flew over us at irregular intervals, and we were in hourly expectation of a renewal of the battle, but the Federals did not advance. By daylight on the morning of the 19th we were once more in Virginia.

While A.P. Hill's division had suffered but small loss in the battle of Sharpsburg, and while our part in the battle had been fortunate, it was clear that Lee's army as a whole had barely escaped a great disaster. I have always thought that McClellan had it in his power on the 18th of September to bring the war to an end. Lee had fought the battle with a force not exceeding forty thousand men, and had lost nearly a third. McClellan, on the 18th, was fully three times as strong as Lee; but he waited a full day, and gave the Confederates opportunity to cross, almost leisurely, the difficult river in their rear.

* * * * *

A.P. Hill's division went into bivouac some five miles south of Shepherdstown.

On the morning of the 20th the warning rumble of the long roll called us once again to action. We were marched rapidly back to the Potomac. Firing could be heard in front, and wounded men could be seen here and there. Men said that in the night McClellan had thrown a force to the south side of the river, and had surprised and taken some of our artillery. As we drew near the river, we could see the smoke of cannon in action spouting from the farther side, and from our side came the crackling of musketry fire.

The division was formed for battle; we were to advance in two lines of three brigades each, General Gregg in command of the first line. Orr's Rifle regiment was thrown forward as skirmishers and advanced to the river bank. The division moved behind the skirmishers. The ground was open. We marched down a slope covered with corn in part, and reached a bare and undulating field that stretched to the trees bordering the river. As soon as the division had passed the corn, the Federal batteries north of the Potomac began to work upon our ranks. The first shots flew a little above us. We were marching at a quick time, keeping well the alignment. The next shots struck the ground in front of us and exploded—with what effect I could not see. And now the enemy had our range and made use of the time. Before us, about three hundred yards, was a depression of the ground, with a low ascending hill beyond. Shells burst over us, beyond us, in front of us, amongst us, as we marched on at quick time. We reached the hollow and were ordered to lie down. The sun was oppressive. The troops had scant room in the hollow; they hugged the earth thick. Shells would burst at the crown of the low hill ten steps in front and throw iron everywhere. The aim of the Federal gunners was horribly true.

We were cramped with lying long in one position; no water. Behind us came a brigade down the slope—flags flying, shells bursting in the ranks. Down the hill that we had come they now were coming in their turn, losing men at every step. The shells flew far above us to strike this new and exposed line. Behind us came the brigade; right against Company H came the centre of a regiment. The red flag was marching straight. The regiment reached our hollow; there was no room; it flanked to the left by fours; a shell struck the colour-group; the flag leaped in the air and fell amongst four dead men. A little pause, and the flag was again alive, and the regiment had passed to the left, seeking room.

For hours we lay under the hot sun and the hotter fire. The fight had long since ended, but we were held fast by the Federal batteries. To rise and march out would be to lose many men uselessly.

A shell burst at the top of the rise. Another came, and I felt my hat fly off; it was torn on the edge of the brim. Again, and a great pain seized my shoulder and a more dreadful one my hip. I was hit, but how badly I did not know. The pain in my hip was such agony that I feared to look. Since our great loss at Manassas, I was the tallest man in Company H, and the Captain was lying very near to me. I said to him that I was done for. "What!" said he, "again? You must break that habit, Jones." I wanted to be taken out, but could not ask it. What with the danger and the heat and the thirst and pain, I was unnerved and afraid to look. Perhaps I lost consciousness for a time; the pain had decreased. At last I looked, and I saw—nothing! I examined, and found a great contusion, and that was all. I was happy—the only happy man in the regiment, for the cannon on the hills beyond the river had not lessened their fire, and the sun was hot, and the men were suffering.

As the darkness gathered, the regiment filed out and marched back to bivouac. I limped along and kept up. We got water and food and, at length, rest; and sleep banished the fearful memory of a fearful day.

In the fight at Shepherdstown the Confederate infantry drove the Federals to the river bank, where many surrendered. Some succeeded in getting across to the northern bank, but most of those who attempted the crossing were lost. It was said in Lee's army—- but with what truth I do not know—that blue corpses floated past Washington.

After this fight Lee was not molested. Jackson camped his corps near Martinsburg, and a week later moved to Bunker Hill, where water was plentiful.

From the 25th of June to the 20th of September—eighty-seven days—the Army of Northern Virginia had made three great campaigns: first, that of the week in front of Richmond; second, that of Manassas; third, that of Harper's Ferry and Sharpsburg. The Confederates had been clearly victorious in the first two, and had succeeded in the last in withdrawing with the fruits of Harper's Ferry, and with the honours of a drawn battle against McClellan's mighty army.



XXIX

FOREBODINGS

"King John. Alack, thou dost usurp authority. King Philip. Excuse; it is to put usurping down." —SHAKESPEARE.

All of the month of October, 1862, Jackson's corps remained near Bunker Hill, in the valley of the Shenandoah. It was here that we learned of Lincoln's proclamation freeing the slaves. A few copies of it were seen in our camp—introduced, doubtless, by some device of the enemy. Most of the officers and men of Company H were not greatly impressed by this action on the part of the Northern President. I have reason to know, however, that Captain Haskell regarded the proclamation a serious matter. One day I had heard two men of our company—Davis and Stokes—talking.

"I wonder why Jones never gets any letters," said Stokes.

"Have you noticed that?" asked Davis.

"Yes; haven't you?"

"Yes; but I thought it was none of my business."

"Have you ever seen him write any letters?"

"No; I haven't, except for somebody else; he writes letters for Limus and Peagler."

Limus was a negro, Lieutenant Barnwell's servant. Peagler was one of Company H, and a valuable member of the infirmary corps, but he could not write.

The talk of the men had made me gloomy. I sought Captain Haskell, and unburdened to him. The Captain's manner toward me had undergone a modification that was very welcome to me; his previous reserve, indicated by formal politeness, had given place to a friendly interest, yet he was always courteous.

"I would do anything to relieve you," said he, "but of course you do not wish me to speak to the men about you."

"Certainly not, sir" said I; "that would only make matters worse."

"Have you ever yet heard from the hotel at Aiken?"

"Not a word, sir."

"I suppose the hotel has changed hands; or perhaps it has ceased to exist."

"Possibly so, Captain. Has anything been learned as to the Fourth South Carolina?"

"Only that it is yet in this army—in Jenkins's brigade. I think nothing further has resulted. Aleck will ask very prudently if such a man as Jones Berwick, or Berwick Jones, is missing from that regiment. We shall know In a few days."

"I suppose we shall know before we march again," said I.

"Probably. We shall hardly move before the Federals do. McClellan is giving us another display of caution, sir."

"I think he ought to have advanced on the 18th of last month," said I.

"True," said Captain Haskell; "he missed his chance."

"Why does he not advance now?" I asked.

"He takes time to get ready, I judge. There is one thing to be said for McClellan: he will do nothing rashly; and he has considerable nerve, as is shown by his resistance to popular clamour, and even to the urgency of the Washington authorities. The last papers that we have got hold of, show that Lincoln is displeased with his general's inactivity. By the way, the war now assumes a new aspect."

"In what respect, Captain?"

"Lincoln's emancipation order will make it impossible for the North to compromise. He is a stronger man than I thought him, sir. He burns his bridges."

"But will not the proclamation cause the South to put forth greater effort?"

"Pardon me," said he. "It will cause the slaveholders to feel more strongly; but it will cause also many non-slaveholding men, such as are in our mountain districts and elsewhere, to believe, after a while, that the South is at war principally to maintain slavery, and in slavery they feel no interest at stake. In such conditions the South can do no more than she is now doing. She may continue to hold her present strength for a year or two more, but to increase it greatly seems to me beyond our ability. The proclamation will effectually prevent any European power from recognizing us. We must look for no help, and must prepare to endure a long war."

"Can we not defend ourselves as long as the North, can continue a war of invasion?"

"A good question, sir. Of course aggression is more costly than defence. But one trouble with us is that we rarely fight a defensive battle. Lee's strategy is defensive, but his tactics are just the reverse. The way to win this war, allow me to say, is to fight behind trees and rocks and hedges and earthworks: never to risk a man in the open except where absolutely necessary, and when absolute victory is sure. To husband her resources in men and means is the South's first duty, sir. I hope General Lee will never fight another offensive battle."

"But are not the armies of the enemy strong enough to outflank any line of intrenchments that we might make?"

"True; but in doing so they would present opportunities which skilful generalship would know how to seize. If no such opportunities came, I would have the army to fall back and dig again."

"Then it would be but a matter of time before we should come to the last ditch," said I.

"Pardon me; the farther they advanced, the more men would they need. Of course there would come a limit, at least a theoretical limit. It might be said that we could not fall back and leave our territory, which supplies our armies, in the hands of the enemy. But to counteract this theory we have others. Disease would tell on the enemy more than on ourselves. Our interior lines would be shortened, and we could reenforce easily. The enemy, in living on our country, would be exposed to our enterprises. His lines of communication would always be in danger. And he would attack. The public opinion of the North would compel attack, and we should defeat attacks and lose but few men."

Captain Haskell had no hope that there would be any such change in the conduct of the war. He seemed depressed by Mr. Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation, which, he saw, would effectually put an end to hope of aid or intervention from Europe. His hope in the success of the South was high, however. The North might be strong, but the South had the righteous cause. He was saddened by the thought that the war would be a long one, and that many men must perish.

I had read much from books borrowed from other men in my spare time, from newspapers, and from magazines; and my questions had led Captain Haskell to talk for half an hour, perhaps more freely than he thought.

He told me to say nothing to the men concerning the prospect for a long war. He seemed serious rather than gloomy. For my part, it mattered little that the war should be long. I had almost ceased to expect any discovery of my former home and friends, and the army seemed a refuge. What would become of me if the war should end suddenly? I did not feel prepared for any work; I know no business or trade. Even if I had one, it would be tame after Lee's campaigns.



XXX

TWO SHORT CAMPAIGNS

"What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife, The feast of vultures, and the waste of life? The varying fortune of each separate field, The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?" —BYRON.

Longstreet's corps had marched out by the Valley, and now occupied a line east of the Blue Ridge; Jackson remained yet at Bunker Hill. We heard that Burnside had superseded McClellan; speculation was rife as to the character of the new commander. It was easy to believe that the Federal army would soon give us work to do; its change of leaders clearly showed aggressive purpose, McClellan being distinguished more for caution than for disposition to attack.

On November 22d we moved southward, up the Shenandoah Valley. The march lasted many days. We passed through Winchester, Strasburg, Woodstock, and turned eastward through Massanutten Gap, and marched to Madison Court-House. From Madison we marched to Orange, and finally to Fredericksburg, where the army was again united by our arrival on December 3d. The march had been painful. For part of the time I had been barefoot. Many of the men were yet without shoes.

The weather was now cold. Snow fell. I was thinly clad. On the morning of December 4th, after a first night in bivouac in the lines, I awoke with a great pain in my chest and a "gone" feeling generally. The surgeon told me that I had typhoid pneumonia, and ordered me to the camp hospital, which consisted of two or three Sibley tents in the woods. I was laid on a bed of straw and covered with blankets.

I lay in the camp hospital until the morning of the 14th. How far off the regiment was I do not know; however, one or two men of Company H came to see me every day and attended to my wants. On the 11th two of them came and told me good-by; they were ordered to march; the enemy was crossing the river and was expected to attack. These men told me afterward that when they said good-by they felt they were saying the long farewell; I was not expected to recover.

On the 13th, flat on my back, I heard the battle of Fredericksburg roaring at the front, some two or three miles away, I was too ill to feel great interest. On the 14th, early in the morning, I was lifted into an open wagon and covered with a single blanket. In this condition I was jolted to a place called Hamilton's Crossing. There I was lifted out of the wagon and laid upon the ground. There were others near me, all lying on the ground. In many places the ground was white with snow; the wind cut like a blade of ice; I was freezing. At about two o'clock some men put me into a car—a common box freight-car, which had no heat and the doors of which were kept open. After a while the car started. At twelve o'clock that night the train reached Richmond. Some men put me into an ambulance. I was taken to Camp Winder Hospital, several miles out, which place was reached about two o'clock in the morning of the 15th. That I survived that day—the 14th,—has always been a wonder,

I was put to bed. There were many beds in the ward. In the middle of the ward, which was about sixty feet long by thirty wide, was a big stove, red-hot, and around the stove was a circle of people—women-nurses and stewards, and perhaps some convalescing patients—singing religious songs. There was a great open space between the red-hot stove and the people around it. I wanted to lie in that open space.

I succeeded in getting out of bed; then I crawled on the floor until I was within a few feet of the stove. The singing stopped. "You'll burn to death," said a woman. I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.

For three or four weeks I lay in bed in Camp Winder. Not an incident occurred. I received no letters. I had hoped that some man in the company would write to me. I heard of nothing but general affairs. The army had gained a victory over Burnside. I had known that fact on the night of the 14th. I knew, also, that General Gregg had been killed. The papers that I saw gave me some of the details of the battle, but told me nothing of the position of the army, except that it was yet near Fredericksburg. I did not know where Company H was, and I learned afterward that nobody in Company H knew what had become of me.

The monotony of hospital life became intolerable. My recovery was slow and my impatience great. When I felt my strength begin to return, I wrote to Captain Haskell. No answer came. Before the end of February I had demanded my papers and had started for the army yet near Fredericksburg. Transportation by rail was given me to a station called Guiney's, from which place I had to walk some nine or ten miles. I found Company H below Fredericksburg and back from the river. Captain Haskell was not with the company. He had been ordered on some special duty to South Carolina, and returned to us a week later than my arrival. Many of the men—though all of twenty-six men could hardly be said to be many—had thought that I was dead, as nothing had been heard of me since the battle of Fredericksburg.

When Captain Haskell returned, he showed wonderful cheerfulness for so serious a man. He was greatly encouraged because General Lee had fought at Fredericksburg a purely defensive battle—behind breastworks—and had lost but few men. The worst loss in the whole army had been caused by a mistake of our own officers, who refused to allow their men to fire upon a line of Yankees until almost too late, believing them to be Confederates. It was through this error that General Gregg, for whom the camp of the army was named, had lost his life.

Company H was in small huts made of poles and roofed variously—some with cloth or canvas, others with slabs or boards rudely riven from the forest trees. We had camp guard to mount and picket duty occasionally.

The remainder of the winter passed without events of great importance. Adjutant Haskell had learned that no man missing from the Fourth South Carolina, which had suffered such losses that it had been reorganized as a battalion, fitted with my description or with either of my names. I spent much time in reading the books which passed from man to man in the company.

* * * * *

At this period of my service I was in good health and somewhat more cheerful than I had been previously. The woods had begun to show signs of Spring. The snow had disappeared, and early in April the weather became mild. To say that I was content would be to say what is untrue, but I felt that my condition had much of solace. I knew that I had a friend in Captain Haskell—a man whom I admired without reservation, and whose favours were extended to me freely—I mean to say personal, not official, favours. The more I learned of this high-minded man, the more did the whole world seem to me brighter and less deserving of disregard. He was a patriot. An heir to an estate of many slaves, he was at war for a principle of liberty; he was ready at any time to sacrifice personal interest to the furtherance of the common cause of the South. In battle he was strong, calm, unutterably dignified. Battle, it seemed to me, was considered by him as a high, religious service, which he performed ceremonially. Nothing could equal the vigorous gravity of his demeanour when leading his men in fight. His words were few at such times; he was the only officer I ever knew void absolutely of rant in action. Others would shout and scream and shriek their orders redundant and unwholesome; Haskell's eye spoke better battle English than all their distended throats. He was merciful and he was wise.

* * * * *

On the 28th of April, 1863, we were ordered to have three days' cooked rations in our haversacks, and to be prepared to move at a moment's notice.

The next day at ten o'clock the men left their huts and fell into ranks. We marched to Hamilton's Crossing—some six miles—and formed in line of battle, and began to throw up breastworks. The enemy was in our front, on our side of the Rappahannock, and we learned that he had crossed in strong force up the river also. We faced the Yankees here for two days, but did not fire a shot.

Before dawn on Friday, May 1st, we were in motion westward—up the river. At noon we could hear skirmishing and cannon in our front. The sounds at first went from us, but at two o'clock they increased in volume. We were pressed forward; again the noise of the fight began to die away. The enemy were retiring before our advanced troops. Night came on, and we lay on our arms, expecting the day to bring battle.

The morning brought Jackson's famous flank march to the left of Hooker's army. At first we moved southward under a sharp fire of artillery from which we seemed to retreat; the men thought the movement was retreat, and it is no wonder that Hooker thought so; but suddenly our march broke off toward the west, and the men could not conceal their joy over what they were now beginning to understand. Frequently, on that day, Jackson was seen riding past the marching lines to the head of his column, or halted with his staff to see his troops hastening on.

Late in the afternoon our column was halted on the turnpike. Our backs were toward the sunset. Two other divisions were in line of battle in our front. We moved along the road at supporting distance.

Shots rang out in the woods in front, and in another instant the roar of the charging yell mingled with the crash of continuous musketry. There was no pause in the advance. Both lines ahead of us had swept on. We followed, still in column of fours upon the road, which was almost blocked by a battery of artillery.

Soon we found the road full of the signs of battle. On our right was open ground—to the south; facing this open space was a breastwork from which the enemy had just been driven, leaving wounded and dead, their muskets, accoutrements, cooking utensils yet upon the fires, blankets, knapsacks—everything.

We continued to advance. Our first and second lines having become intermingled, needed time to restore their ranks. Hill's division now formed the first line of battle.

It was now dark, and no enemy could be seen. Their guns in the distance told us, however, that they had made a stand. We again went forward. Near the enemy's second line of intrenchments we were halted in the thick woods.

The battle seemed to have ended for the night. In our front rose a moon, the like of which was never seen. Almost completely full and in a cloudless sky, she shown calmly down on the men of two armies yet lingering in the last struggles of life and death. Here and there a gun broke the silence, as if to warn us that all was not peace; now and then a film of cannon smoke drifted across the moon, which seemed to become piteous then. There was silence in the ranks.

The line was lying down, ready, however, and alert. At about nine o'clock a sharp rattle of rifles was heard at our left—about where Lane's brigade was posted, as we thought—and soon a mournful group of men passed by us, bearing the outstretched form of one whom we knew to be some high officer. Jackson had been shot dangerously by one of Lane's regiments—the Eighteenth North Carolina.

General A.P. Hill now commanded the corps. Again all was silent, and the line lay down, as it hoped, for the night. All at once there came the noise of a gun, and another, and of a whole battery, and many batteries, and fields and woods were alive with shells and canister. More than forty pieces of cannon had been massed in our front. We lay and endured the fire. General Hill was wounded, and at midnight General Stuart of the cavalry took command of the corps. At last the cannon hushed. The terrible night passed away without sleep.

At eight o'clock on Sunday morning the Light Division, under command of General Pender, assaulted the intrenchments of the enemy. Our brigade succeeded in getting into the works; but on our right the enemy's line still held, and as it curved far to the west it had us in flank and rear. A new attack at this moment by the troops on our right would have carried the line; the attack was not made. We were compelled to abandon the breastworks and run for the woods, where we formed again at once.

And now another brigade charged, and was driven back by an enfilade fire.

At ten o'clock a third and final charge was made along the whole line; the intrenchments were ours, and Chancellorsville was won.

Company H had lost many men; Pinckney Seabrook, a most gallant officer, had fallen dead, shot by some excited man far in our rear.

We moved no farther in advance. The scattered lines re-formed, and were ready to go forward and push the Federals to the Rappahannock, but no orders came. General Lee had just received intelligence of the second battle of Fredericksburg. The enemy, under Sedgwick, had taken the heights above the town, and were now advancing against our right flank. Our division, and perhaps others, held the field of Chancellorsville, while troops were hurried east to face Sedgwick. Before the close of the 4th the Federals near Fredericksburg had been forced to retire to the north bank of the Rappahannock. By the morning of the 6th all of Hooker's army had recrossed the river.

Chancellorsville is considered Lee's greatest victory, because of the enormous odds he fought. Longstreet, with two of his divisions, was not at Chancellorsville, but was at Suffolk opposing the Federals under Peck. Hooker's army had numbered a hundred and thirty thousand, while Lee had less than sixty thousand men.

We marched back to our huts below Fredericksburg. A few days later we learned that the most illustrious man in the South was dead. No longer should we follow Stonewall Jackson.

The two corps of the army were formed into three—Longstreet's the first, Ewell's the second, and A.P. Hill's the third. Our General Gregg had been killed at Fredericksburg, and we were now McGowan's brigade. Our General Jackson had fallen at Chancellorsville, and we were now in the corps of A.P. Hill, whose promotion placed four brigades of our division under General Pender. Letters received by Company H a few weeks before had been addressed to Gregg's brigade, A.P. Hill's division, Jackson's corps; letters received now were addressed to McGowan's brigade, Pender's division, A.P. Hill's corps. But why do I talk of letters?

* * * * *

Shortly after our return to the old camp, by order of General Pender, a battalion of sharp-shooters was formed in each brigade of his division. Two or three men were taken from each, company—from the large companies three, from the small ones two. Our brigade had five regiments of ten companies each, so that McGowan's battalion of sharp-shooters was to be composed of about a hundred and twenty men. General McGowan chose Captain Haskell as the commander of the battalion. When I heard of this appointment, I went to the Captain and begged to go with him. He said, "I had already chosen you, Jones," and I felt happy and proud. When the battalion was drawn up for the first time, orders were read showing the organization of the command. There were to be three companies, each under a lieutenant. I was in Company A, with the other men from the First. Gus Rhodes, a sergeant in Company H, was named orderly-sergeant of Company A of the battalion, and Private B. Jones was named second sergeant. For a moment I wondered who this B. Jones was, and then it came upon me that no one could be meant except myself.

After the ranks broke I went to the Captain. He smiled at my approach. "You deserved it, Jones; at least I think so. I don't know the other men, and I do know you."

I stammered some reply, thanking him for his goodness toward me, and started to go away.

"Wait," said he, "I want to talk to you. Do you know the men of the company?"

"No, sir; only a few of them; but the few I know know the others and say they are good men."

"No doubt they have been well proved in the line," said he; "but you know that Company C and Company H have thus far had to do almost all the skirmishing for the regiment, and we have only four or five men in the battalion out of those companies. It is one thing, to be a good soldier in the line and another thing to be a good skirmisher."

"I suppose so, Captain," said I; "but it seems to me that anybody would prefer being in the battalion."

"No, not anybody," said the Captain; "it shows some independence of mind to prefer it. A man willing to lean on others will not like the battalion. Our duties will be somewhat different for the future. The men get their rations and their pay through their original companies, but are no longer attached to them otherwise. On the march and in battle they will serve as a distinct command, and will be exposed to many dangers that the line of battle will escape, though the danger, on the whole, will be lessened, I dare say, especially for alert men who know how to seize every advantage. But the most of the men have not been trained for such service. As a body, we have had no training at all. We must begin at once, and I expect you to hold up your end of Company A."

"I will do my best, Captain," said I.

"Come to my quarters to-night," said he; "I want you to do some writing for me."

That night a programme of drill exercises for the battalion was prepared, and day after day thereafter it was put into practice. We drilled and drilled; company drill as skirmishers; battalion drill as skirmishers; estimating distances; target firing, and all of it.

Early in June Hill's corps alone was holding the line at Fredericksburg. Ewell and Longstreet had marched away toward the Shenandoah Valley, and onward upon the road that ends at Cemetery Hill. The Federals again crossed the Rappahannock, but in small bodies. Their army was on the Falmouth Hills beyond the river.

On the 6th the battalion was ordered to the front. We took our places—five steps apart—in a road running down the river. On either side of the road was a dry ditch with a bank of earth thrown up, and with trees growing upon the bank, so that the road was a fine shaded avenue. In front, and on our side of the river, was a Federal skirmish-line—five hundred yards from us.

Firing began. The Yankees were screened from view by bushes in the low ground between us and the river. Much tall grass, woods, and broom-sedge covered the unwooded space between the opposing lines; rarely could a man be seen. Our men stood in the dry ditch and fired above the bank, which formed a natural breastwork. At my place, on the left of Company A, a large tree was growing upon the bank. I was standing behind this tree; a bullet struck it. The firing was very slow—men trying to pick a target. When the bullet struck the tree, I saw the smoke of a gun rise from behind a bush. I aimed at the bush and fired. Soon a bullet sizzed by me, and I saw the smoke at the same bush; I fired again. Again the tree was struck, and again I fired. The tree was a good protection,—possibly not so good as the bank of earth, though it gave me a much better view,—and I suppose I was a little careless; at any rate, while loading the next time I felt a sharp little pain on my arm. I jumped back into the ditch. My sleeve was torn between my arm and body. I took off my coat—there was hardly more than a scratch; the ball had grazed the inside of my arm about an inch below the armpit and had drawn some blood.

We skirmished all day, neither side advancing. The battalion had no losses. At night the Federals withdrew to their side of the river. While going back to camp our men kept up a perfect babel of talk concerning their first day's experience in the battalion of sharp-shooters. They were to undergo other experiences—experiences which would cause them to hold their tongues.



XXXI

GLOOM

"He was a man, take him all in all, I shall not see his like again"—SHAKESPEARE.

The time came for A.P. Hill to follow on after Longstreet We broke camp on the 15th, and marched day after day through Culpeper; Chester Gap, Front Royal and Berryville. On the 25th of June we forded the Potomac for the last time, crossing below Shepherdstown at the ford by which we had advanced nine months before in our hurried march from Harper's Ferry to Sharpsburg. We passed once more through Sharpsburg, and advanced to a village called Funkstown, in the edge of Pennsylvania, where our division rested for three days.

On the 29th, Sergeant Rhodes and I went foraging. At some small farmhouses far off in the hills we found provisions to sell at cheap prices. Our Confederate money was received with less unwillingness than we might have expected, We got onions, cheese, and bread—rye-bread. Rhodes was carrying a tin bucket; he wanted milk. Coming back toward camp at sunset, we met in a lane two fine cows—a boy driving them home from pasture. We halted. Rhodes ordered the boy to milk the cows; the boy replied that he could not milk. "Well, I can," said Rhodes. I held the sergeant's gun, and he soon drew his bucket full. Meantime, I was talking with the boy.

"When did you see your brother last?" I asked.

"About two months ago," said he.

"Is he the only brother you have?"

"Yes, sir."

"How does he like the army?"

"He liked it at first; Father tried to keep him from going, but he couldn't."

"And he doesn't like it now?"

"No, sir; that he don't. He hated to go back, but he had to."

"Say, young man," said Rhodes; "have you got a brother in the Yankee army?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then I don't pay you a cent for this milk."

I thought that the boy was greatly surprised to know that Rhodes had intended to pay.

* * * * *

On the last day of the month we moved again; the morning of July 1st found us marching eastward on the Cashtown road. The heat was great, although the sun was not high. The march was rapid and unobstructed, as though A.P. Hill was soon to have work to do. Heth's division led the corps. We descended from a range of high hills, having in our front an extensive region dotted over with farmhouses and with fertile fields interspersed with groves. The march continued; steadily eastward went the corps.

At nine o'clock the spasmodic patter of rifles was heard in front. We were halted. Haskell's battalion filed to the right, deployed, and the column marched on, with the sharp-shooters moving as skirmishers parallel with the brigade.

The firing in front increased. The battalion flanked to the right and went forward in line to the top of a hill overlooking a large low plain to the south. We halted in position, occupying a most formidable defensive line. In our rear, half a mile, the division, and perhaps other divisions, went by into battle, and left us on the hill, protecting their flank and rear.

Cavalry were visible in our front. They moved over the plain in many small groups, but throughout the day did not venture within range of our rifles. A great engagement seemed in progress at our rear and left. We could see the smoke of burning houses and see shells burst in the air, and could hear the shouts of our men as they advanced from one position to another, driving the enemy.

A little before sunset Captain Haskell came to me and handed me a folded paper. "Find General Pender," he said, "and give him this note. I fear the battalion has been forgotten here, and I am asking for orders. Be back as quickly as you can."

My way was over the battlefield. I passed between houses yet burning. Dead and wounded lay intermingled, Federals and Confederates. In one place behind a stone fence there were many blue corpses. The ambulances and infirmary men were busy. In a road I saw side by side a Confederate and a Federal. The Confederate was on his back; his jacket was open; his shirt showed a great red splotch right on his breast. Death must have been instantaneous.

At the Seminary I found at last our line. It had been much farther forward, but had been withdrawn to the hill. General Pender was yet on his horse. I handed him the note. He read it, and said, without looking at me, "Tell the Captain to bring his men in."

I ran down the line to find Company H. In a few minutes I saw Lieutenant Barnwell and the men. Larkin of Company H, colour-bearer of the regiment, had fallen; Corporal Jones was dead; many men were wounded. The brigade had fought well; it had charged the enemy behind a stone fence and routed them, and had pursued them through the streets of the town and taken many prisoners. Butler and Williams had gone into a house foraging, and in the cellar had taken a whole company commanded by a lieutenant. Other tales there were to tell. Albert Youmans had gone entirely through the town, followed by straggling men, and had reached the top of Cemetery Hill, and had seen a confused mass of men in utter disorganization, and had waved his hat and shouted to the men behind him to come on; but Major Alston had already ordered the pursuit stopped. The flag of the First had waved in the streets of the town before that of any other regiment. The commander of the Federals, General Reynolds, had been killed. Archer's brigade of Heth's division had in the early hours of the battle advanced too far, and many of the brigade had been captured.

All this and more I heard in the few minutes which I dared to give. I hurried back to the battalion, running to make up lost time. It was not yet thoroughly dark as I made my way for the second time over the bloody field. I passed again between the Confederate and the Federal whom I had seen lying side by side. Our man was sitting in the road, and eating hardtack.

When I reached the battalion all ears were open for news. When I told about seeing the supposed dead man alive again and eating hardtack, Charley Wilson shouted, "And he got it out of that Yankee's haversack!"

For a while that night the battalion lay behind the brigade. At ten o'clock Captain Haskell called me. He was sitting alone. He made me sit by him.

"Jones," said he, "Company A will not move to-night, but the other companies will relieve the skirmishers at daybreak."

"I wish Company A could go, too," said I.

"Company A has done a little extra duty to-day; it will be held in reserve."

"But what extra duty has Company A done, Captain?"

"It has sent one man on special service," said he; "you may say that it was not a great duty; but it was something, and rules must be observed. Of course, if your company happened to be of average number and either of the others was very small, I should take Company A instead. But it does not so happen; so the work you have done to-day gives Company A a rest—if rest it can be called."

"But why not take the whole battalion?"

"Only two companies are needed. The losses of the brigade to-day have been so great that two companies can cover our front. Lee attacks again," he continued sadly; "he has fought but one defensive battle."

"But you must allow, Captain," said I, "that Chancellorsville was a great victory—and to-day's battle also."

"Chancellorsville was indeed a great victory," said he; "but the enemy is as strong as ever. I cannot suggest anything against Chancellorsville, except that I think that we should not have stopped on Sunday morning after taking the second line of intrenchments. General Lee heard of Sedgwick's movement just at the wrong time I dare say. Should he not have pressed Hooker into the river before giving attention to Sedgwick[8]?"

[8] Captain Haskell is wrong here. Hooker's new position was impregnable to any attack the Confederates were then able to make. Hooker himself, as well as his army, wished for the Confederates to attack. Lee's march against Sedgwick, at this juncture, was the right movement. See the Comte de Paris, in loc. [ED.]

"Then you believe in attacking," said I.

"True; I do under such circumstances. The trouble with us has been that we attack resisting troops, and when we defeat them we refuse to trouble them any more: we let them get away. Yet, as you say, Chancellorsville was a great victory; anything that would have sent Hooker's army back over the river, even without a battle, would have been success. But speaking from a military view, I dare say it was a false movement to divide our forces as we did there. We succeeded because our opponents allowed us to succeed. It was in Hooker's power on Saturday to crush either Jackson or McLaws. Yet, as you suggest, General Lee was compelled to take great risks; no matter what he should do, his position seemed well-nigh desperate, and he succeeded by the narrowest margin. Even on Sunday morning, before the action began, if General Lee had only known the exact condition below us at Fredericksburg, I dare say Hooker would in the end have claimed a victory, for General Lee would not have assaulted Hooker's works."

"But would he not have overcome Sedgwick?" I asked.

"Pardon me. After Hooker's defeat Lee could afford to march against Sedgwick, but not before. I think he would have retreated. We had enormous good fortune. It was as great as at the first Manassas, when Beauregard, finding himself flanked by McDowell, won the battle by the steady conduct of a few regiments who held the enemy until Johnston's men came up. Of course I am not making any comparison between Generals Lee and Beauregard. But Manassas and Chancellorsville are past, and observe, sir, what a loss we have had to-day. I dare say the enemy's loss is heavier, but he can stand losses here, and we cannot; another day or two like to-day, and we are ruined. To beat back a corps of the enemy for a mile or so until it occupies a stronger position than before, is not—you will agree with, me—the defensive warfare which, the Confederacy began. What can General Lee do to-morrow but attack? He will attack, and I trust we shall defeat Meade's army; but we cannot destroy it, and it will be filled up again long before we can get any reenforcement. Indeed, Jones, I do not see how we can be reenforced at all—so far from our base, and the enemy so powerful to prevent it."

"Cannot General Lee await an attack?"

"I fear that he cannot, Jones; the enemy would grow stronger every day, while we should become weaker. The enemy would not attack until we should begin to retreat; then they would embarrass our retreat and endeavour to bring us to battle."

"Then you would advise immediate retreat?"

"My friend, we must risk a battle. But even if we gain it, we shall be losers. The campaign was false from the start. Is it not absurd for a small army of a weak nation to invade a great nation in the face of more powerful armies? If we had arms which the Federals could not match, we should find it easy to conquer a peace on this field. But their equipment is superior to ours. The campaign is wrong. If inactivity could not have been tolerated, we should have reenforced General Bragg and regained our own country instead of running our heads against this wall up here. But, do you not agree with, me that inactivity would have been best? Hooker's army would not have stirred this summer until too late for any important campaign. The year would have closed with Virginia secure and with great recuperation to all our eastern states. Our army would have been swelled by the return of our wounded and sick, without any losses to offset our increase. As it is, our losses are going to be difficult if not impossible to make up. I fear that Lee's army will never be as strong hereafter as it is to-night."

"But would not a great victory here give us peace?"

"I fear not; we cannot gain such a victory as would do that. Look at the victories of this war. They have been claimed by both aides—many of them. The defeated recover very quickly. Except Fort Donelson, where has there been a great victory?"

"The Chickahominy," said I.

"Gaines's Mill was a victory; but we lost more men than the Federals, and McClellan escaped us."

"Second Manassas."

"Pope claimed a victory for the first day, and his army escaped on the second day. True, it was beaten, but it is over yonder now on that hill."

"Fredericksburg."

"Yes; that was a victory, and Burnside should not have been allowed to get away. Do you remember a story in the camp to the effect that Jackson was strongly in favour of a night attack upon the Federals huddled up on our side of the river?"

"Yes, Captain. I heard of it after I returned from the hospital. You know I was not in the battle."

"I remember. Well, the rumour was true. General Jackson wished to throw his corps upon the enemy the night after the battle; the men were to wear strips of white cloth, around their arms so that they might recognize each other."

"And you believe the attack would have succeeded?"

"Beyond all question, Jones. We should have driven the Federals into the river. We lost there our greatest opportunity."

"And you think we could have done the same thing to Hooker's army?"

"True—or nearly so; but we allowed Hooker as well as Burnside to get away. I have sometimes thought that General Lee is too merciful, and that he is restrained because we are killing our own people. If Burnside's men had been of a foreign nation, I think Lee might have listened more willingly to Jackson. The feeling may have been balanced in our favour at Sharpsburg. If McClellan had been killing Frenchmen, I dare say he would have had more fight in him on the 18th of September. After all that we read in the newspapers, Jones, about the vandalism practised in this war, yet this war is, I dare say, the least inhumane that ever was waged. I don't think our men hate the men on the other side."

"I don't," said I.

"Be that as it may; whether we are too merciful or too unfortunate as to opportunity, the fact remains that armies are not destroyed; they get away; when we gain a field, it is only the moral effect that remains with us. War is different from the old wars. The only thorough defeats are surrenders. It would take days for Lee's army to shoot down Meade's at long range, even if Meade should stand and do nothing. We may defeat Meade,—I don't see why we should not,—but in less than a week we should be compelled to fight him again, and we should be weaker and he would be stronger than before."

"I have often-wondered," said I, "how the ancients destroyed whole armies."

"Conditions allowed them to do it." said the captain. "In Caesar's wars, for instance, men fought hand to hand, physical strength and endurance were the qualities that prevailed. The men became exhausted backing away or slinging away at each other. In such a condition a regiment of cavalry is turned loose on a broad plain against a division unable to flee, and one horseman puts a company to death; all he has to do is to cut and thrust."

"A victory should at least enable us to hold our ground until we could get reenforcements," I said.

"True; but we should get one man and the enemy would get twenty."

"We could retire after victory," I said.

"Can you believe that General Lee would do that? I do not know that he is responsible for this offensive campaign, but we all know that he is quicker to fight than to retreat. It is astonishing to me that his reputation is that of a defensive general. I dare say his wonderful ability as an engineer accounts for it."

"If we should gain a victory here, would not England or France recognize us?"

"Would it not require a succession of great victories for that? Ever since Lincoln's proclamation there has been no sound hope of European recognition. There was one hope, but that was soon gone."

"What was it, Captain?"

"The hope that the Confederacy would meet Lincoln's order by emancipating the slaves gradually."

"Was that seriously thought of?"

"Yes; there was much discussion of it, but privately in the main. We do not know what took place in Congress, but it has leaked out that there was a strong party there in favour of it. Whether any vote was ever had I do not know; I dare say those in favour of the measure found they were not strong enough, and thought best not to press it."

"What effect would such a course have had?"

"I can say only what I think. I believe that England would have recognized us. The North, too, would have been disarmed, in a measure. In fact, the great bugaboo that brought on the war would have been laid at rest. The North would have been eager to conciliate the South, and it would have become possible to reconstruct the Union with clear definitions of the sovereignty of the States."

"I remember your telling me long ago that you would favour a gradual emancipation."

"Yes; our form of slavery is not bad, it is true, Jones; in fact, there is great justification for it. It is too universal, however. It does not give enough opportunity for a slave to develop, and to make a future for himself. Still, we have some grand men among the slaves. Many of them would suffer death for the interest of their masters' families. Then, too, we have in the South a type unknown in the rest of the world since feudalism: we have in Virginia, in South Carolina, in Louisiana, reproductions of the old nobility. The world is richer for such men. The general condition of the slaves is good. We know that the negro is an inferior race. We have done him no injustice by giving him a small share in a civilization which his kings could never know. He was a slave at home; he is less a slave here. He has been contented. Witness his docility, his kindness even, to our wives and children while his masters are at war, seemingly to perpetuate his bonds. Such conduct deserves recognition. I would say that a system of rewards should be planned by which a worthy negro, ambitious to become free, could by meritorious conduct achieve his freedom. But this act of Lincoln's is monstrous. It is good for nobody. A race of slaves, suddenly become free, is a race of infants with the physical force of men. What would become of them? Suppose the North should succeed. Suppose the Confederate armies disbanded, and the States back in the Union or held as territories. Has anybody the least idea that the whites of the South would tolerate the new dignity of their former slaves? The condition would be but the beginning of race hatred that would grow into active hostility, and would never end. The whites would band together and punish negro offences more severely than ever. The negroes could not combine. The result would be cruelty to the black man; his condition would be far worse than before. Even supposing that Northern armies should indefinitely occupy all our territory; even supposing that our own people should be driven out and our lands given to the slaves—what would become of them? We know their character. They look not one day ahead. There would be famine, riot, pestilence, anarchy. And the worst men of the race would hold the rest in terror. Immorality would be at a premium, sir. The race would lose what it had gained. But, on the other hand, put into practice a plan for gradual freedom based on good conduct; you would see whites and blacks living in peace. The negro would begin to improve, and the white people would help him. It would not be long before the ideal of the negro would be individual freedom, not race freedom, as it is the white man's ideal now. There would be great striving throughout the negro race, which would be affected thereby from first to last of them. Yes, I believe that if we had so done we should have been recognized. England does not believe in sudden emancipation. She provides for the freeing of the slaves throughout her dominions, but gradually carries her plans into effect, and she pays the owners. I sometimes think that American Revolution was a mistake for the Southern colonies, for South Carolina especially."

"A mistake, Captain? That is a new idea to me."

"We certainly had not the reason to rebel that Massachusetts had. Our best people—and we had many of them—were closely allied to the best of the English, more closely than to Massachusetts. Our trade with the mother country was profitable, and our products were favoured by bounties. We had no connection, with the French and Indian wars which had given rise to so much trouble between Great Britain and New England. But our people thought it would be base to desert the cause of Massachusetts. I dare say this thought was the main reason that caused South Carolina to throw in her lot with that of our Northern colonies. See what we get for it. We renounce our profitable commerce with England, and we help our sister colonies; just so soon as their profitable commerce with us is threatened by our withdrawal, they maintain it by putting us to death. It is their nature, sir. They live by trade. If they continue to increase in power, they will hold the West in commercial subjection—and the isles of the sea, if they can ever reach to them. Death has no such terrors to them as loss of trade."

"But could the Revolution have succeeded without the South?"

"Certainly not. The South really bore the brunt of the war. New England suffered very little. New York suffered; so did Pennsylvania and New Jersey, but nothing in comparison with South Carolina, which was in reality no more than a conquered province for years, and yet held faithful to the cause of the colonies. And it was the eventual success of the Southern arms that caused the surrender of Cornwallis. The North is very ungrateful to us."

"With Great Britain and America under one government, we should have been a very powerful nation," said I, musingly.

"And this war never would have been possible. Our slaves would have been freed wisely, and we should have been paid for them. England and America could have controlled the world in peace; but here we are, diligently engaged in killing one another."

"Captain, I think our men are in bettor spirits than ever before."

"That is very true, Jones. They are full of hope and courage. I have hope also, but I see no quick ending to this war."

"I don't believe this army can be defeated," said I.

"It cannot. It may suffer great losses, and be forced to retreat,—indeed, I think that consequence a natural inference from the situation,—- but it cannot be badly defeated; it cannot be disorganized. It would take mouths to overcome it."

"Then you really believe that we shall retreat?"

"Yes; I believe we shall fight, and we shall fight hard, and have losses, but the enemy will be very cautious of attack, and those of us who are able to march shall see Virginia again."

"Those who are able to march? Could we leave our wounded here?"

"I was thinking only of the fallen. If ever the history of this war is truly written, the greatest honours of all will be paid to the common soldiers, men who, without a particle of interest in slaves, give their lives for independence—- the independence of their States. Yet it is useless to grieve in anticipation."

"A soldier's death should not be a thing to grieve over," said I; "at least, so it seems to me. I think I should prefer death in battle to death by disease."

"True; and death must come, sooner or later, to all of us.

"'On two days it steads not to run from the grave, The appointed and the unappointed day; On the first, neither balm nor physician can save, Nor thee, on the second, the Universe slay.'"

"Who is that, Captain?"

"The Persian Omar Khayyam, followed by Emerson."

"How do you spell that Persian's name, Captain?"

"K-h-a-y-y-a-m."

"And you pronounce it Ki-yam?"

"That is the way I pronounced it; is it not correct?"

"I don't know. I never heard of him before, but the name seems not unfamiliar. Is he living?"

"Oh, no; dead centuries since. Were you hoping to find one of your old personal friends?"

"Don't laugh, Captain. Somehow the name seems to carry me back somewhere."

"Maybe you knew him in a previous existence."

"Don't laugh, Captain. It is not the words, but merely the name that strikes me. You don't believe the words yourself."

"I do and I do not. I believe them in a sense."

"In what sense, Captain?"

"In the sense in which the poet taught. The religion of the East is fatalism. A fatalist who endeavours to shun death is inconsistent."

"But you are not a fatalist."

"No, and yes. Another poet has said that divinity shapes the ends that we rough-hew; I should reverse this and say that life is blocked out in the large for us by powers over which we can have no control, but that within certain limits we do the shaping of our own lives."

"A new and better version," said I; "to-morrow some shaping will be done. What effect on the general result to nations and the world does one battle, more or fewer, have?"

"Some events are counterbalanced by others, seemingly, and the result is nothing; but every event is important to some life."

"Captain, Youmans says he got to the top of the hill over yonder, and that we could have occupied it but that our men were recalled."

"It would have made little difference," said he. "The enemy would only have intrenched farther off. I dare say they are digging at this moment."

Then he said, "Go back to your place, Jones, and never fail to do your full duty. I am serious, because war is serious. The more we have to do, the more must we nerve ourselves to do it. We must collect all our energies, and each man must do the work of two. Impress the men strongly with the necessity for courage and endurance."

The full moon was shining in high heaven. I bade the Captain good night.

* * * * *

On the morning of July 2d, Company A still lay behind the brigade, which was in line a little to the south of the Seminary. The sun shone hot. The skirmishers were busy in front. Artillery roared at our left and far to our right. At times shells came over us. A caisson near by exploded. In the afternoon a great battle was raging some two miles to our right. Longstreet's corps had gone in.

At four o'clock I saw some litter-bearers moving to the rear. On the litter was a body. The litter-bearers halted. A few men gathered around. Then the men of Company H began to stir. Some of them approached the litter. Who was it? I became anxious. The men came slowly back—one at a time—grim.

I asked who it was that had been killed.

"Captain Haskell," they said.

My tongue failed me, as my pen does now. What! Captain Haskell? Our Captain dead? Who had ever thought that he might be killed? I now knew that I had considered him like Washington—invulnerable. He had passed through so many dangers unhurt, had been exposed to so many deaths that had refused to demand him, had so freely offered his life, had been so calm and yet so valiant in battle, had been so worshipped by all the left wing of the regiment and by the battalion, had been so wise in council and so forceful in the field, had, in fine, been one of those we instinctively feel are heroes immortal! And now he was dead? It could not be! There must be some mistake!

But I looked, and I saw Lieutenant Barnwell in tears, and I saw Sergeant Mackay in tears, and I saw Rhodes in tears—and I broke down utterly.



XXXII

NIGHT

"From camp to camp, through the foul womb of night, The hum of either army stilly sounds, That the fixed sentinels almost receive The secret whispers of each other's watch." —SHAKESPEARE.

As the sun was setting on that doleful day, Company A was ordered forward to the skirmish-line. We deployed and marched down the hill in front of the Seminary. Cemetery Height was crowned with cannon and intrenched infantry. The wheat field on its slope was alive with skirmishers whose shots dropped amongst us as we advanced. Down our hill and into the hollow; there the fire increased and we lay flat on the ground. Our skirmish-line was some two or three hundred yards in front of us, in the wheat on the slope of the ascent. Twilight had come.

Just on my left a brigade advanced up the hill through the wheat; what for, nobody knew and nobody will ever know[9]. It was Ramseur's brigade of Rodes's division.

[9] Ramseur's was the extreme right brigade of Ewell's corps, which at the moment was making an attack upon Culp's Hill. [ED.]

Company A advanced and united to Company C's left. I was now the left guide of the battalion. I saw no pickets at my left. I thought it likely that the brigade advancing had taken the skirmishers into its ranks.

Ramseur's men continued to go forward up the hill through the wheat. We could yet see them, but indistinctly. They began firing and shouting; they charged the Federal army. What was expected of them? It seemed absurd; perhaps it was a feint. The flashes of many rifles could be seen. Suddenly the brigade came running back down, the hill, helter-skelter, every man for himself. They passed us, and went back toward the main lines on Seminary Ridge.

It was my duty to connect our left with the right of the pickets of the next brigade. But I saw nobody. Ramseur had left no picket in these parts. His men had gone, all of them, except those who had remained and must remain in the wheat farther up the hill.

Where was the picket-line to which ours must connect? I made a circuit to my left, a hundred yards or more; no pickets. I returned and passed word down the line to the lieutenant in command of Company A that I wanted to see him on the left. He came, and I explained the trouble. The lieutenant did not know what to do. This gentleman was a valuable officer in the line, but was out of place in the battalion. He asked me what ought to be done. I replied that we must not fail to connect, else there would be a gap in the line, and how wide a gap nobody could tell. If I had known then what I know now, I should have told him to report the condition to Colonel Perrin, who was in command of the brigade, but I did otherwise; I told him that if he would remain on the left, I would hunt for the picket-line. He consented.

I first went to the left very far, and then to the rear and searched a long time, but found nobody. I returned to the left of Company A and proposed to go forward through the wheat and hunt for our pickets. The lieutenant approved.

The word was passed down the line that I was going to the front. I moved slowly up the hill through the wheat. There was a moon, over which bunches of cloud passed rapidly. While the moon would be hidden I went forward. When the cloud had passed, I stooped and looked. Here and there in the wheat lay dead skirmishers, and guns, and many signs of battle. The wheat had been trodden down.

Cautiously I moved on until I was a hundred yards in advance of the battalion. I saw no picket. Here the wheat was standing, in most places untrodden. I looked back down the hill; I could not see our own men. I went forward again for forty yards. Now at my right I saw a fence, or rather a line of bushes and briers which had grown up where a fence had been in years past. This fence-row stretched straight up the hill toward the cemetery. I went to it. It would serve my purpose thoroughly. In the shelter of this friendly row of bushes I crept slowly up the hill. I was now in front of Company A's right.

The moon shone out and then was hidden. I was two hundred yards in advance of the battalion. I laid my gun on the ground and crawled along the fence-row for fifty yards, at every instant pausing and looking. I reached a denser and taller clump of bushes, and raised myself to my full height. In front were black spots in the wheat—five paces apart—- a picket-line—whose?

The spots looked very black. Gray would look black in this wheat with the moonlight on it. I turned my belt-buckle behind my back, lest the metal should shine. The line of spots was directly in front of me, and on both sides of the fence-row. The line seemed to stretch across the front of the whole battalion. If that was our picket, why should there be another in rear of it? They must be Yankees.

I looked at them for two minutes. They were still as death. The line was perfect. If it was a Confederate line, there might be men nearer to me,—officers, or men going and returning in its rear,—but the line seemed straight and perfect. The spots did not seem tall enough for standing men. No doubt they were sitting in the wheat with their guns in their laps. I heard no word—not a sound except the noises coming from the crest of the hill beyond them, where was the Federal line of battle. I looked back. Seminary Ridge seemed very far. I crawled back to my gun, picked it up, rose, and looked again toward the cemetery. I could no longer see the spots. I walked back down the hill, moving off to my right in order to strike the left of Company A. The battalion had not budged.

I reported. The lieutenant was chagrined. I told him that I felt almost sure that the men I had seen were Yankees. What to do? We ought to have sent a man back to the brigade, but we did not. Why we did not, I do not know, unless it was that we felt it our duty to solve the difficulty ourselves. The left of the battalion was unprotected; this would not do. Something must be done.

I suggested that the left platoon of Company A extend intervals to ten paces and cover more ground. The lieutenant approved. The left platoon extended intervals to ten paces, moving silently from centre to left. This filled perhaps sixty yards of the unknown gap. Still no pickets could be seen. I made a semicircle far to my left and returned.

Captain Haskell was not there. He would have sent ten men to the left until something was found. He would have filled the interval, even had it required the whole battalion to stretch to twenty steps apart, at least until he could report to Colonel Perrin, or General Pender. Lieutenant Sharpe, in command of the battalion, was far to the right—perhaps four hundred yards from us. We should have sent word to him down the line, but we did not do it. The night was growing. How wide was the gap? Why did not the pickets on the other side of this gap search for us? If the enemy knew our condition, a brigade or more might creep through the gap; still the lieutenant did not propose anything.

At last I said that although the picket-line in front looked like a Yankee line, it was yet possible that it was ours, and that I thought I could get nearer to it than I had been before, and speak to the men without great danger. Truth is, that I had begun to fear sarcasm. What if, to-morrow morning, we should see a line of gray pickets in our front? Should I ever hear the last of it?

Again the lieutenant approved. He would have approved of anything. He was a brave officer. I verily believe that if I had proposed an advance of Company A up the hill, he would have approved, and would have led the advance.

The company stood still, and I started again. I reached the place where I had been before, and crawled on a few yards farther. Again the thought came that there would have been some communicating between that line and ours if that were Confederate. If they were our men, we had been in their rear for three hours. Impossible to suppose that nobody in that time should have come back to the rear. Clearly it was a Federal line, and I was in its front. Then it occurred to me that it was possible they had a man or two in the fence-row between me and their line. There could be no need for that, yet the idea made me shiver. At every yard of my progress I raised my head, and the black spots were larger—and not less black. They were very silent and very motionless—the sombre night-picture of skirmishers on extreme duty; whoever they were, they felt strongly the presence of the enemy.

Ten yards in front, and ten feet to the right, I saw a post—a gate-post, I supposed. There was no gate. This fence-row, along which I was crawling, indicated a fence rotted down or removed. There had once been a gate hanging to that post and closing against another post now concealed by the bushes of the fence-row. I would crawl to that post out there, and speak to the men in front. They would suppose that I was in the fence-row, and, if they fired, would shoot into the bushes, while I should be safe behind the post—such was my thought.

I reached the post. It was a hewn post of large size—post-oak, I thought. I lay down behind it; I raised my head and looked. The black spots were very near—perhaps thirty or forty yards in front. The line stretched on to my right. I could not now see toward the left—through the fence-row.

It was not necessary to speak very loud.

I asked, "Whose picket is that?"

My voice sounded strangely tremulous.

There was no answer.

If they were Confederates, I was in their rear, and there would be no sense in their refusal to reply; some one would have said, "Come up and see!" or something. There was no movement. I could see that the black spots had become large objects; the moon was shining.

I must ask again.

I remember that at that moment I thought of our Captain—dead that day.

I spoke again, "Gentlemen, is that the picket of Ramseur's brigade?"

No answer.

Again I spoke, "Gentlemen, is that Ramseur's North Carolina brigade?"

Not a word.

It now seemed folly for me to remain. Who were these men? Certainly Federals. I was in imminent danger of being captured. Two or three men might rush forward and seize me before I could get to my feet. Yet, would not a line of our men out here be silent? They would be very near the enemy and would be very silent. But they would send a man back to make me stop talking. They were Yankees; but why did they not say something? or do something? Perhaps they were in doubt about me. I was so near their lines they could hardly believe me a Confederate. I half decided to slip away at once.

But I wished some conclusion to the matter. I wanted to satisfy the lieutenant and myself also.

Again I spoke, "Will you please tell me what brigade that is?"

A voice replied, "Our brigade!"

This reply, in my opinion, was distinctly Confederate. I had heard it frequently. It was an old thing. Often, when waiting for troops to pass, you would ask, "What regiment is that?" and some-would-be wag would say, "Our regiment."

I rose to my feet behind the post, but dropped again as quickly. Before I had stood erect the thought came that possibly the Yankees also had this old by-word. Then another thought—had the Yankees selected one man to reply to me? Had all but one been ordered to preserve silence, and was this one an expert chosen to entrap me? A man perhaps who knew something of the sayings in the Southern army?

Now, in an effort to bring things to a pass, I shouted loud, "What army do you belong to?"

Another voice shouted loud, "What army do you belong to?"

I had emphasized the word "army." He had emphasized the word "you."

Perhaps they thought I might be one of their own men, sent out in front and trying to return; but if that were the case, why did they not bid me come in? If they thought me a Confederate, very likely they thought I was trying to desert, and feeling my way through fear of falling into the hands of the wrong people.

I replied at once, "I am a rebel."

What it was that influenced me to use the word I do not know, unless it was that I thought that if they were our men I was safe, being in their rear, and that if they were Yankees they would at once accept the challenge. I wanted to end the matter.

They accepted.

A dozen voices shouted, "We are for the Union!" and half a dozen rifles cracked.

They must have fired into the fence-row. I heard no bullet—but then, no bullet can be heard at such a nearness.

I kept my post—flat on my face. It would not be best for me to rise and run. Perhaps I could get off by doing so, but I could manage better. I would remain quiet until they should think I had gone. Then I would crawl away.

Two or three minutes passed. I was making up my mind to start. Suddenly a gruff voice spoke. It was near me. It was in the fence-row. A Yankee had crept toward me. He said, at an ordinary pitch, but very gruffly, "Who are you, anyhow?"

If he is yet alive, these lines may inform him that I was Jones. It was my time to be silent. I feared that he would continue to come, but the next instant I knew that he was in doubt as to how many I was, and I stuck fast.

I heard nothing more. No doubt he had given it up—had gone back and reported that the enemy had disappeared from the immediate front.

Five minutes more, and I had picked up my gun and was walking back to our line. I struck it in front of Company C, whose men had been warned that I was out, but who now had to be restrained from firing on me. They had heard the voices up the hill, and bullets had whistled over them, and they had thought me a prisoner, so when they saw a man coming toward them they were itching to shoot.

We remained all night as we were, with a gap in the skirmish-line at the left of Pender's division.



XXXIII

HELL

"Each volley tells that thousands cease to breathe; Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel the shock." —BYRON.

The morning came—the morning of Friday, the 3d of July. Just as the sun was rising in our faces the Federal skirmishers advanced. Down the hill they came at the run. Lieutenant Sharpe ordered a countercharge, and the battalion rushed to meet the enemy. We were almost intermixed with them before they ran. And now our lieutenant of Company A showed his mettle. He sprang before his company, sword in his left hand and revolver in the other, and led the fight, rushing right up the hill, and, when near enough, firing every barrel of his pistol. We took a few prisoners. Both lines settled back to their first positions.

We had lost some men. A detail of infirmary people came from the rear to carry off the wounded. Hutto had been shot badly. As four men lifted the stretcher, one of them was killed, and Hutto rolled heavily to the ground. Another of the litter bearers was shot, leaving but two; they raised their stretcher in the air and moved it about violently. The Yankees ceased firing.

The day had begun well, but we knew there was long and deadly work ahead. We began to make protection. Low piles of rails, covered with wheat-straw and earth dug up by bare hands, soon appeared along the line. The protection was slight, yet by lying flat our bodies could not be seen. On their side the Yankee skirmishers also had worked, and were now behind low heaps of rails and earth. Practice-shooting began, and was kept up without intermission for hour after hour.

We lay in the broiling sun. Orders came down the line for the men to be sparing with water.

From my pit I could look back and see the cupola of the Seminary—could see through the cupola from one window to the other. The Seminary was General Lee's headquarters.

To our right and front was a large brick barn—the Bliss barn. Captain Haskell had been killed by a bullet fired from this barn. It was five hundred yards from the pits of Company A.

The Bliss barn was held by the Yankees. The skirmishers beyond the right of the battalion charged and took it. A regiment advanced from the Federal side, drove our men off, and occupied the barn. They began to enfilade the pits of Company A. All the while, we were engaged in front.

A shot from the barn killed Sergeant Rhodes. Orders came down the line for me to take his place at the right of the company.

Since the day before, I had thought that I had one friend in Company A—Rhodes. Now Rhodes was dead.

We fired at the men who showed themselves at the barn—right oblique five hundred yards.

We fired at the skirmishers behind the rail piles in front—two hundred yards.

A man in a pit opposite mine hit my cartridge-box. I could see him loading. His hand was in the air. I saw him as low as his shoulder. I took good aim. A question arose in my mind—and again I thought of the Captain: Am I angry with that man? Do I feel any hatred of him? And the answer came: No; I am fighting for life and liberty; I hate nobody. I fired, and saw the man no more.

Our men far to the right retook the barn. Again the enemy recovered it.

Cartridges were running low. Some brave men ran back to the line of battle for more cartridges. The skirmishing was incessant. Our losses were serious. We had fought constantly from sunrise until past midday, and there was no sign of an ending.

At one o'clock a shell from our rear flew far above us, and then the devil broke loose. More than a hundred guns joined in, and the air was full of sounds. The Bliss barn was in flames. The Federal batteries answering doubled the din and made the valley and its slopes a hell of hideous noises. All of the enemy's missiles went far over our heads; we were much nearer to the Federal artillery than to our own. Some of our shells, perhaps from defective powder, fell amongst us; some would burst in mid air, and the fragments would hurtle down. The skirmishing ceased—in an ocean one drop more is naught.

I walked down the line of Company A. Peacock was lying dead with his hat over his face. The wounded—those disabled—were unrelieved. The men were prostrate in their pits, powder-stained, haggard, battle-worn, and stern. Still shrieked the shells overhead, and yet roared the guns to front and rear—a pandemonium of sight and sound reserved from the foundation of the world for the valley of Gettysburg. The bleeding sun went out in smoke. The smell of burning powder filled the land. Before us and behind us bursting caissons added to the hellish magnificence of this awful picture,—in its background a school of theology, and in its foreground the peaceful city of the dead.

For more than an hour the hundreds of hostile guns shook earth and sky; then there was silence and stillness. But the stillness was but brief. Out from our rear and right now marched the Confederate infantry on to destruction.

We of the skirmishers felt that our line was doomed. I saw men stand, regardless of exposure, and curse the day. For more than eighteen hours we had been near the Federal lines. We had no hope. We knew that our line, marching out for attack, could not even reach the enemy. Before it could come within charging distance it would be beaten to pieces by artillery. The men looked at the advancing line and said one to another, "Lee has made a mistake."

The line came on. It was descending the slope of Seminary Ridge.

The Federal batteries began to work upon the line. Into the valley and up the hill it came, with all the cannon in our front and right,—and far to the right,—pumping death into its ranks.

I gave it up. I thought of Captain Haskell, and of his words concerning General Lee's inclination to attack. I was no military man; I knew nothing of scientific war, but I was sure that time had knelled the doom of our poor line—condemned to attack behind stone fences the flower of the Army of the Potomac protected by two hundred guns. It was simply insane. It was not war, neither was it magnificent; it was too absurd to be grand.

Great gaps were made in the line. It came on and passed over the skirmishers. The left of the line passed over us just beyond the spot where Rhodes lay dead. I could see down our line. It was already in tatters. Writers of the South and of the North have all described Pickett's charge as gallant, and have said that his line came on like troops on dress-parade. It was gallant enough—too gallant; but there was no dress-parade. Our officers and men on Seminary Ridge were looking at Pickett's division from its rear; the blue men were looking upon it from its front; from neither position could the alignment be seen; to them it looked straight and fine; but that line passed by me so that I looked along it, and I know that it was swayed and bent long before it fired a shot. As it passed over us, it was scattered—many men thirty, forty, even fifty yards in front of other men. No shame to Pickett's men for this. The charge should not be distinguished for mere gallantry, but for something far superior—endurance. From right and front and left, a semicircle of fire converged upon their ranks and strewed the ground with their dead. For half a mile they advanced under an iron tempest such as Confederate troops never saw elsewhere than at Gettysburg—- a tempest in which no army on earth could live.

I was hoping that the line would break and run before it came under the fire of infantry; but it did not break. It was ragged, because the gaps could not be filled as fast as they were made; but the fragments kept on up the hill, uniting as they went.

And the line disappears in smoke, which tells us, as well as the sound, that the Federal infantry and ours have at last joined their battle. Here and there we see a real battle-flag violently shaking; the thunder of the cannon no more is heard; the smoke recedes, and our men—those that are left, but not the line—still go forward.

Pickett has reached the hostile infantry. On his left and right swarm out against his flanks the army of the enemy, while in his front still stand the stone bulwarks over which but few of his men live to pass.

Yet the fight still rages. The Federal skirmishers everywhere have long ago withdrawn, so that we can stand and move and watch the struggle for the graves. In a narrow circle on the hill, where a few trees stand, smoke builds up and eddies. Up there death and fate are working as they never worked. Lines of infantry from either flank move toward the whirlpool. They close upon the smoke.

Now we see a few men dropping back out of the smoke and running half-bent down the hill. Their numbers increase. All who have the hardihood to run try to escape, but many remain and become prisoners.

A brigade or two of the enemy advance from their works on their right and endeavour to intercept the fugitives. A brigade of Confederates advances on our left, but stops in the wheat. The battle of Gettysburg is over.



XXXIV

FALLING-WATERS

"Prepare you, generals: The enemy comes on in gallant show; Their bloody sign of battle is hung out, And something to be done immediately." —SHAKESPEARE.

On the night of the 4th the retreat began, Pender's division leading. Rain fell in torrents. Rations were not to be had. The slow retreat continued on the next day and the next. At Hagerstown we formed line of battle.

The sharp-shooters were in front. The Federal skirmishers advanced against us. We held our own, but lost some men.

The rain kept on. We were in a field of wheat, behind rifle-pits made of fence-rails. We rubbed the ears of wheat in our hands, and ate the grain uncooked. The regiment sent out foraging parties, but with little success. There was great suffering from hunger.

For three days and nights we were on the line at Hagerstown, skirmishing every day. Captain Shooter of the First now commanded the battalion. We were told that the Potomac was at a high stage, and that we must wait until a pontoon bridge could be laid.

At ten o'clock on the night of the 13th the sharp-shooters received orders to hold their line at all hazards until dawn; then to retire. The division was withdrawing and depended upon us to prevent the advance of the enemy. Rain fell all night. We were wet to the skin and almost exhausted through hunger, fatigue, and watching.

At daylight we were back at the breastworks. Everybody had gone. We followed after the troops. The rain ceased, but the mud was deep; the army had passed over it before us. We marched some ten miles. After sunrise we could hear a few shots, now and then, behind us. We supposed that the enemy's advance was firing on our stragglers as they would try to get away. The march was very difficult, because of the mud and mainly because of our exhaustion.

We reached the top of a high hill overlooking the Potomac a mile away. It must have been after ten o'clock. On the Virginia hills we could see a great host of men, and long lines of artillery and wagons—some filing slowly away to the south, others standing in well-ordered ranks. On some prominent hills batteries had been planted. It was a great sight. The sun was shining on this display. Lee's army had effected a crossing.

On the Maryland side the road descending was full of troops. At the river was a dense mass of wagons, and brigade upon brigade with stacked arms, the division resting and waiting for its turn to cross; for there was but one bridge, over which a stream of men was yet passing, and it would take hours for all to cross.

We were halted on the hill. A moment was sufficient for the men to decide that the halt would be a long one. Down everybody dropped on the ground, to rest and sleep.

The next thing I knew I was wide awake, with rifles cracking all around me. I sprang to nay feet. Somebody, just in my rear, fired, with his gun at my left ear; for weeks I was deaf in that ear. Men on horses were amongst us—blue men with drawn sabres and with pistols which they were firing. Our men were scattering, not in flight, but to deploy.

A horseman was coming at me straight—twenty yards from me. He was standing in his stirrups and had his sword uplifted. I aimed and fired. He still came on, but for a moment only. He doubled up and went headforemost to the ground.

The battalion had deployed. But few, if any, of the horsemen who had ridden into us had got away; but they were only the advance squadron. More were coming. Our line was some two hundred and fifty yards long, covering the road. We advanced. It would not do to allow the enemy to see, over the crest of the hill, our compacted troops at the head of the bridge. The numbers of the Federals constantly increased. They outflanked us on our right. They dismounted and deployed as skirmishers. They advanced, and the fighting began.

Company A was in an open ground covered with, dewberry vines, and the berries were ripe. We ate dewberries and loaded and fired. I never saw so many dewberries or any so good. Bullets whizzed over us and amongst us, but the men ate berries. I had on a white straw hat that I had swapped for with one of the men; where he had got it, I don't know. My hat was a target. I took it off.

The enemy continued to extend his line beyond our right. From the division below, the first regiment was sent back to help us. The regiment deployed on our right and began firing. The enemy still increased, and other regiments were sent back to us, until we had a skirmish-line more than a mile long, and had a reserve force ready to strengthen any weak part of the line.

The Federals broke through our line at the left, but the line was reestablished. They got around our right and a few of them got into our rear. One of them rode up to Peagler of Company H, an unarmed infirmary man; he brandished his sword and ordered Peagler to surrender. Peagler picked up a fence-rail and struck the rider from his horse.

Company H of the First, only about fifteen men, were in a house, firing from the windows. Suddenly they saw the enemy on both their flanks and rapidly gaining their rear. A rush was made from the house, and the company barely escaped, losing a few men wounded, who, however, got away.

General Pettigrew was killed. The fight kept growing. It had already lasted three hours and threatened to continue.

At length, we were forced back by the constantly increasing numbers of the Federals. As we readied the top of the hill again, we could see that the bridge was clear. All the wagons and troops were on the south side of the river. On the bridge were only a few straggling men running across.

And now came our turn. We retreated down the hill. At once its crest was occupied by the Federal skirmishers, and at once they began busily to pop away at us. I ran along, holding my white hat in my hand.

We reached lower ground, and our batteries in Virginia began to throw shells over our heads to keep back the enemy. The battalion flanked to the right, struck the bridge, and rushed headlong across, with Yankee bullets splashing the water to the right and left; meanwhile our batteries continued to throw shells over our heads, and Federal guns, now unlimbered on the Maryland side, were answering with spirit.



XXXV

AWAKENINGS

"'Tis far off; And rather like a dream than an assurance That my remembrance warrants."—SHAKESPEARE.

With the passage of the sharp-shooters into Virginia at Falling Waters, the campaign was at an end. The pontoon bridge was cut. We marched a mile from the river and halted; it was five o'clock. At night we received two days' rations; I ate mine at one meal.

On the 15th the division moved to Bunker Hill. I gave out. Starvation and a full meal had been too much for me. I suffered greatly, not from fatigue, but from illness. I stepped out of ranks, went fifty yards into the thicket, and lay down under a tree.

That the enemy was following was likely enough; I hardly cared. I shrank from captivity, but I thought of death without fearing it.

My mind was in a peculiar attitude toward the war. We had heard of the surrender of Vicksburg. Not even the shadow of demoralization had touched Lee's army in consequence of Gettysburg; but now men talked despairingly—with Vicksburg gone the war seemed hopeless.

Under the tree was peace. Company H had gone on. Company A had gone on. What interest had they in me or I in them? I had fever.

The sounds of the troops marching on the road reached me in the thicket. A few moments ago I was marching on the road. I was one of fifty thousand; they have gone on.

Here, under this tree, I am one. But what one? I came I know not whence; I go I know not whither. Let me go. What matter where? My Captain has gone.

Perhaps I wander in mind. I have fever.

At one time I think I am going to die, and I long for death. The life I live is too difficult.

And the South is hopeless. Better death than subjection. The Captain has not died too soon.

What a strong, noble, far-seeing man! I shall never forget him. I shall never see his like, I envy him. He has resolved all doubt; I am still enchained to a fate that drags me on and on into ... into what? What does the Captain think now? Does he see me lying here? Can he put thoughts into my mind? Can he tell me who I am? What does he think now of slavery? of State rights? of war?

He is at peace; he knows that peace is better. Yes, peace is better. He is at peace. Would I also were at peace.

I slept, and when I awoke my strength had returned. I crept to the road, fearing to see Federal troops. Neither Confederate nor Federal was in sight. I tramped steadily southward and caught up at Bunker Hill.

* * * * *

By the 24th of July we had crossed the Blue Ridge and were approaching Culpeper.

During the months of August and September we were in camp near Orange Court-House.

My distaste for the service became excessive, unaccountably, I should have thought, but for the fact that my interest in life had so greatly suffered because of the Captain's death.

My friend was gone. I wished for nothing definite. I had no purpose. To fight for the South was my duty, and I felt it, but I had no relish for fighting. Fighting was absurd.

The Captain had said, on the last night of his life, that he imagined General Lee and perhaps General McClellan felt great reluctance in giving orders that would result in the death of Americans at the hands of Americans. I remembered that at Gettysburg, in the act of pulling the trigger, I had found no hatred in me toward the man I was trying to kill. I wondered if the men generally were without hate. I believed they were; there might be exceptions.

We had lost General Pender at Gettysburg. We were now Wilcox's division. We had camp guard and picket duty.

Since the Captain's death the battalion of sharp-shooters had been dissolved, and I was back in Company H. The life was monotonous. Some conscripts were received into each company. Many of the old men would never return to us. Some were lying with two inches of earth above their breasts; some were in the distant South on crutches they must always use.

The spirit of the regiment was unbroken. The men were serious. Captain Barnwell read prayers at night in the company.

I thought much but disconnectedly, and was given to solitude. I made an object of myself. My condition appealed to my sympathy. Where had there ever been such an experience? I thought of myself as Berwick, and pitied him. I talked to him, mentally, calling him you.

Dr. Frost was beyond my reach. I wanted to talk to him. He had been promoted, and was elsewhere.

At night I had dreams, and they were strange dreams. For many successive nights I could see myself, and always I thought of the "me" that I saw as a different person from the "me" that saw.

My health suffered greatly, but I did not report to the surgeon.

Somehow I began to feel for my unknown friends. They had long ago given me up for dead.

Perhaps, however, some were still hoping against certainty. My mind was filling with fancies concerning them—concerning her. How I ever began to think of such, a possibility I could not know.

My fancies embraced everything. My family might be rich and powerful and intelligent; it, might be humble, even being the strong likelihood was that it was neither, but was of medium worth.

My fancy—it began in a dream—pictured the face of a woman, young and sweet weeping for me. I wept for her and for myself. Who was she? Was she all fancy?