Chapter 8

FROM HARPER'S FERRY TO FREDERICKSBURG

We remained on Bolivar Heights, at Harper's Ferry, without further special incident until the 31st of October, 1862. In the mean time Lieutenant-Colonel Wilcox had been promoted to colonel to fill the vacancy caused by the death of Colonel Oakford at Antietam. Major Albright had been promoted to lieutenant-colonel and the senior captain, Shreve, Company A, had been made major. Colonel Wilcox was on his back with a severe case of typhoid fever, and Lieutenant-Colonel Albright had been some ten days absent on sick leave, during which time Major Shreve had been in command. Lieutenant-Colonel Albright, hearing of the probable movement of the army, rejoined us in time to take command as we bade farewell to Harper's Ferry. To show how little a soldier can know of what is before him, I note the fact that we had just completed fixing up our quarters for cold weather at Camp Bolivar. This involved considerable labor and some expense. My diary records the fact that I had put up a "California stove" in my tent. This, if I remember rightly, was a cone-shaped sheet-iron affair, which had a small sliding door and sat on the ground, with a small pipe extending through the canvas roof just under the ridge-pole to the rear. It cost, I think, about four dollars, and required some skill in "setting up," chiefly in fixing the pipe so that it would not tumble about one's ears with every blast of wind that shook the tent, and in windy weather would at least carry some of the smoke outside. A special course of engineering was almost needed to be able to properly handle those stoves. A little too much fire, and you had to adopt Pat's remedy when Biddy's temper got up--sit on the outside until it cooled down. Too little was worse than none, for your tent became a smoke-house. On the whole, they were much like the goose the aforesaid Pat captured and brought into camp, "a mighty unconvanient burr'd, a little too big for one and not big enough for two."

This fixing up of quarters had been done in contemplation of remaining here through the winter, and we had taken our cue from like actions of our brigade officers, who were supposed to know something about the movements of the army. When we got orders on the 29th of October to prepare for the march, I was assured by the adjutant-general of our brigade that it was nothing more than a day's reconnoissance, and that we were certainly not going to move our quarters. He knew as much about it as I did. Within an hour after this order another came directing us to move in heavy marching order, with three days' rations and sixty rounds of ammunition. And so we moved out of Harper's Ferry on the 31st of October, leaving our fixed-up quarters, with my four-dollar stove, to Geary's division, which succeeded to our camp.

We crossed the Shenandoah on a pontoon bridge and skirted the mountain under Loudon Heights over the same route south that we had taken on our way in from the Leesburg raid. We marched very leisurely, making during the first four days only about twenty-five miles, to a village bearing the serious (?) name of Snickersville. Here we had the first evidence of the presence of the enemy. We were hurried through this village and up through the gap in the mountain called "Snicker's Gap" to head off the rebels. We soon came on to their scouts and pickets, who fled precipitately without firing a gun. Part of our division halted on the top of the gap, while a couple of regiments skirmished through the woods both sides of the road down to the foot of the mountain on the other side. The enemy had taken "French leave," and so our men returned and our division bivouacked here for the night.

We now learned that these giant armies were moving south in parallel columns, the mountain separating them. At every gap or pass in the mountain a bristling head or a clinched fist, so to speak, of one would be thrust through and the other would try to hit it. This was our mission, as we double-quicked it through this gap. When we got there the "fist" had been withdrawn, and our work for the time was over. But our bivouac here--how beautiful it was! The fields were clean and green, with plenty of shade, for right in the gap were some good farms. Then the cavalry had not cleaned the country of everything eatable, as was usual, they being always in the advance. There was milk and bread to be had, and somehow--I never dared to inquire too closely about it--some good mutton came into camp that night, so that we had a splendid breakfast next morning. Some fine honey was added to the bill of fare. The man who brought in the latter claimed that a rebel hive of bees attacked him whilst on picket duty, and he confiscated the honey as a measure of retaliation.

But the special feature that makes that camp linger in my memory was the extraordinary beauty of the scene in the valley below us when the evening camp-fires were lighted. We were on a sort of table-land two or three hundred feet above the broad valley, which widened out at this point and made a most charming landscape. As the darkness drew on the camp-fires were lighted, and the scene became one of weird, bewitching beauty. Almost as far as the eye could reach, covering three and possibly four square miles, were spread out the blazing camp-fires of that mighty host of our "Boys in Blue." No drums were beaten and the usual retreat call was not sounded, but the thousands of camp-fires told of the presence of our men. A martial city was cooking its evening coffee and resting its weary limbs in the genial camp-fire glow, whilst weary hearts were refreshed with the accompanying chat about friends and dearer ones at home. The scouting "Johnny Rebs" (and there were no doubt plenty of them viewing the scene) could have gotten from it no comforting information to impart as to our numbers. Most of the Army of the Potomac, now largely augmented by new regiments, was there, probably not less than one hundred thousand men. It was a picture not of a lifetime, but of the centuries. It made my blood leap as I realized that I was looking down upon the grandest army, all things considered, of any age or time. Its mission was to save to liberty and freedom the life of the best government the world ever saw. In its ranks was the best blood of a free people. In intelligence it was far superior to any other army that ever existed. Scholars of all professions, tradesmen and farmers, were there, fighting side by side, animated by the same patriotic impulse. I said to myself, it is impossible that that army should be beaten. It is the strong right arm of the Union, and under God it shall assuredly deal the death-blow to the rebellion. This it certainly did, though at a fearful cost, for it was fighting the same blood. The inspiration of that scene made me glad from the bottom of my heart that I had the privilege of being just one in that glorious army. After forty years, what would I take for that association with all its dangers and hardships? What for these pictures and memories? They are simply priceless. I only wish I could so paint the pictures and reproduce the scenes that they might be an inspiration to the same patriotism that moved this mighty host.

One of our grizzly-headed "boys," after forty years, tells the following story of his experiences on a foraging expedition from the camp. Three of them started out after beef. Some young steers had been seen in the distance. They reached the field, a mile or more from camp. They found the game a mighty vigorous lot of young steers, and their troubles began when they tried to corral any one of them. Both ends seemed to be in business at the same time, whilst a tail-hold proved to have more transportation possibilities than they had ever dreamed of. Coaxing and persuasion proved utter failures, for the bovines seemed to have the same prejudices against our blue uniforms their owners had, and it would not do to fire a gun. However, after two hours of the hardest exercise they ever had, they succeeded in "pinching" their steer with nose, horn, and tail-holds. Neither of them had ever undertaken to butcher a beef before, and a good-sized jackknife was all they had to work with. But beef they came for and must have, and one was selected to do the trick. Here again they counted without their quarry. The latter evidently objected to being practised on by novices, for as the knife entered his neck he gave a jump which somehow nearly severed the would-be butcher's thumb. Nevertheless, he completed his work without a word, and the animal was skinned and divided. Just as they had him down a field officer rode almost on to them. They felt sure that their "fat was in the fire," for the officer--probably the field officer of the day--certainly saw them and saw what they were doing. But he turned and rode away without saying a word. It was evidently one of those things he did not want to see. Well, the fun was not yet over. They backed their beef to camp, and this was about as uncomfortable a job as they ever had. No more tired trio ever rolled themselves in blankets than they were that night. But there was compensation. They had an abundant supply of "fresh" on hand and their sleep was sweet. Alas for the uncertainties of camp life. Notwithstanding they took the extra precaution to roll their several portions in their coats and placed them under their heads for pillows, some "sons of Belial" from an adjacent regiment who had discovered them bringing their "game" into camp actually stole every ounce of the beef out from under their too soundly sleeping heads during the night and made off with it. After all their labor and trouble neither of them had a taste of that beef. Their nostrils were regaled with the savory fumes of the cooking meat. They had no difficulty in discovering where it was. Indeed, the whelps who stole it rather paraded their steal, knowing that the mouths of our men were sealed. They simply could not say a word, for marauding was punishable with death. The worst of the escapade was that the poor fellow whose thumb had been so nearly severed was made a cripple for life. He was never able to do another day's duty, and to shield him the other two--be it said to their everlasting honor--performed his picket duty in addition to their own until he was discharged.

My diary notes the fact that Fitz-John Porter's corps passed us just before night, and I saw its commander for the first time. He was a small, slender, young-looking man, with full black whiskers and keen black eyes. He was dressed very modestly and wore the usual high black slouch hat, with a much battered gold-tassel band. A pair of silver stars on his shoulder, much obscured by wear and dust, indicated his rank of major-general.

The next day, November 3, was cold and chilly and we were early on the march, still southward. We had now exhausted our supply of rations, and at a temporary halt wagon-loads of hardtack and pork were driven along our company lines and boxes of the bread and barrels of pork dumped out, and the men told to fill their haversacks. Barrel heads and boxes were soon smashed with the butts of guns and contents appropriated, each man taking all he would. Many a fine piece of the pork marched away on a bayonet, ready for the noon-day meal. I filled my own saddle-bags, as did the rest of us officers, preferring to take no further chances on the grub question.

We bivouacked about four o'clock, after a thirteen-mile march in a raw and very chilly air. Just going into bivouac I saw Major-General John F. Reynolds, who met such a tragic death at Gettysburg the next July. His corps--the First--was in the advance of ours. Our regiment was marching at the head of our brigade column. Lieutenant-Colonel Albright was temporarily absent and I was directing the column. General Reynolds's corps had passed into the field to the left and were already in bivouac; the other troops of our division were not visible at this point, and I was hesitating what direction to give the column. General Reynolds was sitting on his horse looking at us, evidently with much interest, and noticing my dilemma, rode up to my assistance at once. Addressing me as adjutant, he said: "Part of your corps has moved in yonder," pointing out the place. "If I were you I would go in here and occupy this field to the right in column of divisions, and you may say General Reynolds advised this, if you please." His manner and way of doing this little service were so pleasant that he captured me at once. Had he chosen to do so, he could have given me orders, as the senior officer present, but with a gentle courtesy he accomplished his purpose without that, and to reassure me gave his name and rank in this delicate way. I shall never forget his pleasant smile as he returned my salute after thanking him for his suggestion. He was a superb-looking man, dark complexioned, wearing full black whiskers, and sat his fine horse like a Centaur, tall, straight, and graceful, the ideal soldier. I do not remember to have ever seen this remarkable officer again. He was one of the few great commanders developed by the war. A quiet, modest man, he yet possessed a very decisive element of character, as illustrated by the following incident related to me by my friend Colonel W. L. Wilson, assistant adjutant-general of one of the divisions of Reynolds's corps, and shows his unwearied vigilance and his indefatigable capacity for work. The corps was in the presence of the enemy, an attack was deemed highly probable. Night had brought on a storm of rain and intense darkness. General Reynolds had given the proper officers very explicit instructions about locating his picket lines, and Colonel Wilson, knowing the critical nature of the work and his division chief's anxiety over it, about midnight went out over their part of the line to make doubly sure that everything was right. Among the first persons he encountered after reaching the outposts was General Reynolds, all alone, making his way over the line in that drenching rain, to be assured that the pickets were properly posted and doing their duty. Here is Colonel Wilson's account of the colloquy that ensued: "Who are you, sir? Where do you belong? What are you doing here?" he volleyed at me savagely. Being apparently reassured by my reply, he continued in a less peremptory tone, "Who ordered that line? How far out is it?" Receiving my reply, he exclaimed, "Push it out, push it out farther!" "How far, General?" I ventured to ask. "Push it out until you feel something!" This was Reynolds.

We continued our march down what I was told was the valley of the Catochin. November 5 found us near Upperville, where we bivouacked alongside an old graveyard, our head-quarters being established inside the enclosure, to get the protection of its stone wall from the cold wind that was blowing. The temperature had fallen during the past twenty-four hours, so that it was now decidedly chilly--good for marching, but cold in bivouac. My notes say that I was chilled through until my teeth chattered; that I slept in the hollow made by a sunken grave to get warm; that my dreams were not disturbed by any unsubstantial hobgoblins of the defunct member of an F. F. V. whose remains might have been resting below me. The letters F. F. V. meant much in those war days. They stood for "First Family of Virginia," an expression much in use by her slave-proud aristocracy, and, of course, much satirized by us of the North. On this day we passed several very handsome mansions with their slave contingents. One old "daddy" volunteered the information that his "Mars was a pow'ful secesh;" that he had three sons in the rebel army. My diary notes with indignation that these rich plantations were carefully guarded by our cavalry to prevent our soldiers entering to get water as they passed. They would doubtless have helped themselves to other things as well, especially things eatable, but the owners were rebels and deserved to have their property taken, we all felt.

The orders against marauding were punctuated by a striking example this day. The cavalry orderly of the general commanding our division, riding back to head-quarters after delivering a batch of orders, among them another on this hated subject, carried a pair of handsome turkeys strapped to his saddle. It is safe to say that entire flock came into our camp that night, and turkey was served at breakfast to some of the rank and file as well as to the general. Verily, "consistency thou art a jewel."

From Upperville we moved by easy marching down to Warrenton. The weather had grown much colder. On the 8th of November there was a fall of rain, succeeded by snow, and we marched in a very disagreeable slush. The bivouac in this snow was most trying. The result for myself was a severe attack of fever and ague. I had been much reduced in flesh from the fatigue and nervous strain of the strenuous life of the past two months. This attack prostrated me at once. I was placed in an ambulance, being unable to ride my horse. The shaking and jolting of that ambulance ride were something fearful. I can now sympathize with the wounded who were compelled to ride in those horrible vehicles. They were covered wagons, with seats on each side, and made with heavy, stiff springs, so as to stand the rough roads, which were frequently cut through the fields. This night General Kimball had me brought to his head-quarters, a brick farm-house, for shelter. It was a kindness I greatly appreciated. The next night our chaplain succeeded in getting me into a farm-house some little distance from the regiment. He secured this accommodation on the strength of Freemasonry. The owner's name I have preserved in my diary as Mr. D. L. F. Lake. He was one of Mosby's "cavalry," as they called themselves. We in our army called them "guerillas." They were the terror of our army stragglers. They were "good Union men" when our army was passing, but just as soon as the army had passed they were in their saddles, picking up every straggler and any who may have had to fall behind from sickness. In that way they got quite a few prisoners. This man did not hesitate to tell us the mode of their operations. He said his farm had been literally stripped of hay, grain, and cattle by our cavalry under General Stoneman. All he had left was one chicken. This his wife cooked for the chaplain and me. He brought out Richmond papers during the evening and freely discussed the issues of the war with the chaplain. I was too ill to pay much attention to what was said, only to gather that his idea of us Northern people was that we were a miserable horde of invading barbarians, destined to be very speedily beaten and driven out. He admitted, however, that in financial transactions he preferred "greenbacks" to the Confederate scrip, which I thought rather negatived his boasted faith in the success of the Confederacy. His wife, who had, not many years gone, been young and pretty, occasionally chimed in with expressions of great hate and bitterness. Perhaps the latter was not to be wondered at from their stand-point, and they had just now ample grounds for their bitter feelings in the fact that they had just been relieved of all their portable property by the Union forces. He had receipts for what Stoneman had taken, which would be good for their market value on his taking the oath of allegiance. But he said he would die rather than take that oath, so he considered his property gone. He no doubt thought better of this later on, and probably got pay for his stuff. His kindness to me on the score of our fraternal relations was generous to the full extent of his ability, and showed him to be a true man, notwithstanding his "secesh" proclivities. It was a great favor, for had I been compelled to remain out in that rough weather sick as I was, the consequences must have been most serious. On leaving I tried to pay him in gold coin for his hospitality, but he firmly declined my money, saying: "You know you could not have gotten into my house for money. Pay in like manner as you have received when opportunity affords." For this fraternal hospitality I shall always remember my "secesh" Masonic brother with gratitude, for I feel that it saved my life.

Another terrific day in that awful ambulance brought me to Warrenton, where I got a room at a so-called hotel. Here, upon the advice of our surgeon, I made application for leave of absence on account of sickness. The red tape that had to be "unwound" in getting this approved and returned almost proved my ruin. Captain Archbald was taken sick at this time, and his application for a like leave accompanied mine. The corps surgeon, Dr. Dougherty, called with our surgeon to examine us at the hotel, and said he would approve both applications; that it would be but a day or so before our leaves would be ready and returned to us. The next day orders for the army to move were issued, and we saw our men marching away. It made my heart ache not to be in my place with them. I was, however, barely able to sit up, so that was out of the question. Now another possibility confronted us, namely, being picked up and carried off as prisoners by my late host's comrades, Mosby's guerillas. The army was evidently evacuating Warrenton and vicinity, and unless our leaves of absence reached us within a very few hours we would be outside of the "Union lines" and transportation to Washington unobtainable, for the railroad trains did not pretend to run beyond the Union lines. The next day came, the last of our troops were moving out, and our leaves had not come. Captain Archbald and I resolved that we must cut that "red tape" rather than take the chances of going to Richmond. This we did by securing suits of citizens' clothes and making our way as citizens through the lines to Washington. From there we had no difficulty in reaching home in uniform. At Washington I wrote Colonel Albright of our dilemma and the way we had solved it, and asked that our leaves of absence be forwarded to us at Scranton. They came some two weeks later. Had we remained at Warrenton, they would never have reached us, unless in a rebel prison. Yet I suppose we had committed an offence for which we could have been court-martialled.

I should have mentioned that just at the time I was taken sick, on the 9th of November, whilst the army was approaching Warrenton, the order relieving General McClellan from the command of the Army of the Potomac was issued. He was ordered to report to his home in Trenton, N. J., on waiting orders. Great was the consternation among the veterans of that army on his retirement, for they really had a strong attachment for "Little Mac," as they fondly called him. He took his leave in an affectionate order, recounting the heroic deeds of this noble army. This was followed by a grand review, accompanied by battery salutes, and the military career of General George B. McClellan passed into history.