2009 Archive
Coming Attraction SDCWRT
May 19: Mike Schooling “Heritage Defence: Sons of Confederate Veterans.”
June 16: Mary B. Townsend (Author) “The Unknown General.”
July 21: Larry Tagg (Author) “The Unpopular Mr. Lincoin.” This program will be held
outdoors in the Amphitheater.
Aug. 18: Barbara Hemmingsen “Chattanooga.”
Sept. 15: Mark Shapiro
Oct. 20: Rich Marcell “Another Look at Robert E. Lee.”
Nov. 17: Pedro Garcia “Men Really Do Go Mad: Slavery, Secession, Seward & Sumpter.”
Dec. 15: Chraistmas Party and Round Table Social
NOVEMBER MEETING
On Wednesday November 18, 2009 at 7:30 pm the SDCWRT will hold its 279th meeting at Palisades Presbyterian Church, 6301 Birchwood St. San Diego, CA 92120. Because of illness, our speaker for this month had to cancel and with little time to find someone to fill this spot we will be repeating one of more popular programs, “SHOW and TELL” along with a Book Chat moderated by Mark Sharpiro. All rmembers are encouraged to participate by bringing that special piece of Civil War memorabilia, a favorite book or memories of that trip which left a lasting impression. Use your imagination and if it says Civil War we want to see it or hear about it.
Last month’s presentation given by Mark Shapiro on Ambrose Bierce referred to his short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” conceded by many as one of the greatest literately works ever written. In 2005, Kurt Vonnegut referred to “Occurrence” in his book A Man Without a Country as one of the greatest works of American literature, and called anyone who hadn’t read it a “twerp”. If you would like to read this short story you can find it at the following web page. Enjoy. http://fiction.eserver.org/short/occurrence_at_owl_creek.html
NOVEMBER PROGRAM
On Wednesday November 18, 2009 at 7:30 pm the SDCWRT will hold its 279th meeting at Palisades Presbyterian Church, 6301 Birchwood St. San Diego, CA 92120. Because of illness, our speaker for this month had to cancel and with little time to find someone to fill this spot we will be repeating one of our more popular programs, “SHOW and TELL” along with a Book Chat moderated by Mark Sharpiro. All rmembers are encouraged to participate by bringing that special piece of Civil War memorabilia, a favorite book or memories of that trip which left a lasting impression. Use your imagination and if it says Civil War we want to see it or hear about it.
Last month’s presentation given by Mark Shapiro on Ambrose Bierce referred to his short story “An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge” conceded by many as one of the greatest literately works ever written. In 2005, Kurt Vonnegut referred to “Occurrence” in his book A Man Without a Country as one of the greatest works of American literature, and called anyone who hadn’t read it a “twerp”. If you would like to read this short story you can find it at the following web page. Enjoy. http://fiction.eserver.org/short/occurrence_at_owl_creek.html If you are one of those who still have not ventured into ciberspace and the internet but would like to have a copy of this short story let me know and I will print one for you.
October 2009 Meeting by Travis Fuqua
Mark Shapiro presented The Curious Case of Ambrose Bierce on October 21, 2009. Ambrose Bierce was a soldier in the Civil War who later went on to have a colorful literary career. His wirings show his contempt for the leadership during the Civil War as well as the horrors of battle told in all of its brutality and other stories told in great realism.
Bierce was born in Ohio on June 24, 1842 and was the tenth of thirteenth children. He was not close to his father and he had had a very poor relationship with his mother. His parents were poor, but literate and wished him to take an interest in books and writing, which he would later develop after the war. Upon the outbreak of war, he enlisted with the Federal army soon after President Lincoln’s call for volunteers, and was one of the first to do so in his county. He saw extensive service in the war and fought in several battles. He was involved in the Battle of Shiloh and in Sherman’s March and on June 23, 1864, he was shot in the left temple by a Confederate sniper. Luckily for him, considering the medicine of the time, he survived, but the bullet remained in his temple and he suffered severe headaches for the rest of his life and even the slightest exertion would make them worse. His head wound ended his fight in the Civil War.
Amrose Bierce and "the Skull of a Former Freind"
After the war, he continued in the army and went out to San Francisco where he later resigned with the rank of brevet major. He remained in California in San Francisco where he married in 1871. He had two sons and a daughter, of whom he outlived the sons and divorced his wife in 1904 after her questionable conduct several years before. His headaches were further complicated by his constant asthma.
After settling in California, Bierce began his literary career. Around that time, he made friends with Mark Twain with whom he was about as close as possible for a man with his personality. An early piece that brought him to prominence was an editorial he wrote in 1887 as a response to the Secretary of War’s efforts to return captured Confederate flags to their owners. Many objected, but Bierce did not see the need of the hatred and support the return, stating it was his place to voice and opinion as he helped to capture the said flags. Such editorials brought him to the attention William Randolph Hurst and he later went to work for his paper, the San Francisco Examiner where he wrote a regular editorial.
Bierce was very confrontational and had a distaste for authority figures such, editors, despite being for a time. His dislike of authority figures was reflected in his writings. Bierce often attacked other writers, politicians, and even those who tried to be close to him. He even attacked Oscar Wilde and his work when the he visited San Francisco. Wilde and the public did not pay attention and Wilde remained vastly popular with the locals. Although his attacks were usually at people and might be seen as humorous by some, other writings were very discriminatory, such as one piece which was strongly anti-Semitic. His harsh criticisms earned him several nicknames including “Diabolical Bierce” and the most popular, “Bitter Bierce”, and his favorite, “The Wickedest Man in San Francisco”.
Bierce’s work about the war was quite shocking for its day and remains so today. He described the battles very vividly and described all the horrors of battle. One description that distinguished Bierce was his description of the Battle of Shiloh. Bierce began writing about the war at a time when scholars were just beginning to take interest in the war, since it had only ended a couple of decades before. Another piece by Bierce that gained notoriety was An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge which was published in 1891. In the story, a Confederate sympathizer is about to be hanged for the sabotage of a railroad bridge for which he was not responsible. As he was to be hanged, the rope broke and he was able to escape under fire. He manages to make it back home undetected, but when he arrives, he feels a strong pain in his neck and all goes black. It turns out that he never escaped and was actually hanged in reality. This twist ending has become famous and has been repeated numerous times. It has been said that this story is a precursor of post-modern literature.
Another famous work by Bierce is the Devil’s Dictionary which he complied over several years. This book takes the form of a regular dictionary, but its definitions are a satire. Below are some sample definitions:
- Acquaintance, n. A person whom we know well enough to borrow from, but not well enough to lend to. A degree of friendship called slight when its object is poor or obscure, and intimate when he is rich or famous
- Education, n. That which discloses to the wise and disguises from the foolish their lack of understanding.
- Mayonnaise, n. One of the sauces that serve the French in place of a state religion.
- Politician, n. An eel in the fundamental mud upon which the superstructure of organized society is reared. When he wriggles he mistakes the agitation of his tail for the trembling of the edifice. As compared with the statesman, he suffers the disadvantage of being alive.
Bierce’s personality led to several clashes and his severe criticisms of other writers led their own against him. He took to carrying a loaded pistol with him at all times and on his desk he kept a human skull which he said came from a former friend. He was not close to many people and as a person would become closer to him, he would push them away again. One writer who was fond of Bierce received severe criticism from him. The author was Stephen Crane and his book, The Red Badge of Courage, was about the adventures and troubles of a soldier in the Civil War. Crane wrote realistically about war despite having been born after the war and never having been in combat. This fact and the fact he became more famous than the genuine veteran Bierce’s realistic descriptions gained Crane severe criticism from the former.
Bierce was well known amongst authors for his literary work, but with the public, he was better known for his editorials as this was the days of sensational yellow journalism. One of his poems did, however, gain him national attention, albeit negative. In 1900, the governor of Kentucky was shot and killed and Bierce published an editorial in Hearst’s paper about the event. In the editorial, Bierce wrote that no one could find the bullet that killed the governor as it was on its way to killing President McKinley. There was little stir at the time, but when McKinley was shot and killed the following year, there was outrage against Hearst and his paper. The poem ended Hearst’s efforts to become president, but despite the setback. Hearst did not reveal Bierce as the author nor did he apologize for the incident. In actuality, Bierce’s poem was meant to show dismay rather than a call to kill McKinley.
Dr. Shapiro Speaking About the Life of Ambrose Bierce
Bierce’s death was perhaps one of the most interesting events in literary history. In his seventy-first year in 1913, Bierce made a tour of his former battle sites from the Civil War and then headed to Mexico to observe Pancho Villa (before his murderous rampage in New Mexico in 1916) and watch the Mexican Revolution as it happened. He was not heard from again after December of 1913 and his fate remains unknown. Some say that he came back to kill himself at the Grand Canyon and others state that he was a spy for the Federal Government on Mexico—neither of which seem plausible nor have been proven.
Bierce was one of the most controversial writers of his generation, but his realistic writing style foreshadowed that in the years after his death. He was a major influence on Ernest Hemmingway, both of whim did not like their mothers and were wounded in battle. In retrospect, many scholars argue that Bierce’s writings about his experiences in the Civil War are among the best on war, even better than those of Hemmingway and Stephen Crane’s work of fiction.
October Meeting
On Wednesday 21, 2009 at 7:30 pm the SDCWRT will hold its 278th meeting at Palisades Presbyterian Church, 6301 Birchwood St. San Diego, CA 92120. A “Surprise Topic” will be presented.”
The conference, to be held in Clovis, California, October 23-25, 2009 on the Campaign for Chattanooga, Tennessee, represents the best of what the West Coast Conference offers.
The keynote speaker, Professor Steven Woodworth, was described by Dr. Gary Gallagher as the “Dean of Civil War Historians for the study of the Western Theater.” Other speakers include Dr. William Glenn Robertson, director of the Combat Studies Institute at the Command and General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. Professor Robertson is regarded as the world’s expert on the battle of Chickamauga. Also speaking, Wiley Sword, author of the definitive book on the battle of Chattanooga, in addition to four staff historians from the Chickamauga & Chattanooga National Military Park and Dr. Jim Stanbery of Los Angeles Harbor College.
http://www.chattanooga2009.com/speakers.html
In brief, the nation’s leading scholars on the Chattanooga Campaign will be gathered for this occasion. Never before has the West Coast Conference offered such an ambitious program.
Information detailing our program, speakers, registration, hotels, etc is available at: www.chattanooga2009.com
SENIOR LEADERS OF THE LUCKLESS IX CORPS – THE GOOD, THE BAD, & THE UGLY
On Wednesday July 15, 2009 at 7:30 pm the SDCWRT will hold its 275th meeting at Palisades Presbyterian Church, 6301 Birchwood St. San Diego, CA 92120.
Most people are familiar enough with the details of the Civil War to have heard of Major General Ambrose Everett Burnside and the Battle of the Crater, and many others would recognize units such as the Iron Brigade or the “BloodySixth” Corps. But how well do you know Samuel Davis Sturgis or John Franklin Hartranft? Are you aware of the significance of the Battle at Fort Stedman and the role of the IX Corps in that action?
Ambrose Burnside
John Hartranft
The record of the Union Army IX Corps offers a glimpse into the cross-section of the experiences of the common soldier as well as its Generals. As a unit this Corps participated in many of the
pivotal battles and campaigns of the war, but it is probably best known for its central role in the ill-fated Battle of the Crater in 1864. In its three-year history, the IX Corps traveled across the Eastern and Western theaters and at times took heavy casualties in the course of their journey. We will examine their story by looking at their senior leaders – the Corps and Division commanders who led them into battle and who have largely faded into history.
Pete Young will focus on this select group of men who offer a fascinating range of personalities, capabilities, and backgrounds. Among them can be found a few of the better-known men who played major and minor roles in the war, as well as others who, while not as familiar, were nonetheless worthy of both acclaim and censure. Some were up to the demands of command and some were not. Each of them was given the opportunity to lead men in battle, and after the war ended those who survived went on to lead lives that continued to weave strong threads into the fabric of America.
Vote for your favorite 2008-2009
“Presentation of the Year” Please Vote for one.
__ The Man from Michigan, Tracking an Old Soldier
July 16, 2008 Pete Young
__ Shootout at Cherbourg
August 20, 2008 Horace Dodd
__ The Harvard Regiment at Gettysburg
October 15, 2008 Mark Shapiro
__ Mercy in the Madness
November 19, 2008 Father Dennis Mikulanis, STD
__ California Columns
January 21, 2009 Gene Armistead
__ Civil War Camp Life
March 18, 2009 Dave Tooley
__ Lee, Stuart and the Road to Perdition
April 15, 2009 Pedro Garcia
__ Equines of the Civil War
May 20, 2009 Gene Armistead
Please vote for the best presentation of 2007-2008 by one of our local members and send to Bill Cooper at P.O. BOX 22369, SAN DIEGO, CA 92192-0369; give it to Bill at the regular meeting; or send Bill your vote on the internet at trolley@cox.net. We will also be voting at the August 20th meeting.
Don't Forget To VOTE.
June Meeting by Travis Fuqua
The SDCWRT was honored to have author Larry Tagg present on his book, The Unpopular Mr. Lincoln on June 17, 2009. His book is amongst the first of its kind to discuss the popularity of President Lincoln during his presidency. For those who grew up and were educated in the years after the Civil War, not a day goes by where we do not encounter the image of Lincoln, the demi-god. He is on our currency, in our monuments, and even in many of our hearts as among the best presidents we ever had—perhaps second only to the great General Washington himself. During his presidency, however, he was one of the most reviled men in the nation. His unpopularity in the Confederacy is a given, but he was no more popular in the North. The following is an account of the public’s perception of Mr. Lincoln in the North as seen mostly through newspaper editorials and other written accounts.
Mr. Tagg Presenting on His Book "The Unpopular Mr. Lincoln"
President Lincoln’s unpopularity began long before his time in the White House. It begins with the manner in which presidential candidates were selected in the years before 1972. In those days, there were no primary elections as there are now, but party bosses would gather and select a candidate who would in turn be that party’s nominee for the presidency. In the days before the Civil War, the nation was ablaze with the question of slavery and many parties found it difficult to nominate the famous candidates as their opinions on slavery would cause more controversy. This led to many mediocre candidates and presidents such as Franklin Pierce and James Buchannan, who has often been called the worst president ever for his handling of the secession crisis of 1860-1861. By the time of the 1860 election, many were cynical about the mediocrity of the candidates. The Republicans picked a relatively unknown candidate by the name of Abraham Lincoln who was a lawyer and had been in the House of Representatives some years ago and an unsuccessful candidate for the Senate. The only image that people had of him was the “rail splitter” and rural “man of the people” image that had been circulated. He did not speak during the campaign and did not actively campaign either, but nonetheless, he was elected in November of 1860. His unknown status was the first issue people had with him.
The Election of 1860 had two candidates who split the Democratic vote along with a third independent candidate almost ensuring Lincoln’s victory. He only won with 39.8 percent of the vote, which is worse than the loser in many other presidential elections. As soon as he won, the South panicked and there were fears of what Lincoln would do as president. Many in the South feared that he would fill the government with abolitionists through the spoils system and then use these people to bring about greater pressure to end slavery. Others feared that Lincoln would be the culmination of the mediocre presidents of the previous decade and lead the United States to a path of decline. There were even others still who derided his appearance saying that he was too tall, too thin, to awkward, and even too ugly. People called him a “huge skeleton in clothes”. They criticized his posture, movements, and even the size of his hands and feet. There was little in the new president that people liked. To make matters worse, Lincoln did not take much care in his appearance and his clothes were often unkempt and people never failed to take note of such. This and his manners alienated the educated and cultured people of the East. The harsh comments about his appearance would be unthinkable today and make the editorials of today’s newspapers look sedate.
By the beginning of 1861, President-Elect Lincoln had many obstacles before him other than the public’s perception of him. Several states in the Deep South had seceded from the union and President Buchanan’s actions (or lack of them) worsened the situation by the day. By the time Lincoln made it to office, the nation was very near to shattering and it needed another George Washington, not Lincoln, who they perceived as utterly incompetent. Lincoln’s popularity took an even further dip when he came to the City of Washington for the inauguration and slipped into the city under cover the of darkness to avoid a potential assassination plot. Even at that time, he was unpopular enough to have to worry about assassins. Many saw this secrecy as cowardice and many more editorials derided Lincoln for slipping into Washington. Upon his inauguration, Lincoln was just as unpopular coming into the office as President Nixon was upon resigning the office in the fallout of the Watergate Scandal.
The war did not help with Lincoln’s popularity. The failure of many Federal campaigns cost him even more in popularity and many people openly felt that he was completely incompetent and unable to properly preside over the nation during the time of crisis. Following the Federal victory at the Battle of Antietam in September of 1862, Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation. It was obviously poorly received in the South, but it was just as poorly received in some areas of the North. Many felt that the war had been over the status of the union and not really slavery, but Lincoln’s attempt at emancipating the slaves would further drive the Confederate states away and further drive the nation apart. In addition, many people feared that such a declaration during a century when the president’s power was limited would undoubtedly lead to further despotism by Lincoln. The Emancipation Proclamation and further military losses later in the year were a blow to Lincoln and the Republicans as they lost many seats in Congress during the midterm election in November of 1862.
When President Lincoln made the Emancipation Proclamation official on January 1, 1863, the divide became even greater. Many states in the North that relied upon slavery and the South began to question Lincoln and openly considered joining the Confederacy. Lincoln was threatened with the loss of many Midwestern states to the Confederacy and much of their support for the war effort dried up. This divide in the North allowed for the Democratic Copperheads to rise in power and question the Republicans’ management of the war. Also, due to a lack of manpower as a result of the Midwestern states lack of support, Lincoln had to create a draft program, which caused the Draft Riots in New York City in July of 1863. It may have seemed that the division of the nation in 1861 was the greatest danger to the country, but now many considered Lincoln was the greater threat. They saw his removal of rights and liberties as a threat to the Constitution and they feared that the nation and its Constitution would fracture and fail. Lincoln was only saved by the Federal victory at Gettysburg in July of 1863.
Lincoln’s reprieve would not last. Following the reversals during the Wilderness Campaign in May of 1864 and others, Lincoln’s popularity dipped again. The nation began to fear that the war would never end. As the election neared, the Wade-Davis Manifesto was issued which spoke out against the despotism of Lincoln. Lincoln was re-nominated at the Republican Convention, though, but it was through his manipulation of the spoils system that he obtained such. His competition in the election was General George McClellan who called for peace. Lincoln began to worry about his chances of winning the election and August of 1864 was perhaps his lowest point. The fall of Atlanta in September of 1864 helped morale and helped Lincoln immensely. He was still worried about his chances of winning and helped Nevada join the union as it was loyal to him. It was feared that their state constitution would not reach Washington in time for the election if it was sent overland. Just over a week before the 1864 election, Nevada had its 16,500-word constitution telegraphed to Washington at the cost of $4,300, making it one of the longest and costliest telegraph transmissions ever. By the time of the election, however, conditions had changed for President Lincoln and Nevada’s impact on the election was negligible. In addition, for the first time, soldiers in the field were allowed to cast votes for president in some states and their votes greatly assisted Lincoln as he had gained their support with the draft. Lincoln ended up winning the election with a little over half of the votes.
The beginning of 1865 began to look brighter for Lincoln and there were many signs that the war would end sooner than later. People began to attribute the turnaround to Lincoln, but there were those who did not. There were even those who feared another four years of Lincoln and began to call for ways to get rid of him—even through assassination. The war did finally end beginning on April 9, 1865 with General Lee’s surrender and Lincoln’s popularity began to rise. His moderate views on Reconstruction in the heated times did not help his popularity however. On April 14, 1865, President Lincoln was shot in the head by southern sympathizer John Wilkes Booth and died at 7:22 the next morning. He was the first president to be assassinated. Even in death, Lincoln was hated by some as they were happy he was gone so they could proceed with their more harsh Reconstruction schemes while others were glad the tyrant was dead.
President Lincoln was largely unpopular throughout the whole of his presidency. He was saved by his assassination which caused people to see him as a martyr. They saw him along with Moses not being able to see the Promised Land of a free and reunited nation. In one popular print he was supposedly lifted to heaven by the great General Washington. Lincoln came to symbolize freedom while his southern assassin came to represent treachery. His funeral train back to Springfield, Illinois became a symbol of the fanaticism of Victorian mourning. Only then did Lincoln become the president that we adore today as a savior of our country and a symbol of freedom. Lincoln was a capable president according to Mr. Tagg, because he did more with the least political capital than any president before or since. He truly was a great politician.
Mr. Cooper Presenting Mr. Tagg with a Certificate of Appreciation After His Presentation
Feature Article
Libby And How We Got Out Of It
(submitted by SDCWRT member
Curtis Dryer – family papers )
BY
ALBERT WILLIAM BACHELER
Part III
Trusting to the innate sense of justice in the slave, we did not hesitate to confide to hem our secret. The story seemed to hasten their endeavors to make us comfortable. The family was soon astir, and the matron quickly mixed cornmeal into a hoe-cake, raked the hot ashes aside, patted the cake into passable shape, and tossing it among the embers soon had it ready for us. “Good Lor’ massa, af yer’s only tols dis yer when yer fuss come, mabbe yer’d don gon and had dis hoe-cake eat up to now,” said the kind creature, half apologizing for her tardiness in preparing the meal. Never before was food so sweet; for though a little of Pryor’s bread still remained, we had found small opportunity to eat, compared with the comfort of this humble home. The meal over, we talked of shelter near by, and the man of the family, a brawny Negro, a plantation hand of the best type, offered to stow us away on a loft of loose boards over the fireplace. We slept out the entire day in comparative comfort. On coming down the ladder at nightfall, the good fellow told us that his mistress had spoken of soldiers who had called at the house to inquire for prisoners that were said to have escaped two nights before from Libby. So we knew we were missed and that no stone would be left unturned to retake us.
“Endu’ in de wah sah, we’s cullored fo’ks cum right soon,” said our host as we bade his good-by. We now pushed for the Chickahominy, and crossed it near midnight a few miles west of Mechanicsville, where we leaped the stream without difficulty, it being hardly more than a brook. Once over, we turned southward determined to use the stream as a guide, as we knew it would finally bring us to the James, where we were sure of finding Union troops. As the night wore away we again sought the help of Negroes at a plantation cabin. This time, after getting warmed and clothing dried, we were conducted to an open shed, fifty rods or more from the house, where the man of the family stowed us away deep under the cornstalks that filled the shed. Giving us a large hot stone for our feet and piling above us many an armful of the fodder, he bade us keep quiet, and promised to come for us after nightfall.
About four in the afternoon the sound of voices roused us and we heard a car approaching the corn-rick. “Ise dun gwine ter gib did yer mule no o; co’n, case he’s jus fass getting good fer nuffin,” said the voice of our friend, the boss hand on the place. A gruff answer we could not make out was made to his remark, and then we heard the cart back up to the stalks, and the two of them began to load. Their voices grew more and more distinct as the pile over our heads grew thinner. “Wha fur yer gwine ter kill dat ar mule?” complained the slave. “Cart’s dun loaded nuff and mo’.” But the master bade him keep on; he even took the fork himself and eased the slave for a moment. Again and again the two men walked over us, and once the fork tines passed through Thompson’s trousers, but luckily missed wounding him.
At last the expostulations of the slave in the mule’s behalf had their effect, and the cart drove off. We breathed freer for the moment, but would cart and master return? Ben pulled his jack-knife from his pocket, and opening it scanned the only weapon of defense we possessed. Then, shaking his head, said, “It’s no use. Back we’re going as sure as thunder and we’ll be gobbled.” We saw there was nothing for it but to be out and off, so gathering our traps, and seeing a piece of woods nearby, we ran for it, and seemed to have escaped observation. Though it still lacked two hours of dark, we concluded to continue our tramp. A light snow had fallen during the day, and half melting not only quickly soaked our army brogans, but also made it almost impossible for us to halt for rest with any degree of comfort. We had marched an hour perhaps, when skirting a piece of woods, we suddenly came to a junction of three roads, and saw before us a mill on the bank of a small stream. The ruins of a much larger mill were near at hand, and we soon learned that this was Gaine’s Mill that had figured so prominently in the seven days’ fight before Richmond. Some men were at work on the mill, and a squad of Confederate cavalry was cooking at a fire nearby. So sudden had been our approach that almost before we knew it we were in plain view of the group, and not ten rods away. I would have sold my chances cheap, and Ben afterwards told me that he saw Castle Thunder for an instant as plainly as it he were in it. “Come on,” whispered he, “It’s no use running, but remember to let me do the talking.” I gladly notice that the boldness of our maneuvers had completely thrown them off their guard. We asked each other in turn the natural questions at such a meeting. Ben told them that we were officers of the Eleventh Virginia Infantry, and had volunteered to go as spies into the Yankee lines to find out the progress Dutch Gap canal was making.
Our dress of Union blue seemed to confirm our story, and in fact Thompson volunteered the information that we had secured the clothing the better to escape observation. “Do you know Captain Polk of the Eleventh?” said the officer in charge of the picket. “Well, I reckon,” replied Thompson, “he belongs to my mess. I left him only a day or two ago. Fine fellow, cap.” A part of this was literally true, for in exchanging the courtesies of the picket line at Port Walthall; we had met the officer referred to. Questions over, we were invited to share the supper of the party, and regaled ourselves with bacon roasted on a stick over the fire, and corn bread cooked at a neighboring farmhouse. With many wishes for the success of our venture, and a promise on our part to call on them on our way back and relate our adventures among the Yanks, we parted the best of friends. “Take care of yourselves, boys, them Yanks are mighty sharp,” wee the last words that followed us. Moving down the road so long as the light of their campfire was in sight, as soon as possible we struck for the woods and after getting under cover took up the double-quick for a mile or more without a halt. By that time the excitement of our adventure had subsided enough to allow us to speak, and Ben turning to me said, “Bach, another one like that’ll be too much for me.”
Early that night, the third since our escape, and only a couple of miles from Gaine’s Mills, we found ourselves tumbling about among the entrenchment’s and bomb-proofs of Cold Harbor battle-field. A field where, on the 3rd of June preceding, our regiment at the head of Humphrey’s Division, had made the fatal charge that cost us more than half our men in the short space of five minutes. No Twelfth New Hampshire boy hears the name Cold Harbor without a shudder to this day.
Traces of the savage fight were lying about everywhere. Canteens, cartridge boxes, shattered muskets, and here and there the bleaching bones of comrades looked up into our faces, white and distinct in the darkness. Damp and chilly as it was we could have enjoyed a short nap, even in that place, had I not, in groping about for a smooth spot, struck something hard and round, and upon carrying it to the light, seen the grinning features of a skull looking at me with it s sightless eyes. We could endure fatigue better than sleep with such companionship, and resumed again our weary tramp. It was a hideous night; blackness all about, but light enough for us to distinguish the scattered bones of the dead which now and then caused us to stumble, and wonder what the poor owners of seven months before would have said to this rude intrusion on their long sleep. At 2 o’clock that night a light ahead gave warning of a dwelling. It proved to be a Negro cabin. Within, father, mother, and three adult daughters were at work at their task of shelling corn, a task, which they assured us, must be finished before they could receive their rations of food for the next day. Despite their own dire necessities, they begged us to remain the day at their cabin and offered to share with us their scanty fare. With some hesitation we concluded to stay, worn out we were, that, though family continued their usual occupation, neither Ben nor myself knew what was occurring. Early the succeeding night, after thanking our host, and promising to free them from their bondage when we had conquered the rebs, we were on our journey; and getting bolder with our increasing distance from Richmond, we determined to take the roads instead of avoiding them as we had hitherto done. By 10 o’clock we had reached Barker’s Mill, the scene of another flight of the Peninsular Campaign, and an hour later were passing the ruins of Tyler’s House. The two roads leading to Sumner’s grapevine bridge over the Chickahominy River were left to our right. We had learned that these bridges were no longer passable and hurrying on our way we crossed the Richmond & York Railroad and struck the highway leading to Bottom’s Bridge. There we had determined to recross the stream and strike for camps of our troops that we knew to be on the north bank of the James, and some twelve miles distant. About 3 in the morning we approached the bridge, and much to our surprise found a bright campfire at the center of the road and about four rods from the father end of the bridge. Horses were picketed near by; their saddles on, betokening readiness for prompt movement. A sentry stood dreamily looking into the fire at his feet, his carbine at “secure”. Thompson and I hastily retreated into the thicket by the roadside. We discussed the situation in whispers. There are two alternatives open to us; a tramp of seventy miles down the peninsula to Fortress Monroe with all the risks of capture such as we had already experienced, or an equally hazardous attempt at crossing the bridge in the face of an armed guard, with almost the dead certainly of bringing us to Richmond. Pros and cons are carefully weighed. So evenly balanced seem the chances that we cannot make a choice. “Lie still, Ben,” said I, “while I go out and look them over again.” Leaving him n the woods I crept along on my hands and knees to the end of the bridge nearest us. The road is an embankment as it approaches the bridge, and high above the level. The river, a black, ugly stream flows sluggishly by. It is fifty feet or more in breadth. Any one attempting to cross must move the entire distance in the face of that picket standing there by his fire, and nearing him at every step. There are six men, at least, under their blankets near the fire. If there were but one we might dash upon him and overpower him. I return to my companion and report. “There is one chance in a thousand,” I said, “and that is the best I can make it.” Ben suggests lots; agreed. He cuts two twigs, — “Long one means the long road: short one, the bridge.” He fixes them; I draw. It is the long stick! Off we start down the long pike, trying to think we have done the best n choosing as we have. We can hardly drag one foot after the other. Our feet are parboiled with their constant soaking; every motion of the body is torture; the terrible strain of the last five days has begun to tell, not only on our physical endurance but on our will power as well. “Ben.” I say at last, “this is slow murder. I’d as soon starve in Libby as walk myself into the grave. What do you say to trying the bridge?” “I’m agreed,” said he, and back we tramp over the half-mile we have just come. We agree that I shall lead, and Ben keep close behind; if the guard challenges us we are to rush for the woods, and run the chances of his missing us when he fires. Once on the bridge we drop on hands and knees cat-like across. Every inch brings us nearer the picket; he stands like a statue. He seems to nod once, but as I wait for another look he stoops down and tosses some brands into the fire. We move on; each thinks the other makes twice the noise he needs to. We are at the end of the bridge. My eyes are almost bursting from their sockets as I watch that man at the fire. A yard more and we are safe! It is the longest yard I have ever traveled; it ends at last, and I creep down the embankment at the roadside farthest from the guard. Ben sticks close behind, and is the last to be out of danger. We steel away through the bushes and take the first long breath, and as we do so, the sentry for some reason, we never knew what, rouses his sleeping companions and they stand to arms. A mile away under the shelter of some pines we stretch out on the pine needles and are fast asleep in a twinkling.
The sun was high before either of us awoke. We concluded it was best to lay off for the day and not run the chance of meeting scouting parties of the rebs. As soon as darkness permitted we were again on the road, and happy in the thought that it was our last night out. At the first farmhouse we reached, we very incautiously walked up to the door and knocked. A white woman appeared, evidently the mistress of the house. I asked for food, she answered by asking who we were and why we were there in that plight. Ben interposed with the same story he had used at Gaine’s Mills with such good effect. It was all to no purpose. “You ‘uns ar jes Yanks, you don’t talk like we’uns down here’n Henraker,” was all the answer we got in reply to our request for food. “We’ve caught a Tartar,” I whispered to Thompson, and without pressing our claims o the woman’s larder, we bade here good night and hurried off through the fields towards the James. Directly we reached some Negro quarters belonging to the same plantation, and making our way in asked for hoecakes. The women began to prepare it and while we made ourselves comfortable at the fire a Negro lad ran in, out of breath, and told his mother that his mistress, as soon as we were out of the house, had dispatched a son to some neighbors a mile away to rouse the lads to be after some Yanks that had been there. An older son was home on furlough from the Petersburg lines and had gone to a dance at a neighbor’s. “It’s time we were out of this,” said Ben, and without waiting for the hoe-cakes, now about half done, we made good time over the fields and through the woods for a couple of miles until the rough jungle forces us to take to the road again. We tramped along for half an hour, perhaps, neither of us speaking meanwhile, when an overpowering desire came over me to rest. I declared to Ben that I would go no further till I had rested. He urged our keeping on; we are nearly through, said he; only seven miles and we should reach Harrison’s and then we could rest for good; but I am stubborn. Ben was as determined as I. “Then I am going on alone,” he said, and started ahead. I walked into the open field by the roadside, fifty feet or so, and stretched out on my canvas. Thompson after moving on a little changed his mind, came back where I was, and lay down by my side.
We were lying there quietly, with the moon looking us in the face, it being now between ten and eleven, when the rumble of a wagon fell on our ears. Nearer and nearer it drew to us, coming from the direction in which we were bound. We should have met it had we kept on. As the team reached up we saw it was a countryman, whether black or white we could not distinguish, which a load of wood. His mules stopped to breath in front of us, and almost it the same instant a cavalryman coming from our rear drew rein in front of the team. He was mounted on a gray horse, and heavily armed. “Have yer seen a couple of fellows on the road as yer come along?” said he, addressing the teamster. The man answered that he had not. The soldier then went on to say that two chaps that looked like escaped prisoners had stopped at his mother’s an hour before to ask for food, and not being granted it had hurried off through the field. “One of them’, said he, evidently describing Ben, “was a stout fellow with a Yank’s cap and heavy moustache, and the other shore and slim like, and with a slouched hat. They both had Yank’s uniforms,” he added, “and carried some sore of blankets over their shoulders.” To the two fugitives who were being thus accurately described, this conversation was becoming decidedly interesting. It is needless to say that I never hugged any five feet of ground closer in my life. Neither of us stirred. There we lay in the open field in bright moonlight, and took in every word. One glance of the rider towards us and he must have seen us. To our infinite relief he said at last, “I reckon as how the rascals must have turned off on Long Bridge road,” and then turning his horse he kept the mule team company on the road to our rear. We listened to their voices as they died away in the distance, and congratulating ourselves on this last narrow escape, kept on our way, Thompson ahead and looking out for dangers in advance, and I behind with an occasional backwards glance to warn of trouble from the rear.
Faint streaks of dawn were appearing in the east when Ben caught sight of a mounted horseman standing statue-like in the road in advance. Fearful of making a mistake, we reconnoitered for some time before venturing to make ourselves known. Negros had told us that a colored regiment with gray horses were doing picket duty at the Landing. Ben finally sang out, “Hello there, don’t shoot, we’re friends, we want to come in.” “Corporal of the guard!” answered the picket without noticing us directly. In a moment the corporal and three men charged down on us at a gallop with carbines ready for instant service. However, we had no difficulty in proving who we were to their satisfaction, and in a few minutes we were made welcome by the Eight United States Colored Cavalry. Once back with the picket reserve we were furnished hot coffee and extra blankets, and turned in for sleep —and such sleeping as we did that morning! On waking, someone passed us a mirror: neither Ben nor I could recognize ourselves, and no wonder. My own weight had fallen off; as I afterwards learned, from one hundred and forty-five to ninety-six pounds, and Ben’s in like proportion. Our complexions has sallowed, and the vile stench of the prison hung about us for weeks despite new uniforms and frequent baths.
To tell how we took the boat the next day to Chapin’s Farm where our corps was then stationed; how the boys turned out as we drew near the camp, and boasted us on their shoulders and rode us into quarters perched high in the air; how the officers made us welcome to their mess; how General Weitzel ordered us a thirty days’ furlough; how, while at home, we received commissions as officers; how when we took Richmond the following April, I paid old Pryor a visit and relieved him of some of the arms he used to flourish in our faces —all these are things not germane to my story, which amounts to this, that next to the wear and tear of life in Libby and all that that implies, is the wear and tear of getting out of Libby and all that that includes.