Chapter XX: Scattering Reminiscences (2)

We are now in camp about midway between City Point and Ream’s Station, and the corps is recruiting up very rapidly. The recruits and convalescents are pouring in by thousands, and we shall soon have a grand army again, and then look out for the splinters. Johnny Reb must talk differently or find his last ditch. The impression here seems to gain ground that the rebellion is about played out, and that there will be but few more months of fighting. Within the past few days the City Point railroad has been extended several miles on our left, and where a few days since no signs of a track were visible, large trains are running regularly. It is certainly very astonishing; but that is a way they have of doing business down here.

Ten or twelve days since, our corps was ordered to the left of where we now are. Arrived there after dark, and halted on a flat open space with a fine pine wood on our left. In the morning the woods had almost entirely disappeared, and in our front a splendid line of breastworks had sprung up as if by magic. Those who have never been in the business can have no correct conception of how quickly and how quietly an order is executed at the front. Our new railroad runs but a few rods in front of our camp, and it seems like old times to see the trains moving, and to hear the whistle and bell. This forenoon all the bands and drum corps of the division were ordered to report to division headquarters, which we did. Numbering in all about one hundred and seventy-five, and under the leadership of Mr. Higgins, of the division band, played “Hail to the Chief,” and “Hail, Columbia,” after which the brass bands played the “Grand March from Belsaria,” “Garry Owen,” “Larry O’Gaff” and “Yankee Doodle,” and if there was any lack of harmony there certainly was not of noise. We were then dismissed, with an invitation to repeat the thing at some future day.

The weather here is delightful, the days warm and pleasant, and the nights cool enough to make blankets necessary. As fast as the new recruits arrive they are set to drilling, and you can see them in all directions going through the different evolutions, and it will take but a short time to have the corps in fine trim for anything that soldiers can do, and so with the whole army. So you may look out for stirring news shortly. Speaking of news, reminds me of the many complaints of the boys.--They cannot get enough to read, and would be very thankful for anything in the way of old books, magazines and papers, in fact anything which contains stories would be very acceptable, and a few books and magazines would afford reading for several hundred, and while away many a tedious hour. If it is not asking too much, won’t some of the friends of the 2d Heavy do something for the boys? They have not been paid off for the last six months, and many of them have not seen any money for a still longer time, and there is no telling when they will be paid, and there are few who have the means to purchase the Washington _Chronicle_, New York _Herald_, or Philadelphia _Enquirer_, which are brought to camp daily.

President Lincoln visited the front a short time ago and rode along our lines accompanied by Generals Grant and Meade. They were without any staff officers with them and only had three orderlies. The President wore a black tile that had seen much service and had on a long linen duster, and was an awkward looking man on his horse. But the boys love “Uncle Abe” as they call him and when the party passed us one of our boys enthusiasm got the best of him and he sang out “three cheers for honest Abe,” and they were given in true army style. The President lifted his hat and looked mightily pleased.

If Grant was like some of the new brigadiers he would have had about 25 staff officers and orderlies following him, but U. S. G. is not much on style. He keeps right on sawing wood though all the same.

“Old Spectacles” as Gen. Meade is called, is Grant’s right bower, and is virtually the commander of the Army of the Potomac. Like Grant he is a silent man, too, although they do say that he makes the fur fly when things don’t go to suit him.

My chum is the cook to-day and has just called out “get ready for grub.” We are to have an extra dish and you will laugh when I tell you the name. It is called “slumgullion” by the boys, and is made by pounding up hard tack which with chopped onions fried with salt pork makes an appetizing dish fit for a king. My chum has also set up a can of peaches which he paid the sutler 75 cents for, so I will cut this short.

THE FIGHTING REGIMENTS.

Statistics are considered dry reading and the writer has not bothered the readers of his sketches with many, but they do tell the story better than pen or tongue.

There were something over 2,000 regiments in the Union Army. Some never participated in a battle; others were constantly at the front. Perhaps they were no better fighters than those who were exempt from battle, but in war blood is what tells, therefore the casualty lists tell plainer than words whether a regiment was where the bullets were flying thick and fast or not.

Col. Fox, the government statistician found that of the 2,000 there were 300 whose losses of killed and died of wounds were over 130, and he has called these the “300 fighting regiments.” A conservative estimate of the wounded is six to one, so the reader can easily figure out what the total casualties of these regiments probably were.

There were about 50 regiments out of the 300 “fighting regiments” that lost in killed or mortally wounded over 200.

The regiment that heads the list, both in the total and percentage was the 1st Maine Heavy artillery. Their total was 423. Their loss at Spottsylvania was 82 killed and 394 wounded. A month later at Petersburg they made the assault with 900 muskets and their casualty list was 632.

The New York regiment that suffered the greatest loss of killed was the old 69th, of the Irish brigade. Their total was 259.

A LOSS NEVER EQUALED.

In proportion to the number of men engaged, the greatest loss to any one regiment during the Civil War was that of the 1st Minnesota at Gettysburg. Gen. Hancock was desirous of holding back a column of confederates until reinforcements could be brought against them and, turning to the colonel of the regiment, he ordered him to capture the enemy’s colors. The command was obeyed literally, and the enemy was forced back, leaving their banners in the hands of the Minnesotians. The regiment took into the fight 262 officers and men. It lost 50 killed and 174 wounded and none missing. Seventeen officers were killed and wounded. Here is a record that has not as yet been equalled in military statistics. Gen. Hancock said it was the most gallant deed of history. He knew the men must be sacrificed when he issued the order, but he needed five minutes time and would have ordered the regiment if he had known every man would have been killed.

Probably the most remarkable loss on either side during the Civil War was that of the 26th North Carolina at Gettysburg. They took into the fight 820 men. Of this number 588 were killed and wounded the first day. The survivors went into the charge with Pickett the third day, and when the roll was called the next day but 80 men were present. All of the rest had been either killed or wounded.

Another remarkable case was that of Duryea’s Zouaves at Manassas, or Bull Run. Out of 490 men who went into action it lost 79 killed, 170 wounded and 48 missing; total 297. This is the regiment which closed up its ranks and “counted off” anew while exposed to a terrific fire.

The following nine heavy artillery regiments lost over 200 killed and died of wounds.

First Maine, 2d corps, 423; 8th New York, 2d corps, 361; 7th New York, 2d corps, 291; 2d Connecticut, 6th corps, 254, 1st Massachusetts, 2d corps, 241, 2d Pennsylvania, 9th corps 233; 14th New York 9th corps, 226; 2d New York, 2d corps 214; 9th New York, 6th corps, 204.

Naturally the writer is proud of the fact that his old regiment stands high on the honor roll. The record of 214 killed in battle tells the story, plainer than words, that the 2d New York Heavy Artillery were where the bullets were flying thick and fast.

BOUND FOR THE LAND OF FREEDOM.

The negro contrabands that flocked to our lines during the closing days of the struggle furnished a great deal of amusement to the soldiers. In their hasty flight for freedom they picked up the very articles that were of little use to them, even to feather beds, boxes, cotton umbrellas, stovepipe hats and of course every musician his banjo. The girls wore huge hoop skirts which were then in vogue, and many had on flounced silk dresses that had evidently been borrowed from “Missus’ wardrobe.” There was nothing these poor black people would not do for “Massa Lincum soldier men,” whom they fairly worshiped. An old “Mammy” made my chum and I an old fashioned “hoecake” at high bridge, baking it in a skillet which she buried in the coals of a campfire, and it was about the most toothsome morsel I ever ate. Goodness gracious! what would I give for the appetite and digestion of those days.

PRAYER FOR THE C. S. A.

We entered a neat looking church one day, and one of the boys opened an Episcopal prayer book at the altar, and at the “Prayer for All in Authority,” found that the words “the president of the United States” had been cut out, and, folded in the book, was a manuscript copy of prayers for the “Confederate States of America.”

RICHMOND AFTER THE EVACUATION.

Those who have visited this beautiful Virginia city in recent years have no idea of the appearance of the place after it was evacuated by the Confederates. Lee’s message of April 2, telling Jefferson Davis that “my lines are broken in three places, Richmond must be evacuated this evening,” found Mr. Davis in church. He quietly withdrew, and the fate of the city was soon noised about the streets, which became filled with men, wagons and negroes carrying trunks and bundles of every description.

After the departure of President Davis and others of the Confederate government, Gen. Ewell issued orders for the burning of the large warehouses of the city, and thus a great conflagration was started that threatened to lay in ashes all of the business structures.

The city council met and decided to destroy every drop of liquor in town, and at midnight committees of citizens visited every ward and rolled hundreds of barrels of whisky into the streets, and, knocking the heads out, the gutters were flooded. The shipping at the wharves was fired and pandemonium reigned complete for 24 hours.

The Union forces entered the city the next day and proceeded to restore order.

A few days later the writer accompanied a party of officers to the city, going by way of City Point and up the James river by boat, past formidable forts and earthworks that had swarmed with Confederate soldiers ten days before, now deserted. The cannon that had hardly cooled off for over nine months were now silent. White tents that had sheltered the enemy stood as lonely sentinels for the “Lost Cause.”

There were many points of interest, such as the famous Howlett house battery, Butler’s Dutch Gap canal, the “Crow’s Nest,” a lookout station, Haxall’s landing where the exchange of prisoners used to take place. The river was full of mines and torpedoes, and the thought that every minute might be our last was anything but pleasant.

The defenses of the City of Richmond appeared to have been impregnable, if the confederates could have kept a sufficient force there to man them. Every elevation about the city had a fort, and there were two lines of abatis and three separate lines of rifle pits and earthworks encircling the city. No attacking army can ever carry by direct assault a city so fortified, if the army within is anywhere equal in numbers to that on the outside and has supplies to subsist upon. It used to be reckoned that the troops that assaulted a fortified position must lose five or more men to one of those defending the works.

LIBBY PRISON.

The name of which was quite enough to give a Union soldier the cold chills, was filled with Confederates the day we were there. The blue and the gray had exchanged places. We being human, were much pleased to see the rebels peering out through the grated windows with the Union sentries pacing up and down around the building.

The bridges leading out of the city had mostly been destroyed, also the great warehouses, the postoffice, the treasury, the leading banks, and, in fact, the heart of the city had been burned out and the ruins were smoldering when we were there. The street where the treasury and war department had been was knee deep with official papers and records that had been thrown out.

We wandered through the deserted State house, the capitol of the confederacy, and the writer has a piece of the upholstering taken from the chair that was presented to the speaker of the Confederate congress by English sympathizers.

The home of Jefferson Davis was used as the headquarters of Gen. Weitzel, who commanded the forces that entered the city after its evacuation.

President Lincoln, who was at City Point during Grant’s final operations against Lee, went up to Richmond the next day after the city fell and held a levee in the house that had been occupied by Jeff Davis two days before. Thousands of black people crowded the streets to welcome and bless their emancipator, and it became necessary to use military force to clear the streets so that Lincoln could pass. His personal safety was feared for when he proposed the visit, but no insult was offered him, and two days later he repeated his visit, accompanied by Mrs. Lincoln, several United States senators and Vice-President Johnson. Eight days later he was assassinated in Washington, and the South lost the best friend they could have had in the pacification and reconstruction days that were to come, for the heart of the great Lincoln was free from all bitterness and resentment towards his erring brothers.

BILL’S LAST FIGHT.

William Slater and Eber Ponto were among the best soldiers of our company. Neither had ever shirked a duty and, having kept step side by side for three years, were the closest of comrades. In fact, I believe either would have walked into the jaws of death for the other.

Ponto lived to see the end of the war and came home wearing a sergeant’s chevrons, while Slater was left sleeping on a hillside at Petersburg.

Ponto was a Frenchman and in after years, at a reunion of the regiment, he told us the circumstances of Bill’s death in about the following words:

“Remember dat charge at Petersburg, boys? ’Twas a beeg fight, I’ll never forget dat night when we wer’ lyin’ behind dat stone wall waitin’ for mornin’ to come.”

“I don’t lak dat waitin’ round’ for a fight. Ze Frenchman he lak de word an’ de blow together.

“Well, Bill and I were smokin’ our laurel root pipes and I notis Bill wer’ keepin’ mighty quiet lak he doin’ a heap of thinkin’--of course he never say much, tain’t his way. Fin’ly he look up an he say, Ebe, ole’ boy, dere goin’ to be a hot time in ze mornin’ an’ ’twill be my las’ fight.”

“I say ’pshaw, Billee boy, guess you bin soke up too much dat air Chickahominy malaria over at Cole Harbor las’ week’--cause you know boys when you git dat in your bones it mak’ everything look blue even to your finger nails.

“Bill he say, ‘no, I’m all right, but something tell me dat if you’re alive tomorrow night you’ll be smokin’ alone.’

“Then I say to Bill, ‘You just lay low in de mornin’ an’ I’ll tell them you’r sick an’ get you excuse from dis scrap.’ An’ Bill he say, ‘Ebe, you never knew me to ‘flunk’ did you? Well, I’m not goin’ to do it now. Where you an’ old Co. H go I’m goin’, but promis’ me, Ebe, that you’ll keep close to me and if I’m killed I want you to take my watch an’ always carry it,’ an’ I promis’, an’ we shake hands for I lak Bill and he lak me.

“Well ze next mornin’ Col. Whistler he led us up thro’ dat peech orchard; remember dat, boys? Bill and I we touch elbows and say nuthin’. Dem minies go, zip! zip! pretty fas’. I get excited an’ all at once I don’t feel Bill’s elbow touchin’ mine. I look roun’ an’ I see him lyin’ on his face. I turn him over an’ there’s a red spot on his forehead. I unbutton his shirt an’ feel for his heart; it was stop, an’ mine beat lak a beeg bass drum. I take this watch you see. I close his eyes. I press my lips to his, an’ cover him with my blanket, an’ that was the las’ of poor Bill.”

THE COLONEL AND THE PENSION AGENT.

A man whom we will call Jarvis Jenkins was a member of the same company and regiment as the writer. He served his country well, was wounded in battle and for nearly 25 years has been trying to establish his claim to a pension, but, living in the far west away from all of his old comrades, it has been a hard matter for him to get the testimony to satisfy the department.

One day, some months since there walked into my place of business a gentleman who announced himself a special agent of the pension department, and, after asking my name, age, and if I was the identical person who served as drummer boy in such a company and regiment during the Civil war, the answer being in the affirmative, he then desired to know if I recalled one Jarvis Jenkins, and, if so, could I tell of any particular thing that happened to him. Yes, he received a scalp wound in one of the assaults at Petersburg. This did not seem to be the information wanted, for sometimes it would seem that the affairs of the pension office are administered somewhat after the manner of the “circumlocution office” described by Charles Dickens in the charming book of “Little Dorrit.” So another tack was taken and the following question propounded: “Did you while at Fort Haggerty, Va., own a revolver?” I admitted that I had once in my life, and only once been the proud possessor of a deadly weapon. Could I tell what became of it?

Answer: “Traded with ‘Lige’ Moyer, our company cook, for a watch, and paid him in boot more than the watch was worth.”

“Now, sir, can it be that you are mistaken and is it not possible that you loaned your revolver to Jarvis Jenkins to hunt rabbits with and that it exploded in his hand, lacerating his fingers badly?”

Answer: “No, sir.”

“Then,” said the government agent, “I must look up another drummer boy of the 2d New York, for it is certain that some one loaned him a revolver which exploded as stated.”

The special agent was a pleasant fellow, and as we smoked a couple of cigars he showed me a great mass of testimony that had been taken in the case and said that he had traveled more than 1,000 miles to interview members of the regiment. “By the way,” he said, “I am going to read you extracts from the testimony of your old lieutenant colonel which I took down in shorthand.”

As near as I remember it ran something like this: “I believe you are Col. Hulser who commanded the 2d New York in the last months of its service?”

Answer: “The same.”

“What was your previous rank, colonel?”

“Major, captain and lieutenant.”

“Can you give me the dates of your promotions?”

“No.”

“Were you in command of a certain fort in Virginia in 1862?”

“I was.”

“Do you remember of a man being injured on one of the heavy guns in the fort?”

“No.”

“Do you remember a soldier by the name of Jarvis Jenkins?”

“No.”

“Now, colonel, look at this paper and tell me if that is your signature.”

“Well, I should say it was.”

“Now, colonel, will you oblige me by reading the statement you signed many years ago and then tell me how you reconcile that statement with the one you just made to me?”

The colonel was something of a rough diamond but the soul of honor. He was sturdy, honest and blunt. A man who called a spade a spade. He disliked subterfuge or deceit. A fighter from way back, and I can imagine something of the indignation he felt when he got up out of his chair to make reply.

“Say, young man, I’m no highwayman or perjurer. I was fighting my country’s battles when you was nursing a bottle. The lapse of time, and my infirmities, the result of wounds and hardships, do not permit me to remember the names, the color of hair and eyes of several thousand men who were on the rolls of my regiment nearly 40 years ago, but I will have you to understand, sir, that I am no less a gentleman than a soldier and whatever I have put my name to you can bet your bottom dollar is God’s truth, every word of it, and if you dare to stand up before me and intimate otherwise, damn me if I won’t knock you down in a jiffy and walk all over you.”

The government special laughed as he read the interview and rolling the papers up put them in his grip as he remarked: “Say, I rather liked the old veteran after all.”

THE COMPANY COOK.

One of the most important personages of a company was the cook. Even the officers stood in awe of him. What if he did boil his shirts and greasy trousers in the kettle in which he cooked our food, made soup, tea and coffee.

As a result the flavor was somewhat mixed at times, but no one dared to remonstrate with the “son of a sea cook,” for the one that provoked his displeasure was sure to suffer in some way. If they punished those whom they disliked they bestowed many favors upon those whom they happened to take a liking to. The writer always stood in well with “Uncle” Hawley, our first cook, who was taken prisoner at Bull Run, and “Lige” Moyer, who succeeded him. Hawley was an elocutionist of no mean ability. “Lige” used to while away his spare moments with a fiddle.

STORY OF THE MUSTER ROLL.

Spread out before me is a copy of the muster-out roll of Co. H, 2d New York heavy artillery, organized at Carthage, N. Y., Oct. 14, 1861, mustered into United States service at Staten Island, Oct. 18, 1861, and disbanded at Hart’s Island, New York harbor, Oct. 10, 1865.

When a regiment was mustered out of service each company was required to hand in a muster-out roll bearing the names of every man who had served in the organization and the particulars of his service were written opposite the name.

The names were grouped under various headings of: “Present at Muster-out,” “Previously Discharged,” “Transferred,” “Deserted,” “Killed in Action,” “Died of Wounds,” “Died of Disease,” etc., etc.

Almost anybody would be interested in looking over an old muster-out roll, but to the man who was a part of the organization, who knew its history from beginning to end and can read between the lines, so to speak, the story told is doubly interesting and in many respects a sad one. Such a reader is carried back to the war and is enabled to vividly recall its thrilling scenes.

He knows who were the best soldiers, who stood in the front rank, who led in the assaults. Likewise he knows who were the skulkers and cowards, for it was an impossibility for a soldier to hide his weaknesses from his comrades.

In scanning the remarks opposite of the names one is brought face to face with the past as in no other way. For instance: “Lieut. William H. Roff, wounded in a charge at Cold Harbor, June 6, 1864, leg amputated, died.” “Lieut. John Clapsaddle, disabled by wounds at Petersburg and discharged.” Another reminder of the desperate fighting at Cold Harbor is the name of an old schoolmate, “Henry C. Potter,” “wounded June 6,” “died Aug. 2, 1864.” Under the group of “killed in action,” I read “Roscoe Williamson, killed at Cold Harbor, June 6,” and I recall a bright, rosy cheeked young fellow that was a great favorite.

“George H. Ormiston, taken prisoner at Reams Station, Aug. 25, 1864; died en route north April 9, 1865.” And one shudders as he thinks of the thousands that were literally starved to death in Andersonville and other southern prison pens.

“Second Lieut. O. T. Bliss promoted to first lieutenant and transferred to Co. F,” recalls one of the bravest of the brave who enlisted as a bugler, exchanged his trumpet for a gun at Bull Run, was captured and later passed through all the various grades of rank from corporal to brevet major.

“Sergt. Franklin B. Farr, mortally wounded at Round Fort, Va., April 7, 1865,” only two days before the surrender of Lee, and one thinks how sad to fall in the last battle of the war with victory and home in sight.

“John Satterly, wounded at Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864,” and I see long John with his peculiar hook-shaped nose which caused one of the boys who was waggishly inclined to suggest that he could make big money picking cherries as he could hang to a limb with his nose and gather the fruit in with both hands. Ever after that John was called “Cherry Picker.”

I pause at the name of “Edwin Smith, mortally wounded at Petersburg, June 16, 1864,” and I recall what he said when being carried to the rear. “Hold on, boys, don’t carry me off without my grub.” Our regiment was lying behind a stone wall supporting a battery that was firing over our heads. Rations had been brought up to us that morning and “Ed” was eating when wounded, and the stretcher bearers were carrying him off without his haversack. He never made a murmur about his wound but did not want to lose his rations. He was a son of a Watertown tailor and was one of the youngest and smallest boys of our company that carried a musket. There were a number under 18 years of age in the company and they were called the “ponies,” but they could outmarch most of the large heavy men. The “ponies” made up in grit and enthusiasm what they lacked in size.

“Patrick Devereaux, veteran” and I hear the rollicking laugh of as gallant an Irish soldier as ever carried a gun, whose ready wit and cheery disposition made him to Co. H what Dickens’ “Mark Tapley” was to “Martin Chuzzlewit.”

It was Patsy who made Major “Quicker nor that” mark time for him, and Pat who, when our regiment, with fixed bayonets was lying behind the stone wall at Spottsylvania waiting for Ewell’s charge, broke the awful stillness of those few minutes, that seemed like hours, by remarking: “Boys, wouldn’t a little ‘commissary’ taste good about now?”

He was the “Mulvany” of our company and a prime favorite with everybody. “Halt who goes there!” was never spoken by a better soldier than Patrick Devereaux of the 2nd Heavy.

The following letter from my old comrade is characteristic of the man:

PAT’S LETTER.

Troy, N. Y., April 6, 1904.

“Me Little Boy in Blue:”

I see by the papers which somebody has been sendin’ me that our little ‘Sheepskin beater’ of company H has trun down his drum sticks an tuk up a pen an’ is riting’ war stories. I’ve hearn tell that the ‘pen is mightier than the sword’ which was probably true of the ‘toad-stabbers’ carried by the drummer boys durin’ the war. But say, youse lads were great wid the drum sticks, and would make a divil of a racket in the mornin’ whin a fellah wanted to slape.

Many’s the time whin lyin’ so comfortable wid me rubber poncho betwix me an’ the sod, an’ dreamin’ of me darlin’ an’ dear ould Ireland, hev you disturbed me slumbers wid your batin’ of the reveille, and I’ve bin that mad I cud have kicked you an’ your drum into the middle of nex’ week. But whin youse kids led us out on a p’rade to the chune of ‘Rory O’More’ it was like goin’ to a Donnybrook fair so aisy was the marchin’ behind the drum corps of the Second Heavy. If ould Pat does say it you were a foine lot of youngsters, and whin it came to drummin’ youse cud give odds to any drum corps in the 1st division. Say me boy, them were great days, weren’t they? You were but a small kid but I suppose are growin’ grey wid the rest of the ould boys.

Your riferince to me tilt wid Major Roach, who was forever yellin’ out ‘Quicker nor that,’ brings those days back to me mind, an’ it does not seem 40 years ago. Roach an’ some of the other officers we had on the go-in were a quare gang. But that Colonel Whistler from the regulars was all right. Wasn’t he? Jermiah N. G. was a peach an’ he made a good regiment out of us, an’ the Second Heavy made a brigadier out of him by the way they wint for them Jonnies the 16th of June at Petersburg. Say, me blood runs hot whin I think of the mornin’ in the peach orchard whin Whistler led us in that charge.

Dan, me oldest son, wint to the Spanish war and it makes me laf to hear him tell about the hardships at Tampa and the charge of San Wan. One evenin’ he was entertainin’ some of his friends wid riminescences and one of the young ladies said she thought it an outrage for the government to send them home from the war in common every-day coaches. ‘Palace cars were none too good for the soldier boys.’ I agreed with her, but said I remember thet our regiment who saw four years’ service were sint home in box cars with divil a seat or whisp of straw to lie on. I tell Dan that if he had followed Gen. Hancock’s old battle flag with the ace of clubs on it, from Bull Run to Appomattox, stopping occasionally to take a hand in skirmishes like Antietam, Gettysburg, Cold Harbor, Spottsylvania, Petersburg, Reams Station, Five Forks and a few other small affairs, he would know more about war.

The boys were all right though. The trouble in the last war, was, that there was not enough of it to go around.

By the way I think you galloped over the Appomattox campaign a little too lively. It was short and none too sweet, but there was a good bit doin’ in them ten days, and it seems to me you could have given a few more particulars without wearying your readers.

The prisint generation who are wadin’ knee deep in clover won’t be hurt by being reminded of what the old vets suffered for them.

I remember onct that our liftenant Tom Waters said that whin I got to talking I did not know whin to stop and I guess you’ll think it’s the same wid me letter rittin’, so here’s to you and yours. Keep a stiff upper lip. Never show the white flag.

Yours for the Union.
P. DEVEREAUX.

MY CAPTAIN.

“Capt. Charles L. Smith, prostrated by sunstroke near Cold Harbor.” brings to mind the long, weary marches of that summer under broiling sun; the choking clouds of dust; the intense thirst; the scanty rations and consequent weakness which caused countless numbers to fall by the roadside. The name also stirs tender memories of a kind hearted officer, a gentleman and soldier--“My Captain,” who was ever gentle with and considerate for the welfare of the little lad whom he took with him to a real war.

“Peace be to his ashes!
Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o’er,
Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking;
Dream of battlefields no more,
Days of danger, nights of waking--
We would not forget our dead.”

In closing my memories of the war I am going to give an extract from an old letter written by my captain, who several years since went to join those of his command who had been summoned by the Great Captain of All.

“Nov. 8, 1883.”

“My Dear Boy: Your welcome letter of the 14th ult. at hand, and was most happy to learn over your own signature that you had not in the long years that have intervened forgotten me. Your old captain still lives, daily praying for and remembering the least under his command.

“Oh, that I could see them pass in review as I did many a time in those stirring days. Many years have passed since and probably not one in 50 would I recognize, still I remember them all, living or dead, who went with me to the great war.

“God knows my affection goes out to you all and I am not ashamed to say that my eyes fill with tears as I write.

“My great regret is that I could not return every man and boy to their homes. But I could not. You remember I said I had no cowards in old Co. H. They were a brave, intelligent lot of men who obeyed orders, endured hardships and faced the guns of the enemy unflinchingly.

“I recall you as but a child going with me to a real war where you were to spend years of your young life with your little drum. But my dear boy, it did good service, real genuine war service.

“I remember you were the first drummer boy the 2d New York had, and I am proud to know that my own little drummer boy marched at the head of the regiment in every campaign down to Appomattox and beat the last tattoo for the regiment at Hart’s Island, New York Harbor, after nearly four years of service.

“God bless you, how could I be other than proud of my little drummer boy?”

FINIS.

Transcriber’s Note:

Seemingly at random, these two lines were printed at the top of page 18 of the original text:

mules of the wagon trains, and after a couple of
nowhere else for him to go.