Chapter II: Part 2

Captain, Henry Dearborn, Nottingham.
1st Lieut., Amos Morrill, Epsom.
2d Lieut., Michael McClary, Epsom.
1st Sergt., Jona. Clarke, Nottingham.
2d Sergt., And. McGaffey, Epsom.
3d Sergt., Jos. Jackson, Nottingham.
1st Corp., Jonah Moody, Nottingham.
2d Corp., Andrew Field, Nottingham.
3d Corp., Jona. Gilman, Deerfield.
4th Corp., And. Bickford, Deerfield.

Privates.—Simon Dearborn, Gideon Glidden, James Garland, John Harvey, David Mudgett (of Gilmanton), Simon Sanborn, Robt. Morrison, John Runnels, John Neally, Joseph Place, Abram Pettengale, Andrew Nealley, Peter Severance, John Wallace, Theop. Cass (of Epsom), Israel Clifford, Nathaniel Batchelder (of Deerfield), Jacob Morrill, John Simpson, John Wallace, Jr., Neal McGaffey (of Epsom), Jonah Libbey, Moses Locke, Francis Locke, Zebulon Marsh, Solomon Moody, Chas. Whitcher, Marsh Whitten, Noah Sinclair (drummer), James Randell (fifer), Nich. Brown, Benj. Berry (of Epsom), John Casey, Jona. Cram (of Deerfield), Jeremiah Conner, Elisha Hutchinson, Dudley Hutchinson, Benj. Judkins, Josh. Wells, Jere. Dowe, Jona. Dowe, John Dwyer, David Page, Jr., Beniah Libbey, William Rowell, Weymouth Wallace (of Epsom), Thomas Walsh and William McCrellis (of Epsom).

_THE N. H. SEVENTH AT FT. WAGNER._

[From sketch of Lieut. HENRY W. BAKER, in Coffin’s History of Boscawen.]

The command had been entrusted to Gen. Trueman H. Seymour, who determined to make an assault. He knew nothing of the construction of Ft. Wagner. No information of the impediments to be overcome had reached him. Col. Putnam of the 7th, commanding the second brigade, opposed the contemplated movement.

“I do not think that we can take the fort,” he said; and when Gen. Seymour reiterated his determination to make the attempt, Col. Putnam said, “We shall go like a flock of sheep.”

The sun had set, and the twilight faded. The soldiers were ordered to remove the caps from the nipples of their rifles, and were told that they must depend upon the bayonet alone. In the 100th N. Y., which formed behind the 7th, this order was neglected.

In the darkness the assaulting column moved forward. The iron-clads, and the Union batteries opened a heavy fire, which was continued till the column was so near that further firing would endanger it, when, at a signal, all the Union batteries became silent. In an instant Ft. Wagner was aflame. Its heavy siege guns, howitzers, and forty-two pounder carronades burst forth, pouring a stream of shot and shell into the advancing troops. And now, in addition, the parapet of the fort swarmed with men, who, through the terrible cannonade of the day had been lying securely beneath the bomb proofs. Mingled with the roar of the cannon were their volleys of musketry.

The first brigade had the advance. Its ranks went down like grass before the mower. Some of the soldiers fled, panic stricken. The second brigade, led by the 7th N. H., pressed on and filled the decimated ranks. Suddenly they found themselves confronted by a ditch fifty feet wide and ten feet deep, with four feet of water flowing into it. Only at the south-eastern angle was it dry. It was enfiladed by howitzers. Into the ditch leaped the soldiers. Grape and canister mowed them down, but others crowded on. The 7th N. H., led by Lt. Col. Joseph C. Abbott, made its way unfalteringly into the ditch, through it, and up the slope of the parapet. Cannon and musketry blazed in their faces; and now there was a flash behind them—the 100th N. Y., not having removed their caps, were firing into the dark mass, not knowing who was friend, who foe. All was confusion. All order disappeared. In the darkness no one could be recognized. Amid the groans of the wounded, the shouting of officers, the rattle of rifles, the roar of cannon, the bursting of shells, it was impossible to maintain discipline. Col. Putnam, a few of his subordinates, and one or two hundred men entered the fort. The enemy charged, but were driven back. Col. Putnam was killed; one officer after another went down. The reserve, which should have rushed up, did not come. The assault had lost its force. Like sheep the Union soldiers fled as best they could through the devastating fire, leaving a ghastly heap of dead and wounded in the ditch, and on the parapet of the fort. Among the killed was Henry W. Baker. By his side were Dexter Pritchard, Liberty G. Raymond, and Alexander F. Stevens, from Boscawen, and of his company, also killed.

Among the wounded was Samuel McEvely, and among the prisoners was John Clancy, who died in prison at Richmond.

In his first battle, Lieut. Baker gave his life to his country. Those who served under him speak of him with affection. He was cool and brave, and ever mindful of his duty. He was buried where he fell, with his commander, Col. Putnam, and his subordinates, Pritchard, Raymond, and Stevens.

_UPWARD._

BY MARY HELEN BOODEY.

On the wings of my faith I aspire
O God! to rise higher and higher,
And to quaff of the scintillate springs
That flow all exhaustless from Thee,
Who art fountain, and haven, and sea,
And canst satisfy all who aspire.

I mount and I mount through the air,
Borne up by the breath of my prayer,
Through waves of the sunshine of love;
Thy presence, O God! is the light,
Thou givest my spirit its flight,
Thou rulest below and above.

I live in the glories of God,
I know that His merciful rod
Extends o’er a sorrowful world;
I see how His Providence glows
With sweet hues of azure and rose,
His banner, the heavens unfurled.

The universe sings to my soul,
And I join with my voice in the whole,
And God is the spirit of Law;
The Power of blessing and blight,
The Giver of morning and night,
Whose judgments are all without flaw.

Behold! I am given to see
That the darkness and sorrow that be,
Lie low and cling closely to earth;
But the light of God’s glory descends,
And the might of His justice attends
The souls that are weeping in dearth.

A Hand that is brilliant with truth,
And gentle indeed in its ruth,
Shall point out the way and defend,
And the gloom of each fearful abyss,
The serpents that threaten and hiss,
Shall be conquered and slain to amend.

_IN BATTLE AND IN PRISON._
A REMINISCENCE OF THE WAR OF THE REBELLION.

BY WILLIAM E. STEVENS.

The events I am about to describe took place at a critical period of “the war to keep the Union whole,” and cover that date in the career of the army of the Potomac beginning with Hooker’s flank movement against Lee, entrenched on the heights of Fredericksburg, and ending with the disastrous repulse which attended that finely planned, yet poorly executed, and ill-starred campaign. Of course, I am not writing history, except in a small way; nor do I essay to describe in detail or with accuracy the events in question. My purpose is to give my own observations and experiences, mainly from memory, reinforced by a few scraps and half-illegible memoranda saved from the accidents by flood and field.

I was a participant in many of the earlier battles fought by the army of the Potomac; but my opportunities for acquiring accurate information touching the general aspects of the field were necessarily limited to that part of it within my own immediate range of vision, and even here—so rigidly did our commanders aim to reduce us to mere automatons—we were often in the dark as to the meaning of this or that movement. I strove hard to master the situation, but not until the war closed and the reports of commanders were given to the public, did I have other than a very indefinite conception of much that transpired about me. Why we made this or that change of front; why we were kept for hours in line of battle beneath a broiling sun with no enemy in sight; why we were rushed from one point to another in an apparently hap-hazard manner, enduring fatigue and hunger and subsisting upon wormy “hardtack;” why we were pushed against impregnable positions, when a flank movement seemed to our inexperienced eyes the proper thing to do—now fighting, now building corduroy roads, digging rifle-pits or supporting batteries in our rear, which did more execution upon us, by reason of defective ammunition, than upon the enemy—concerning all these points, and many more we were anxious to be informed, but not one atom of information could we get.

“Ours not to inquire why,
Ours but to do and die.”

Was this reticence in pursuance of the mistaken theory that machine soldiers are best? Or was it because “some one had blundered,” and ignorance or incapacity, or something still worse, could be the more easily concealed? Whatever the reason, the fact remains that to the rank and file much of the campaigning done up to 1863–64 seemed to them worse than needless;—and looking back over that period with the light of history thrown upon it, I am not prepared to say the rank and file were mistaken in their estimate. I was impressed then, and the impression has never been effaced, that the reticence observed toward the men in the ranks touching what was going on about them, was a grievous error on the part of our commanders. It is a question, certainly, whether it would not have been better to have kept the “boys” informed of the real military situation and of what they were expected to achieve. The belief that much of the hardship endured was the result of blundering generals, or, worse, of criminal indifference, did much to unman our soldiers and cause them to lose faith and hope. Our volunteers were not machine soldiers, as some of the West Pointers seemed to presume, but patriotic, thinking and observing men who could fight best when they fought understandingly. I am told that the rebel commanders pursued a different policy, and although their soldiers were mentally inferior to ours, kept them apprized of the general situation and of what they must do to accomplish the end sought. Who shall say how many of the confederate victories may be accredited to this fact, if it is a fact? But our commanders, instead of trusting their men, either kept them in utter ignorance of movements or foolishly deceived them. How well I remember at the battle of Gaines’s Hill, where Jackson thrashed Porter so soundly, and Sykes’s regulars failed to stand their ground, that the story was industriously circulated along the thinned but unbroken ranks of Bartlett’s Brigade, “McClellan’s in Richmond, boys. One more effort and the day is ours!” And Meagher’s Irish Brigade, hastening to our relief on the run, took up the cry and put on so determined a front that Jackson’s veterans halted and reformed, giving our officers time to re-establish their broken lines and hold their ground until night came down and afforded them an opportunity to withdraw to the left bank of the Chickahominy,—not to enter Richmond, but to begin that celebrated “flank movement” which ended at Harrison’s Landing. Again, at second Bull Run, when, after dawdling along all day on the road from Alexandria to Centreville, with the sounds of conflict in our front (making a long two hours’ rest at Annandale, and then marching at full speed in a hot sun), we reached Centreville, we were told that Pope had whipped Jackson, and that Lee with his whole army was in full retreat. But when we reached Bull Run, “Linden saw another sight.” Heavens, what a stampede! McDowell’s and Sigel’s corps in disastrous retreat,—cavalry, artillery, infantry, ammunition and baggage wagons in one confused, struggling mass, intent upon reaching the heights of Centreville. Our corps (Franklin’s, 6th) had just halted to rest, as the stragglers came into view. Deploying, we stopped the rout, and ended the retreat. Seizing the infantry stragglers, we placed them in our own ranks until our brigade swelled to twice its usual size. Night closed in, and we were marched to the front across Cub Run, and ordered to hold our position at all hazards. In that march every straggler deserted! Poor fellows, who could blame them? Had they been killed then and there who could have accounted for them? Most of them returned to their own regiments and thereafter did good service no doubt. Panics are liable to seize upon the best of troops. I cite these instances as partial corroboration of my point. What wonder if our troops came to distrust all reports and to depend only upon established facts. But perhaps our commanders were right in concealing information from the army in general, and Moore may have hit the nail on the head when he wrote:

“A captain has been known to think,
Even colonels have been heard to reason;
And reasoners whether clad in pink,
Or red or blue, are on the brink,
Nine cases out of ten—of treason.”

At any rate they conducted the war in harmony with such a belief.

One battle only did I witness from the vantage ground of a non-combatant, the first Fredericksburg fight, and I found it vastly more interesting and conducive to personal ease and safety, if less glorious. But this is not what I started out to tell the readers of this Magazine. I am to relate my experience during that memorable episode referred to in my opening paragraph. I must say at the outset that it was an exceedingly checkered episode, so far as my memory serves me, for within the time outlined I ran the gamut of a soldier’s emotions—anxiety, uncertainty, fear, hope, the thrill of victory succeeded all too quickly by the blackest despair; for success was followed by repulse, and from an elated victor I became almost in a twinkling, a captive in the hands of as ragged and as dirty a lot of Johnny Rebs as ever fought with a courage worthy of a better cause,—a part of Wilcox’s Alabama brigade, McLaw’s division. But I must not anticipate.

During the winter of 1862–63, our brigade lay encamped near White Oak church, a locality about equi-distant, if my memory serves me, between Falmouth on the Rappahannock and Belle Plain on the Potomac. It had had ample time to recuperate from the fatigue of the “mud march,” as Burnside’s second futile attempt to dislodge Lee from his entrenchments about Fredericksburg, was facetiously termed, and as spring opened the routine of life in cantonment was relieved by parades, reviews, inspections, drills, and, occasionally, target practice. Meantime Hooker had superceded Burnside in chief command, and a new and more vigorous life had been infused into all branches of the service. This was particularly true of the cavalry, which had fallen into general disfavor. Under Hooker’s discipline it became very effective. The high-sounding grand divisions had been broken up, and the over-cautious, phlegmatic Franklin, relieved. With other changes, came Sedgwick to the command of our corps—a great improvement in some respects on Franklin. The cool and sagacious Slocum, so long at the head of the red-cross division, had been promoted to the command of a corps, and Gen. Brooks, as brave, perhaps, but a far less skilful soldier, had succeeded him, having been promoted from the Vermont brigade. Gen. Joe Bartlett of New York, commanded our brigade—a fine officer, and a lion in battle. A brave man, too, was our Colonel, but deficient in tactical skill. He might not “set a squadron in the field,” but he could face the enemy’s line of battle without flinching. In action he was the embodiment of pluck, and at such times he looked as if he might be the very

“——Colonel
Who galloped through the white infernal powder cloud.”

in continental days. But he did not appear to advantage on parade, being undersized and awkward gaited, with a shrill, piercing voice, not unlike that of the late Isaac O. Barnes, or the irrepressible Mel. Weston, and totally indifferent to all the niceties of drill so pleasing to the holiday soldier. On one occasion he forgot his place at a Brigade dress parade, and was then and there rebuked sharply by the general. Meeting the latter at headquarters the same evening, where a “reception” to the officers of the brigade was in full career and good fellowship, aided by copious draughts of “commissary,” abounded, the Colonel extended his hand and piped out in a high key which attracted the attention of all present: “Gineral, I’m not much at drill I confess, but I’ve got a hell-fired stomach for a fight!”

On the morning of the 28th of April, 1863, our regiment was ordered on picket duty, but scarcely had we relieved the old picket guard when orders came to return to camp, strike tents, and prepare to move at once in heavy marching order. This meant work, but was an agreeable change. I had only joined my regiment the day previous, after a brief leave of absence, and was resplendent in a new uniform, sword, etc. Of course I packed the uniform away, and left it in care of the sutler, while I donned a knit blouse, and with a due regard for sharpshooters of which the Confederacy had, as it always seemed to me when on the skirmish line, more than its share, put myself in condition for serious work, having nothing in the way of wearing apparel save my side-arms to indicate military rank. Meantime a great change had been effected in our winter quarters. The tents had been removed from the log huts to which they had served as roofs and windows, and now the bare interiors, with the debris strewn about, and broken chimneys and blackened walls alone remained. A more dismal or melancholy sight than a deserted cantonment cannot be conceived. “Warm work ahead, boys,” gaily and cheerily remarked our jovial, stout-hearted adjutant, as he rode up to the head of the regiment. It proved to be particularly hot for him, for he received a wound in his head, in the charge on Marye’s Heights, that he will carry to his grave, and which ended his military career, but not his usefulness; for he is now a popular clergyman, a true soldier of the cross, settled in Philadelphia, I believe. Our progress was slow, and darkness intervened just as we reached a ravine leading down to the narrow valley which skirts the river on that side. We bivouacked in our tracks, not being allowed to kindle fires. Back over the route we had come could be heard the rumble of artillery wagons and the tramp, tramp, of marching columns. In front, silence reigned. Orders are issued in a low tone; and that stern composure which soldiers assume when about to encounter the enemy was apparent in the bearing of all. The officers gather around their adjutant, who is a favorite at brigade and division headquarters, to learn his views touching the movement. He thinks we are in for a fight, and gives his opinion as to Hooker’s intentions. He is sanguine of success.—We have hardly closed our eyes in sleep, when some one calls out in a voice seemingly loud enough for the rebel pickets to hear, “Where is Colonel Blank?” “Here, sir,” responds that officer, rubbing his eyes. “What’s wanted?” “Gen. B. directs me to say that you are to march your regiment to the bank of the river, form in line of battle, and await further orders. You are to move expeditiously, with as little noise as possible, following the pontoons.” The order is obeyed; the regiment marching away in almost spectral silence. Debouching from the ravine, the darkness deepens, for a dense fog hangs over the valley of the Rappahannock like a pall. We file past the pontoon train, from which the engineer corps are detaching the boats, silently and with all the celerity possible—and stand upon the river’s brink. In our rear come other regiments, until our whole brigade is closed in line five regiments deep.—It was a critical time. I recall it well. The silence was almost oppressive; orders were given in low tones, and nothing but the rattle of accoutrements broke the silence. The fog resembled a mirage. Objects a little way off took on gigantic proportions. I remember that a pontoon boat, borne on stout shoulders to the river’s brink, resembled the immense hulk of a ship as it loomed into view, while at the distance of a few feet men took on colossal dimensions. Meantime we are tolled off in detachments to occupy the pontoons, along with the engineers who are to do the navigation, and our orders are to form instantly on reaching the other shore, dash forward and capture the enemy’s picket line, or whatever force may be there to oppose us. At length there are sounds of commotion on the other side. The Johnnies suspect something. Splash! goes a pontoon into the water, followed by a deep curse from the officer in charge, brave old Gen. Benham, who cannot restrain his rage over the carelessness of his men. Meanwhile the fog has been gradually rising, and the gray of dawn appears. More stir on the other side, a rattling of equipments, hurried commands—then a sharp challenge, (some of our scouts are nearly over), followed by a single musket discharge, then a volley, and the whistle of bullets. Instinctively we do them low obeisance; the lines waver for an instant, then firmness and silence. So heavy a fire was not anticipated. It told of a large reserve which must have been brought up in expectation of an attack. All hope of a surprise was over. “Will the pontoons never be launched?” Yes, Benham has done his duty, and into them we scramble and push off, each boat for itself. The stream is narrow at this point, but we are not swift enough to check another volley, which being better directed than the first, killed and wounded a number of our boys in the boats. Almost at the same instant our pontoon touches the shore. There is a rush, a charge, a brief struggle, and that picket guard is _hors du combat_. Quickly deploying on the bank we advance, but the enemy retires more quickly;—and we have established a firm foothold, the pontoon bridge is laid, and the whole corps is streaming across as the morning sun rises above the horizon. The fog still clings, however, to the rising ground on which Franklin fought at the first battle of Fredericksburg, and we move with due caution, skirmishers well out, not knowing what sort of a reception Stonewall Jackson, whose corps is known to occupy the wooded heights beyond, may have in store for us. But no serious opposition is offered after the affair of the pickets, and gradually we occupy most of the ground previously held by the centre of Franklin’s grand division. The fog lifts at last, and the sight revealed is a picturesque one. Before us, a level plain, extending on the right to the suburbs of Fredericksburg, and on the left, cut with ravines and hillocks somewhat, for a long distance. Back of us, the river; fronting, on either hand, the plain ending in a range of wooded hills, semicircular in shape, and dotted with fortifications. The enemy’s picket line is well out upon the plain but touching the river above us near the city. Extending our left it soon came in contact with Reynolds’ corps, which had effected a crossing a mile or two lower down, after a sharp artillery fight in which the enemy showed superior metal, but was obliged to retire after the infantry got over. Midway from the river to the range of hills, and parallel with the former, is a deep ravine where partial shelter from the concentric fire from the artillery posted on Marye’s Heights on the right and on the hills in front, was afforded Franklin’s troops in the previous battle. A few artillery shots are fired, soon after establishing our lines, and then all becomes quiet. What does this inaction portend? Evidently, Lee is acting on the defensive, and waiting for the development of Hooker’s strategy. He does not have long to wait. Before us is the whole rebel army. Will it swoop down upon us before Hooker can develop his left and crush us? This is the conundrum with which we wrestle, as the hours wear away, varying it with a conjecture as to whether we shall be ordered to assault the enemy, in his chosen position, against which Burnside had thrown the flower of his army only to be hurled back discomfited. Another artillery duel between Reynolds and Jackson later in the day closes the fighting, and a night of repose follows. The succeeding day proved to be one of quiet, also, but there was a constant movement of troops in our rear on the heights of Falmouth, the line of march being directly up river.

“You see them on their winding way,
About their ranks the sunbeams play.”

That night our regiment went on picket. Never shall I forget it. Strict orders had been received, prohibiting fires, or conversation above a whisper, and requiring the most vigilant watchfulness to prevent surprise, as the enemy in heavy force was directly in our front. Our eyes were kept constantly on the rebel sentinels moving ghost-like upon their beats. A dense fog settled down, cold and damp. The hours seemed leaden. The suspense became intense, unbearable. Suddenly a tremor sweeps along the line. Our boys are doubly alert. What does it mean? A message comes down the front line—“The enemy are advancing. Hold your ground until the reserves are formed, then rally upon them!” With muskets firmly grasped the Union pickets await the onset. A night attack is always dreaded by soldiers, and nothing is more trying to the nerves of veterans than the expectation of a conflict with an unseen foe. But our boys do not flinch; they feel the responsibility imposed upon them and resolve to do their duty. Minutes go by, and still no advance, although the weird line of sentinels has been succeeded by a line of battle. Momentarily we expect to see a sheet of flame burst from that compact mass, the components of which are indistinguishable in the fog and darkness, although hardly six rods distant. But it comes not. The mass recedes and fades out, leaving the sentinels pacing their posts, and we now know that the movement was only a reconnaissance. Morning dawns at length, and we are relieved without firing a shot. As we gain the shelter of the ravine near the bank of the river, we notice that Reynolds has recrossed with his whole corps and is marching in the direction taken by the main army. Looking toward the rebel position on our left, dark masses of men are seen moving over the hills, as if in retreat. Here again we have food for speculation. Has Hooker, whose guns are now heard on the right, outflanked the enemy? Later on we learned that these troops were Stonewall Jackson’s rear guard, that intrepid commander being then in the process of executing that famous flank movement which put the 11th corps to rout and turned a Union success into a Confederate victory, the most signal ever achieved by its armies. About noon our troops made a demonstration, driving back the enemy’s pickets, and later in the day rifle-pits were dug under cover of army blankets hung up as if to dry—a device so simple as to deceive the Confederates, for otherwise, being commanded by their guns, it could not have been effected without serious loss.

The next day (Saturday, May 2), was comparatively quiet, although far to the right could be heard the deep, yet muffled sound of artillery firing, telling that Hooker was engaged. We made demonstrations all along our front, but did no real fighting. During the night, the firing on the right became very heavy,—and I was called into line at about 2 a. m., to go through ere another chance to sleep was afforded me, the most exciting experiences of my life. We were marched to the front, and posted in a ravine. With the first streaks of dawn came sounds of musketry firing on our right. It was the Light Division in the streets of Fredericksburg. Marching by the left flank we emerge from the ravine and take a position on the left, the second, and third and light divisions of our corps extending to the right. As we leave the ravine the enemy opens a heavy fire upon our devoted regiment, the hills on our front and right being aflame with the flashes of the “red artillery.” We advance rapidly, our general leading; our batteries gallop to the rising ground, and open on the enemy’s guns posted near the railroad embankment and which are doing the most execution. Our guns are splendidly served, and soon the rebel battery in front and its infantry supports are seen making quick time for the fortifications in the woods at the base of the hill. Now the guns on the hills redouble their fire, and the din is terrible. Men are falling at every step, and so fierce is the concentric artillery fire of the Confederates that our batteries have to be withdrawn. Not so the infantry. It is our part to keep the rebel force in front employed while the divisions on our right storm Marye’s Heights. So we keep steadily on until a ravine is reached running at right angles with the one we have left, and leading nearly up to the rebel entrenchments. The air is full of screaming shot and whistling shell, and as we near the entrance to the ravine, which is filled with a thick undergrowth of trees and bushes, our boys are ready to insist that at least five hundred rebel cannon have the range and are peppering us accordingly. Through the hell of fire we go, marching by the left flank and closing up our ranks with each breach, and into the ravine from which the enemy’s sharpshooters are seen to scamper like so many rats, as much to escape the range of their own cannon as that of our musketry, for we had not as yet fired a shot.—Here, by hugging the steep sides, we were partially sheltered and within half rifle practice of the foe posted behind their breastworks at the base of the hill. A brisk fusilade was kept up, and although we were unsupported and “in the air” we kept the Johnnies so busy that they did not attempt a sortie. By this time, also, the batteries on Marye’s Heights, which had enfiladed us, had as much as they could do nearer home, for Howe and Newton had begun their advance. It being deemed useless to attempt to do more than keep the enemy in our front employed, our regiment was withdrawn from the ravine and the Parrotts were again opened on the position, which we had, supposed was to be stormed.—“The war which for a space did fail,” now opens furiously on our right, and we watch the advance of the light division with interest, although our regiment is still exposed to a galling fire from riflemen behind the railroad embankment.—The spectacle was a thrilling one. The 6th corps batteries were playing upon the heights, with might and main, and up the steep ascent our brave boys were climbing with all speed. Our hearts were in our throats as we watched. Could the heights be stormed? Could Sedgwick with 10,000 men do what Burnside failed to do with ten times that number? Our Colonel, who has been watching the conflict through his field-glass, electrifies us at last by exclaiming, “The heights are ours, boys!” “Our flag is there!” Such a cheer as went up must have astonished our friends just opposite. A rebel brigade, which had left the entrenchments near our front and was making all speed to succor its friends, suddenly halted, then taking in the situation turned about and ran back again, its pace being accelerated by shots from cannon just taken. The victory was ours thus far, but at what a cost! It was a brief triumph, alas! for disaster had overtaken Hooker, and he was a beaten general at that moment. We knew it not, however. Contrariwise it was announced that Hooker had been even more successful, and that Lee’s routed army was in rapid retreat on Richmond. Joy filled our hearts, even though we mourned the death of many brave comrades whose last roll call on earth had been answered that morning. Hence, when orders came for our brigade to fall in and take the lead in the pursuit on our side, they were obeyed with alacrity, and up and over the battle-stained heights we marched, munching our hardtack as we went, and out upon the Chancellorsville pike, driving the enemy before us like chaff before the wind. Two miles out, a battery opened upon us, but we took little notice, pushing our skirmish line rapidly forward. It was a fatal discharge, however, to an officer on Brooks’ staff, who fell from his horse, nearly decapitated by a shell.—One of our batteries is hurried to the front and a single discharge causes the enemy to retire on the double quick. We reach Salem church, nearly exhausted by our rapid marching, hoping for rest. But the worst is yet to come. Our skirmish line is held at bay. It cannot advance, and our brigade is formed for a charge—my own regiment, through the negligence of some one, going into the fight in heavy marching order, with knapsacks strung, and blankets strapped. Meeting a heavy fire of musketry at the edge of a piece of woods, the brigade halts. But Gen. Brooks, who has orders to effect a junction with Hooker, and deeming the enemy in front to be the same we have been driving, orders another advance. Into the woods we go to be met by a terrific fire. We charge and drive the foe from his breastworks, but can go no further. Heavily reinforced he advances with yells. There is a continuous roll of musketry. The Pennsylvania regiments on our right and left give ground. We are outflanked and enfiladed. Then comes the order to fall back. It must be done quickly if we would not be entirely cut off from the second line. Burdened as many of our men are by their knapsacks, and fatigued by the march, they can not run. Such is my condition. Although with only a blanket to carry, I am quite used up physically. The double-quick is beyond my powers, and with every disposition in the world to run I cannot to save my life. Suddenly, one leg refuses to move, and I fall. A call to my men is unheard, or if heard, unheeded. I try to regain my feet, but cannot. My leg seems paralyzed. Am I hit? wounded? A brother officer sees me; hears my call for assistance; and proffers aid; helps me to my feet, and I stagger along for a few paces. Meantime, we have been left far in the rear and are between two fires. The air is laden with missiles. It is madness to proceed, and so we both hug the ground. Doubtless our lives are saved by this device, but, although we had not the faintest idea then that such was the case, it involved our capture and imprisonment. “The combat deepens.” The din is awful. Line after line of Lee’s veterans surges forward; they intermingle; halt, yell, fire; then rush on like a mob. It is not until they have fairly run over us that we realize our position—that capture is inevitable. Two lines pass us unnoticed, when a squad of skirmishers who have hung on our flank come up and demand our surrender. There is no alternative, and that brand-new blade goes into the hands of a rebel sergeant whose straight, black hair runs up through a rent in his hat like a plume. We are taken to the rear amid a rain of shot from our batteries, three men helping me along and two keeping close guard over my companion. They seemed in a hurry to get out of range, and glad of the opportunity our capture afforded them of retiring with eclat from the strife. Soon we came upon Gen. Wilcox and staff nicely ensconced in a position not accessible to Yankee bullets. He questioned us, but not getting satisfactory replies, sent us still further to the rear (after his Adjutant-General had purchased my sword of the hatless sergeant), where we were placed under guard near a field hospital. Here I found, upon examination, that I was not injured, but that my inability to walk without help was due to fatigue and a slight abrasion on the hip, occasioned probably by a spent ball. We were courteously treated by our guards but could get no food, Stoneman’s raid having sadly interfered with the rebel commissariat. Next day we were taken to Spottsylvania court-house where we met nearly half of the 11th corps and learned for the first time the disaster that had befallen “Fighting Joe” Hooker. Of the kindness of one of my captors, Billy Peyton of Memphis, Tenn., but a member of the 9th Alabama, and his peculiarities, I should like to speak, but this sketch has grown on my hands, and I am compelled to omit an account of my first visit to Richmond, introduction to Major Turner, and incarceration in Libby. Should this sketch please the readers of this Magazine, I may essay another describing my prison life, and how near I came to being annihilated by a fierce Virginia home guard officer who commanded the escort which conducted the detachment of prisoners, of which I made one, to the flag of truce boat on the James, going by the way of Petersburgh.

_MANNERS AND CUSTOMS IN HOPKINTON—No. 2._

BY C. C. LORD.

RELIGIOUS.

At first, worship, both private and public, was conducted in the primative homes of the settlers of the township. On the erection of military posts, or forts, such edifices became natural, social centres, and worship was conducted in one or more of them. Rev. James Scales, first minister of the town, was ordained in Putney’s Fort, in 1757. During the ministry of Mr. Scales, public worship was sometimes conducted at the Parsonage. The erection of a church determined a permanent place of public religious services.

The first meeting-house in Hopkinton represented a much larger territorial expanse of population than any church now extant. Denominational controversies had not divided the ranks of the worshipers, nor had local patrons of the one church demanded special privileges of their own. The distance to church was long in many cases, and the conveyances often only the locomotory means of nature.

In olden times in this vicinity, though people had the instinct of personal adornment the same as now, they often lacked the means of gratifying it. Extra articles of dress were so rare that people frequently walked to church in their daily accustomed garb, or trod the Sunday path with a most scrupulous care for their extra wardrobe. Women sometimes carried the skirts of their Sunday dresses on their arms till they arrived near or at the church door, when they let them fall. The Sunday shoes were often carried in the hand till the journey to meeting was nearly ended, when they were put on for entrance to the sanctuary. Present readers can comprehend the necessity of such care, when they reflect that in the olden time the price of a week’s work of a woman was only equivalent to a yard of cloth, or a pair of shoes.

Church services in the former days were long, and savored of dogmatic theology. The principal prayer was much longer than the present average sermon, and the discourse proportionally extended. Such prolonged services were conducted in winter, at first, without the favor of any artificial warmth. In contemplating the situation of the worshipers in those old wintry days, the bleakness of the characteristic meeting-house of the times is to be taken into account. In the old Baptist church was an open aperture in an upper wall, where the crows have been known to perch while worship was in progress. The advent of foot-stoves gave much relief to the chilly congregations of earlier times, and the introduction of the general heater put an end to the extremer experiences of the wintry Sunday.

The representative minister of the olden time was a person of eminent scholarly culture and gentlemanly bearing. A thorough scholar and rhetorician, his discourses were framed with strict regard to the logical sequences of his subject. The numerical divisions of his theme often carried him among units of the second order; firstly, secondly, and thirdly were only preliminary to thirteenthly, fourteenthly, and fifteenthly; the grand category of predications was terminated by a “conclusion.” In his loftier intellectual schemes, he sometimes elaborated whole volumes of disquisitional matter. Rev. Ethan Smith, third minister in the town, was the author of several profound theological treatises. There was a dignity and austerity of manner pertaining to the characteristic primative clergyman that made him a pattern of personified seriousness. His grave demeanor on his parochial rounds, when he spoke directly upon the obligations of personal religion, made his presence in the household a suggestion of profound respect and awe. He impressed his personality upon the receptive social element of his parish. The deacons became only minor pastors, and the whole congregation of believers expressed in subdued form the character of the shepherd of the flock.[1]

Footnote 1:

The austere influence of religion upon society in the olden time was
attested by the legal strictures upon traveling, idling, etc., on
Sunday, of which conduct the tything-men were to take cognizance.
Tything-men were chosen in this town as late as 1843, when Charles
Barton, Samuel Frazier and Daniel Chase were selected. The law
requiring such choice had even then become virtually a dead letter.

The support of a “learned and orthodox minister” was implied in the original grant of this township. In the strict construction of the text of the original compact, “orthodoxy” meant Calvinistic Congregationalism. The disturbed condition of the early settlement prevented the establishment of a permanent local pastorate till 1757. On the 8th of September of that year, it was voted to settle the Rev. James Scales, and that he should be ordained on the 23d of the following November. His salary was to be sixty Spanish milled dollars, or their equivalent in paper bills, a year. When the town became incorporated in 1765, the formal acknowledgment of Mr. Scales as legal pastor was renewed, it being the 4th of March, and his salary was named at £13, 10s.

In progress of time different religious societies became established in this town, but the Congregational alone drew support from any portion of the populace by a direct tax. People were taxed for the support of the Congregational ministry in this town as late as 1810. The warrant for a town-meeting called for the 12th of March, 1811, contained this article:

“To see what method the town will take to raise money for the support of the Congregational minister in town the ensuing year, how levied, and how divided between the two meeting-houses.”

At this time a meeting-house had been, for about ten years, in existence at Campbell’s Corner, in the westerly part of the town, and since its erection the funds for the support of Congregational preaching derived from taxes had been divided between the east and west meeting-houses, as they were called. However, at the town-meeting called for the above date, it was voted to “pass over the article” relating to the proposed support of Congregational religious services by the town, and we think the subject was never taken up again.

The minister’s tax was never collected of any person who acknowledged a belief in the religious principles of any legalized society, other than the Congregational. The following vote, passed on the 25th of March, 1799, illustrated the method of raising the minister’s tax:

“Voted to lay a ministerial tax on the Congregational inhabitants at twenty cents each on the poll, and upon all ratable estate in the same proportion, Congregational inhabitants to be ascertained by consent, individually, to either of the selectmen at the time of taking the inventory.”

People liable to pay a minister’s tax sometimes publicly, in town-meeting, declared their adhesion to the principles of some one or other of the societies exempted from the payment of that tax.

The lease of the parsonage lands in 1798, incurred an annual revenue which was proportionately divided among the existing societies till the year 1853. In the year 1842, when the town for the first time published a printed report of its pecuniary transactions, the last division of parsonage money was declared to be as follows:

1st Congregational society, $27.88
2d Congregational society, 4.39
Calvinist Baptist, society, 13.88
Union Baptist, society, 16.12
Episcopalian society, 9.64
1st Universalist society, 4.21
2d Universalist society, 10.31
Methodist society, 1.43

The round total was set down at $88.00.

The 2d Congregational society dropped out of the list in 1851. The last allowance to this society was fifty-six cents. The town report of the year 1853, contained the following and last list of apportionments of parsonage money:

Congregational society, $30.09
Union Baptist society, 19.04
Calvinist Baptist society, 15.72
Episcopalian society, 4.40
1st Universalist society, 7.57
2d Universalist society, 7.10
Methodist society, 4.18

The total of this list was also set down in round numbers as $88.

The above figures are suggestive in presenting a view of the relative strength of the different societies at the specific times stated. It is interesting to note that certain of the societies soon lost all traces of even a nominal existence, after the suspension of the parsonage revenues. For some time they had kept up a show of vitality by making their portion of the parsonage fund a nucleus of an outlay for a few days’ preaching in the year.

In the march of the years, the old peculiarities of local religious life have given place to new features and forms. It is needless to say that some of the old formalities died hard. Innovations were distrusted. The experience in view of proposed changes was substantially uniform in all the churches. Even the staid Episcopalians were ruffled by unaccustomed ceremonies. When, for the first time, the choir of the Episcopal church chanted the _Gloria Patri_, which before had been read only, an indignant lady abruptly shut her prayer book in unfeigned disgust. The greater jealousy formerly existing between different denominations is well known. It is said this inharmonious feeling was once sought to serve an innovating use. A person prominent in musical circles sought to influence the leading minds of the Congregational church in favor of the purchase of a bass viol. As an extreme argumentative resort he suggested, “The poor, miserable Baptists have got one.” Tradition, however, doesn’t relate the effect of this suggestion.

COMMERCIAL.

The country store of the earliest times was a more emphatic collection of multitudinous varieties of articles, if possible, than the later place of local public traffic. Then, as now, the local store was the principal resort of the great commonalty. Men of special vocations sometimes took a stock of products to the lower country and bartered for goods to bring back and distribute among their neighbors, and the itinerant merchant, or pedlar, reaped a much better harvest than now; but the country store was a popular necessity and well patronized. At first there was less trading in domestic luxuries; the goods in store represented the common necessities. Since the popular idea of necessity does not fully exclude the illusory principle, we have to admit rum, gin, brandy, etc., into the former list of domestic staples. Cash and barter were entertained by every tradesman, to whom the populace largely looked for advantageous exchanges of substance. The progress of the settlement was attended by the extension, and to some extent by the classification, of trade till the time when Hopkinton assumed the commercial importance described in a previous article.

The currency employed in the transaction of business was at first nominally English, though Spanish milled dollars were in circulation. One of the inconveniences of the early settlers of New England was a scarcity of money. The different provincial governments sought to relieve the public financial burdens by the issue of Bills of Credit, a currency mentioned in the records of this town as “old tenor.” Such a circulating medium in such a time could only depreciate in value, but, following a custom obtaining in the old country, the purchasing value of these bills could from time to time be fixed by the local legislatures. About the year 1750, it was established throughout the provinces that £1 in the currency of the Bills of Credit should be equivalent to two shillings and eight pence lawful money, and that six shillings should be equal to one dollar.

The preliminary events of the Revolution involved the establishment of a system of Continental currency. At the time of the first issue of a paper circulating medium, in 1775, the Continental notes were nearly at par with gold, but they soon fell to comparative nothingness in value. The effect of this collapse in monetary matters was amply illustrated in the public transactions of the town of Hopkinton. At a town meeting held in 1781, it was voted that the price of a day’s work on the highway, by a man, should be $30; the price of a day’s work by a yoke of oxen, $30; the price of a plow and cart, $10 each. The salary of the Rev. Elijah Fletcher, second minister of the town, was also voted to be $4000 for the year, but the reverend pastor preferred to accept £70 in gold equivalents, and declined the larger nominal sum. The success of the American cause, and the permanent establishment of the public credit, gave a correspondingly improved aspect to local affairs, and in later times this town has experienced fluctuations in prices in common with the general country.

During the period of Hopkinton’s greater importance as a commercial station, a bank was maintained here for a few years. The institution was known as the Franklin Bank, and was incorporated in 1833. The grantees were Horace Chase, Nathaniel Gilman, Isaac Long, Jr., William Little, Joseph Stanwood, Matthew Harvey, Andrew Leach, Moses Gould, Ebenezer Dustin, Timothy Chandler, Stephen Darling, and James Huse. The operations of this bank seem to have been exceedingly bungling during the short term of its existence, and it finally settled with its creditors at ninety cents on a dollar. The Franklin Bank occupied the building now used by the Hopkinton Public Library.

The standard of quantities to be recognized in commercial transactions has, from remote times, been a subject of legal regulation. The weights and measures first used in this town were the standards of older communities. In a record made in the year 1804, the town of Hopkinton declared the local standard to be as follows:

WEIGHTS
OF IRON.

1 56 lbs.
1 28 lbs.
1 24 lbs.
1 7 lbs.

WEIGHTS
OF BRASS.

1 4 lbs.
1 2 lbs.
1 1 lb.
1 ½ lb.
1 2 oz.
1 1 oz.
1 ½ oz.
1 ¼ oz.

For the use of the above weights the town recognized “two small scale beams with brass dishes,” and also “one large scale beam with boards, and strung with iron wires.” The _wooden dry measures_ were specific as 1 half-bushel, 1 peck, 1 half-peck, 1 two-quart, and 1 quart; while the _copper liquid measures_ were started to be 1 gallon, 1 two-quart, 1 quart, 1 pint, 1 half-pint, and 1 gill.

By legal requirement, the standard of weights and measures is regulated by a town sealer to this day, such officer being chosen annually at the town-meeting in March, but the modern improvements and facilities for determining quantities have made a practically dead letter of the present law requiring his selection.

For many years a public hay-scales occupied a site in the rear of the Congregational meeting-house. It was simply an immense scale beam and platform, the whole apparatus being covered with a roof. It long ago passed away to give place to the modern hay-scales.

POLITICAL.

In the earlier history of this town, politics and religion were closely related. For many years the affairs of the legally established, or Congregational, church were arranged by vote of the town. The intimate relation existing between the church and the town made the meeting-house and town-house at first identical. The earliest town-meeting held in the first meeting-house was on the 2d of March, 1767. Previously, town-meetings had been held at private houses. Town-meetings continued to be held in the church till 1799, when use was first made of the old Hillsborough county Court House, the annual meeting of that year being held in the upper room of the county edifice. Town-meeting has since been held annually on the same spot.