USA > Indiana > The soldier of Indiana in the war for the union, Vol. I > Part 40
Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31 | Part 32 | Part 33 | Part 34 | Part 35 | Part 36 | Part 37 | Part 38 | Part 39 | Part 40 | Part 41 | Part 42 | Part 43 | Part 44 | Part 45 | Part 46 | Part 47 | Part 48 | Part 49 | Part 50 | Part 51 | Part 52 | Part 53 | Part 54 | Part 55 | Part 56 | Part 57 | Part 58 | Part 59 | Part 60
June 12th. The night was cold, and we suffered much from hunger and weakness. We felt as though we could not
475
IN PRISON.
bear life much longer, and could not help thinking of home and friends. Then we prayed that for the sake of Jesus Christ, who suffered ten-fold for our sakes, that he would enable us to stand up cheerfully under the insults and priva- tions we received from the hands of our enemies. At eight o'clock we started to Charlottsville, a distance of ten miles. The country was hilly, the roads muddy and slippery. We passed beautiful farms and houses, among them Thomas Jefferson's.
We reached Charlottesville at noon. The citizens seemed to have some sympathy for us. They gave us something to cat, but not half enough to satisfy our hunger. Many of the boys were sick from fatigue and hunger. At night we were crowded into dirty wretched cars.
June 13th. At nine o'clock this morning we started to Lynchburg without any breakfast. The colored population cheered us, and the white citizens abused us all along the way. We arrived at Lynchburg at four o'clock, and marched about a mile to camp, where there were about sixteen hun- dred of General Banks' men, captured in May. Rations for the day were here issued to us, three crackers, one quarter pound salt beef, half a dozen small half-rotten potatoes. We were so hungry we ate everything, without even washing or cooking. We thought of home, and longed for the crumbs than might be left on the tables there. We had no cover or shelter at night.
June 14th. We gathered up little chips and sticks and made some fires, but we had no breakfast to cook, as we had eaten everything the evening before. We divided ourselves into messes. A great many citizens were out to see the " Yankees," as they call us, and to get our greenbacks. The water we drink is very unhealthy; it is just like physic. This evening we received rations, the same as yesterday. We boiled the meat and potatoes in our tin cups.
June 15th. It rained all night. We could not sleep at all. The Rebel Secretary, Benjamin, and a General came to see us this morning, and we told them that if the Govern- ment could not show us more humanity they had better kill us at once, or let us go. Benjamin told us they had not the
476
THE SOLDIER OF INDIANA.
means to treat us as well as our own Government, but that they would soon let us go.
June 16th. The cavalry left us to-day, and the city guards took their place. The officers were separated from us, and taken inside the fair ground. We find but little pleasure in life here in this lonesome place. Have nothing to read but one little pocket testament. Boys are getting sick very fast.
June 17th. Boys suffer much from warm days and chilly nights. The guards are very strict and cross.
June 18th. The day is pleasant, but it is sad to be shut out from all the pleasures of life. But a still small voice within seems to say, "Be comforted, all will yet work out for your own and others' good." I never knew before the worth of liberty. The boys are sickening fast on the scanty rations we draw, and the water we use.
June 19tl. Moved into the fair grounds. Only four shade trees inside the premises; one deep well inside. We are to be confined to one and a half acres of ground in one corner of the field. Twenty-four hundred confined to this small piece of ground. We drew flour, bacon, peas and rice to-day, a half ration. We have an old skillet lid to do the cooking for our mess. We have poor wood, and not much of it. We almost die from thirst, water is so searce. Sometimes we cannot get a drop till noon; we cannot get any to wash our hands and faces with. The place is loathsome.
June 29th. Five men died to-day. The nurses say they cried for something to eat until they could no longer be heard.
June 30th. The Rebels tell us that our army is getting defeated, and that they are capturing a great many. I pity all the poor fellows who fall into their hands.
We lived in this way until the 16th of July, when I made up my mind that I had rather die on my way home than in this prison. It could only be death any way, so I secured a Rebel coat and an old white hat from one of our own men, and asked the boys to give me four days' rations of flour. They advised me not to undertake the journey, but when they saw I was determined, they gave me the flour, and wanted to help me study up some lies to tell if I was recap-
477
OUT OF PRISON.
tured; but I told them I would risk it, and I raised my heart to God and asked him to shield and guide me throughout my dangerous journey. I baked my bread, and when night came I leaped over the guard's beat while his back was toward me, and went among the Rebels in another part of the ground. I held my haversack so it could not be seen, and passed several squads without being noticed. I failed in an attempt to climb the high fence, but I managed to get up into a tree, swing out to the shed which ran all around the ground inside of the fence, and from the shed spring down about ten feet. I kept a sharp lookout, and struck a bee-line for James river. A storm was gathering, and the darkness was so great that I could not tell where I was going, but I ventured through a low and lonesome bottom, waded a stream and climbed a mountain beyond. It began to rain, and as my clothes were thin I was wet through, and my bread became as soft as mush. I began to wish I was back in the prison, but I thought of how the boys had told me never to get dis- couraged, and I hoped for the best. I staid on the mountain top shivering until morning, then tramped two hours until I reached the James. I stood on the banks a while looking at the beautiful river and the waving fields of corn and wheat, then I climbed a hill and stopped in some bushes to spend the day. I spread out my bread to dry, and lay down to sleep. In the evening I was very near caught, first by a group of young men, and afterwards by some one coming on a run; but I hid behind a tree, and nobody saw me but a little dog, which gave no alarm. It rained all the evening, and I got soaked, and my bread soft again, but I started down the mountain with the intention of following the canal into West Virginia, a distance of a hundred miles. When I reached the foot, I took the tow-path, and traveled until I came to thick woods, which almost hid the path and the canal too. The frogs were making an awful noise, it was as dark as dun- geon, and so lonesome I could not stand it, so I about-faced and went back a mile, intending to walk on the railroad sixty- five miles to Charlottesville, then on the turnpike to the Blue Ridge, and go back as I came. As I neared the bridge I could see a light, and soon a guard at the far end, and I had
478
THE SOLDIER OF INDIANA.
to choose between swimming the river, with my bread already so wet that it was very heavy, and stealing over the bridge. I chose the latter, and pulled off my shoes so as to make as little noise as possible. I feared to find a guard on the first end of the bridge, but there was none, and in a few minutes I was going over the bridge so lightly I could scarcely hear myself. Every moment I expected to hear, "Halt! Who comes there?" but the soldiers, who were a little below the bridge, never noticed me. I went on as fast as I could, but soon got very tired, and lay down in some bushes and fell asleep. When I awoke it was daylight and raining, and I went to an old barn across the road, climbed into the loft and covered up in clover. I felt very thankful, and soon fell asleep. About noon I was awakened by a voice calling, " Who dat up dah? Who dat coughed?" I crawled out, looked down, and said, "I'm just lying up here out of the rain." " Where have you been ?" "At Lynchburg." "Where are you going?" "To Charlottesville. How far is it to Lynchburg?" I asked. "Five miles," he answered. "Don't tell any one I am here," I said. "O, no, sah; dat's none o' my business." "Won't you please bring me something to eat?" "I'd like very well to accommodate you, sah, for I knows what it is to be hungry; but colored folks hasn't got much, nothing but corn bread. Lay down! Lay down! Here comes one of the boys." They did not climb into the loft, and I fell asleep. Just before dark I heard some one running towards the barn, and I thought my time had come. But it was the old negro with a chunk of corn bread. I started out again after dark, but it was so cold and rainy that I went into a garner and covered myself up with husks. Before midnight it cleared off, and I was on my journey to the land of the free. At daylight I stopped in some woods where there were a great many blackberries and a nice spring of water. I spent the day eating berries, reading my testament, and watching the sun. At last it went down, and the birds hushed their noisy songs and began twittering softly to each other in the trees. This night and the two following I spent in traveling, sleeping in the fields or woods in the day time. On the night of the 21st I found a negro sleeping in a shed, and punched
479
NEGRO CHARITY.
him with a cane till I woke him. I asked for something to eat, but he said the meal was in a chest, and Bill was away with the key. I had to wait an hour or two for the key, but when Bill came he ran to the spring for some water, made dough, put it in the ashes. to bake, and put some meat on to fry. In a few minutes the meat and bread were done; I never tasted anything so good. I asked for what was left, and they said, "Take it and welcome." I told them all about myself, and they were very much tickled, but were afraid I could not get over Stone river bridge, because it was constantly guarded. But I did pass the bridge, and had no difficulty at all that night. The next night I got lost, and wasted almost the whole night trying to find the road. When day came I was two miles from Charlottesville. I went near the town, and as it was raining climbed into a stable loft and went to sleep in the hay. The owner of the stable discovered me, thought I was a sick Rebel soldier, and was so kind I was afraid of him, and when he had gone into the house came off as fast as I could. Now I had to go through the city in daylight, but I put a bold face on it, walked past the hospital, where I saw four or five soldiers in the yard, met officers and soldiers in the street, and went limping along with a cane in my hand. I was eyed pretty closely, but no one said anything to me. I stopped at a house and got something to eat, then went on, meeting soldiers every few steps. I traveled along all that day and the most of the next without meeting with any dis- turbance, and feeling that I was safe, because I was near the Blue Ridge. But I was now really in the greatest danger. The very next night I unexpectedly found myself in the midst of a cavalry company, regiment or brigade; I could not at all tell the number, but it was very dark, and I escaped, some- times by crawling, sometimes by rolling, sometimes by going straight along, and sometimes by making a big circle round. All the time I kept my shoes in my hand, and did not even dare to breathe loud.
The next day I spent on the side of the mountain, feeling pretty hungry, for I had eaten my last crumb. In the evening I climbed to the top of the mountain, and saw there a little log- cabin. A negro woman told me the man of the house was in
480
THE SOLDIER OF INDIANA.
the army, so I ventured in. There sata frail woman, about thirty years old, who had once been good looking, and was yet a smart woman. The supper table was standing, but there was nothing left on it. The woman asked me to take a chair. She said her five children all had the measles, her old mother was lying at the point of death, and her husband had been forced into the Southern army. "Here we are alone," she said, "with no one to take care of us, and nothing to eat but what little the neigh- bors give us. Oh, this cruel war! I have seen enough trouble to kill anybody." The tears rolled down her cheeks. If ever I felt sorry for any one I did for her, for she was the picture of despair. I said I thought the war would soon be over, and was as cheery as I could be. I told her who I was, and that I was captured at Port Republic. She was surprised, but her sympathy was none the less because I was a Union soldier, and she hoped I might get through safe. She wished her husband would come home, and every one else, and the Union be restored as it was before the war. She had her servant bake me some bread and boil me some rye coffee, and when l was done eating she told me to take some bread and wel- come. I bade her an affectionate farewell.
I had a hard night climbing down the western side of the Blue Ridge, keeping clear of Rebel pickets on one side and precipices on the other, cutting my bare feet on the stones, and wet to the skin with the cold rain. I was nearly an hour skirting around what I supposed was a troop of cavalry, but found out at last to be a few cattle. Just at daylight I reached Port Republic. The battle ground was so desolate I could not look at it long. Our men had been buried in shallow graves, not more than eight or ten inches deep, and their bones were scattered about the ground. Just before the sun went down, I made an agree- ment with two negroes. that I saw ploughing a field, to meet them at a little tree a while after dark. They came an hour after dark, and gave me my haversack full of bread and meat, and a large blackberry pie, just baked, which they said I must eat right away. I did so, with a good degree of appe- tite, and thanked them time and again. I was about to start when one of them said, "Perhaps I had better swap pants with him, as I had a Government pair on, and he a Rebel
·
481
WITHIN THE FEDERAL LINES.
pair." I traveled on fast, but not far, as I lost my way, and before daylight I lay down and fell sound asleep. When I wakened I was in plain sight by the side of the road, and it is a thousand wonders I had not been captured, as cavalry was passing constantly.
The day after I was kindly entertained at dinner by an old woman, who, in the evening, sent a little boy up the moun- tain to me with a basketful of fritters and other good things. I told the boy to tell his mother she was the finest woman I had met with for some time. Towards morning, as I was trudging along, several bodies of cavalry passed, and I strained my eyes to see if they wore our uniform, but I could not, and just after daylight I went to a house, and asked a man if he knew whether the Yankees were in Luray. He asked me, with a big oath, if I did not just see them pass. "I saw cavalry, of course," I answered, "but I could not tell whether they were Yankees or our men." (I was trying to play off Rebel to him.) " You're a Yankee yourself," said he. I had nothing to defend myself with, and started on, feeling pretty good over it. I asked the next man I saw how long the Yan- kees had been in Luray. "About two weeks," he answered. " What State are they from?" "Ohio and New York, I believe." I knew now that I was all right. In a few minutes I saw our men out in the woods; they were watching me; I felt so proud to see them that I began to whistle, but I walked
along as if I did not see them. When I was pretty near, the Lieutenant-Colonel called me. I went to him, and the boys all gathered around, for they thought they had a Rebel pris- oner. The Colonel asked me where I was from. I told him Lynchburg. " Where are you going?" "To Luray. What cavalry is this?" I asked. "Ashby's," he answered, with a kind of laugh, thinking he had me fooled. I was just as much tickled, for I knew I had him fooled. I said he was mistaken, for I had seen Ashby's cavalry. I then told him who I was, but he said he didn't believe everything now-a-days, and asked a great many questions. Then he was not certain that I was not a spy, and sent a cavalryman with me to Luray. When I got in sight of the little town, and heard the beating of the drums, and saw our troops marching round, with the Stars
482
THE SOLDIER OF INDIANA.
-
and Stripes flying, I felt that I was in a new world, and when I was in camp among our own Union boys, no language can describe my joy. Thay gathered round me by hundreds, for it spread like wild-fire that a soldier had got in from prison. At dinner I got some good coffee, the first I had had for nearly two months. I was then taken to the General's quar- ters, where a great many questions were asked me. As I had walked nearly all the way barefoot, my feet were swelled up and very sore, so that I could scarcely touch them to the ground. On account of my feet I had to stay there two days and nights.
The last day of July I started for my old regiment, which was five miles north of Warrenton. I was very much inter- rupted on my journey by the pickets, who all had to know, after they had looked at my pass, why I had Rebel clothes on. I got in sight of the Seventh August 4th. It was in line, and not ragged and dirty as when I last saw it, but had new uni- forms, and even white gloves. Some one called out, "There comes our drummer!" Officers and men broke for me, and in less than a half minute I was surrounded, and shaking hands with everybody. I talked in answer to their questions till I was hoarse. That evening I drummed for dress parade, after which the General came around to see me, also the Colonel, and many other officers. The next morning at an early hour I started on the march, at the head of the regi- ment, drumming with the rest of the band.
483
THE FIRST MARCH.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE TWENTIETH.
Thinking no less of them, Loving our country the more We sent them forth to fight for the flag Their fathers before them bore. Though the great tear-drop started, This was our parting trust:
God bless you, boys, we'll welcome you hom When Rebels are in the dust. -Song
THE story is told of a hardy Highland Chief, some eighty or ninety years old, that in passing through a camping ground of his clan he discovered his grandson comfortably sleeping, with his head on a large snow ball. "Hout, tout!" exclaimed the old man, "has it come to this, that a grandson o' mine canna sleep without his pillow?" and at the same time his indignant foot sent the snow ball flying. Preparatory to their departure from Indianapolis, the officers of the Twentieth, as if moved by the spirit of the luxury-hating Highlander, marched their men to the depot on the double-quick, when there was not the slightest occasion for haste, through three miles of dusty streets, when the direct distance was not one mile, and in the middle of the day, when the train did not leave until late in the evening. It was the 2d of August, the thermometer stood at ninety in the shade, and a number of the new soldiers sank from exhaustion. One did not recover, and died a few days afterwards.
From so unpromising an introduction, it might be inferred that the officers of the Twentieth were "unfeeling brutes," as too many officers are described. On the contrary, they were generally observant of their duties, and William L. Brown, the Colonel, was possessed of unusual excellence of char- acter. The unnecessary suffering of the first march was due,
484
THE SOLDIER OF INDIANA.
undoubtedly, to some mistake, a thing which is seldom acknowledged, but which, in spite of "red tape," not unfre- quently occurs in military life.
The Twentieth was organized at Camp Tippecanoe, where it lay several weeks. One day while there, Colonel Brown was visited by two women from the country, who desired the release of their sons, their impression being that a man could as easily be mustered out of the service as he was mustered in. "Two of my boys are already gone," said one, "and this is my youngest." "They are brave boys," replied the Colonel, "just what the Government needs." A few moments the mother stood silent, tears streaming down her face, then she said, " Well, if John really wants to go, and his services are needed, I reckon I must let him go." "I want to go, mother," said her son. The other young man was equally determined, and the mothers went away resigned, though weeping.
The Twentieth left Indianapolis unexpectedly, in conse- quence few friends were at the depot, and no cheers were heard. "They make little fuss over us," remarked one of the officers. "Yes," said Colonel Brown, "but they shall when we return."
At Cockeysville, seventeen miles from Baltimore, the regi- ment left the railroad and encamped in a pleasant spot, with abundant springs of delicious water near. The landscape, formed of gentle hill and valley, and diversified by well-cul- tivated farms, with their neat, white houses, and by groves of oak and chesnut, of dark pine and cedar, and fragrant spruce and arbor vitæ, makes the memory of the first encamp- ment in Maryland a peaceful, pastoral picture.
In a letter dated August 16th, Harvey Bassett, of Indian- apolis, says:
" The daily routine of camp is finished; the pale moonlight sleeps on grassy banks or struggles faintly through the dense foliage overhead on our snow-white tents; the sentinels are pacing the lonely watches in silence; the smouldering fires are fast dying out; the shrill cry of the katy-did mingles with the voices of the men, as, gathered in groups around in tents, or on the grass, they make the clear night resonant with their
485
HATTERAS ISLAND.
Methodist song singing, now their only solace after the long tedious drills, and previous to the last roll-call at nine o'clock and the tap for all lights out.
" To-day I heard a quail and a meadow-lark in a stubble field near us. You cannot imagine how such things affect one under peculiar circumstances. The whistle of Bob White, the first heard since I left home, made me home-sick, tired of my situation, and long to be again at home in the West."
Towards the last of September the Twentieth went to Baltimore. It was loudly cheered on its march through the city, and was criticised somewhat after this manner: "These broad-shouldered Hoosiers are pretty good pluck!" "What big fellows they are!". "I wonder how many more such men are in Indiana!"
"I like the appearance of Baltimore," says Harvey Bassett, "and I saw some beautiful faces at the windows. There were, however, not a few grim and growling countenances that looked secesh and disunion."
From Baltimore the regiment went to Fortress Monroe, which, with its three hundred and fifty guns, frowned over land and sea, and at Fortress Monroe seven companies em- barked on the S. R. Spaulding for Hatteras Island.
The low shores of Virginia and North Carolina are sepa- rated from the ocean by a line of peninsulas and islands, which, perhaps, were an unbroken strip, until, by the restless sea, they were torn into their present form. Cape Hatteras, always the terror of navigators, and the light-house of Hat- teras, long a faithful beacon, may be regarded as the only points of interest for many hundred miles. The sandy soil supports little groves, or clumps of the live-oak, persimmon, fig and pine, and grape vines which bear delicious clusters. Of. fresh water there is the very scantiest supply. The inhab- itants are a few poor fisher families. The men spend their days on the sea, and the women cultivate patches of sweet: potatoes.
Protected by these stretches of sand, the sounds of Alber- marle and Pamlico afforded to Confederate vessels escape. and retreat from the blockading squadrons, as, since the set- tlement of the country, they had given a hiding place to
32
486
THE SOLDIER OF INDIANA.
pirates. To conceal the obscure and crooked inlets, which alone opened an entrance into the sounds, the Confederates extinguished the beacon on Hatteras Point, regardless of the storm-beaten mariner who now peered in vain through the darkness for the kindly warning; and to defend the opening to the Albermarle, they built two forts on Hatteras Inlet, call- ing them respectively Hatteras and Clark. Fort Hatteras was nearly surrounded by water, and was approachable only by a long, winding strip of sand, and a narrow causeway through a marsh of five hundred yards. Fort Clark was a small, square redoubt, a little more than a half mile north of Fort Hatteras. An expedition under Commodore Stringham and General Butler obtained possession of these forts the last of August.
September 27th the S. R. Spaulding approached the low coast of Hatteras Island with our Twentieth regiment aboard. A dark storm threatened behind, white breakers, a dangerous sand bar, and a narrow uncertain inlet looked even less prom- ising in front. Excited by the novelty and danger of the sit- uation, many of the soldiers resorted to singing as a sort of expression of their feelings.
"What though the tempests rage, Heaven is my home; Short is my pilgrimage, Heaven is my home; And time's wild, wintry blast Soon will be over, past, I shall reach home at last- Heaven is my home,"
mingled with the roar of waters and winds, while the good ship, creaking and straining, passed safely over the bar.
Need help finding more records? Try our genealogical records directory which has more than 1 million sources to help you more easily locate the available records.