USA > Massachusetts > Thirteenth Massachusetts Regiment [circular no. 13] > Part 10
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I have never ceased to marvel that the man as I first saw him on the day he took command of the army at Culpeper Court House, Virginia, this man of moderate size, scraggy whiskers, with a faded, rusty, ill-fitting uniform, the major-general straps on his shoulders seemingly trying to creep under the armpits as if abashed at their prominence, and with the inevitable stump of a cigar between his fingers, - I have never subdued my wonder that this insignificant and inferior-looking man was the conqueror of Buckner, of Albert Sidney Johnston, of Bragg, of Pemberton, and lastly of Lee and his gallant and so often victorious soldiers. But the mind of man and his endowments reveal themselves not always to the trained physiog- nomist or psychologist ; they speak fully only in action and then depend much on opportunity to bring out their qualities ; and they not infrequently are a wonder and a mystery to the possessor himself. Grant's whole and illuminating life, as he has written it, breathes in every page his modest and uninflated spirit and emphasizes this note of unknown and unexpected capacity, whose loftier name is genius, which resided potentially in an exterior far from being to the casual observer what would be considered impressive or commanding. Alexander, Cæsar, Napoleon, Wellington, Nelson, were all in stature
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inferior men. Many of their great lieutenants by contrast were com- paratively giants in physical proportions. Several of Grant's generals were men of imposing personal appearance, and were great soldiers besides. We have only to recall Sherman, Thomas, Burn- side, Hancock, Miles, the last two the most splendid specimens of ideal soldierly personalities imaginable. But, as was said of the great Corsican, the combined rare qualities of Ney, Murat, Augureau, Bernadotte, and the rest of his brilliant galaxy of subordinates would not make a Napoleon, so the figure may justly be repeated in regard to the subject of this writing, that a combination of all the qualities of the brilliant officers that waited upon his orders, yea, and of the able coterie that upheld the hands of Lee, even that superb general himself, would not suffice to match the genius whom the world knows as Ulysses Simpson Grant. An extravagant statement it may be objected. But the continued growth of his fame and reputation particularly in foreign lands, the study in their military schools of his tactical and strategic ability as manifested in the campaigns he planned and led, warrant the belief that at no distant day, comparing the extent and duration of the operations he con- ducted, the difficulties both physical and moral he encountered and above all the numerical strength, the resourcefulness, the valor and unflagging aggressiveness of the foe he combated, comparing all these with the less arduous tasks of the other great captains of history, Grant's military genius, it is within bounds to believe, will shine with an equal if not a more dazzling lustre than theirs.
But genius cannot be explained. No school can inculcate it. Its manifestations are its sign manual. It is a gift of the gods to men of clay indeed ; but as Imogen so finely says :
" Clay and clay differs in dignity, Whose dust is both alike."
One of the sublimest utterances of mortal man on the brink of death, and yet uttered with the unconscious simplicity in which a great truth clothes itself, as a truism clothes itself in the inspired words of Holy Writ and as it is clad in the immortal last words of the world's sages - is the practically final word which the dying soldier of the Republic gave to the world, when within a few days of
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his death at Mount McGregor, sitting propped up in his arm-chair, he painfully guided his pencil over his lap tablet in the determined effort to finish the last page of the book which he trusted would pro- vide a source of income to his family after he had left them. He says : " I feel that we are on the eve of a new era, when there is to be great harmony between the Federal and Confederate. I cannot stay to be a living witness to the correctness of this prophecy ; but I feel it within me that it is to be so."
How true the prophecy ; how infinitely pathetic in their implication of unmurmuring resignation are those four syllables " I cannot stay !" Who can ponder them without tears !
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A MIDNIGHT RIDE. BY THE SERGEANT-MAJOR.
During the month of August, 1861, the Thirteenth Regiment Massachusetts Volunteers was in camp near Sharpsburg, Md. Its special duty was the guarding of various fords on the Potomac river, from Dam No. 4 to the confluence of Antietam Creek with the Potomac, six or eight miles above Harper's Ferry, and very zealous and watchful were they in the performance of their duties.
Jackson and Ashby were very active on the Virginia side, and were expected to cross at each and all of these fords every night in the week.
The fact that these fords covered a distance on the river of thirty or more miles made no difference, for even at that early stage of the war the air resounded with stories of the valor and ubiquity of those rebel officers and their commands, and in our later campaign in old Virginia we learned that there was not much exaggeration in regard to Stonewall Jackson. So while reports were brought to regimental headquarters almost daily from the fords, that the enemy appeared in more or less numbers, nothing alarming to our commander occurred until late in the afternoon of the sixteenth of August .. Then the report from our detail at Sheppardstown Ford was to the effect that the enemy was apparently gathering in force on the opposite shore ; which demonstration might be construed as evi- dence of intent to cross over the river somewhere.
At the consultation of the field officers of the regiment, which immediately followed the arrival of this report, it was decided that the information was of sufficient importance to be forwarded to the commander of the department, Gen. N. P. Banks, whose head- quarters were then at Sandy Hook, a few miles below Harper's Ferry and eighteen or twenty miles from our camp at Sharpsburg.
I cannot recall just how I happened to be the bearer of this important despatch. Possibly I offered my services - possibly the services of the sergeant-major could better be spared from camp than that of others, - but I was the bearer, and I am writing this that my few surviving comrades may know who saved them (and incidentally the country ) from dire disaster -- and that all who read may learn that Paul Revere was not the only midnight rider.
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It's a long hark back to 1861 - forty-seven years, nearly half a century - so some of the minor details, as to whys and wherefores, time and distance, may have slipped my memory, but the most of my experience that night is as fresh in my mind as though it took place but yesterday.
It was seven p.M. by Sharpsburg clocks, when I tightened the saddle-girth on Colonel Batchelder's sorrel horse, the only available one at the time. The colonel gave ine special instructions about the animal, which he valued highly. He was to be ridden quietly for a few miles, as not having been used for a few days, was out of condition for immediate speed.
Adjutant Bradlee gave me an official document addressed to Maj. Gen. N. P. Banks, commanding at Sandy Hook, Md., with instructions to deliver the same to the general in person, and other instructions more or less mysterious and important.
Thus, finely mounted and thoroughly instructed, I rode at a trot out of our camp in the woods and took the road to Sharpsburg.
I can recall that I felt glad to be relieved for even a few hours from the monotony of life in camp and, as I had been much in the saddle from my youth up, was happy to be once more astride a good horse.
While passing through the town of Sharpsburg, the clickety clack of a loose shoe made a call upon the village blacksmith a necessity. After fifteen minutes delay I was again jogging along the highway leading from Sharpsburg to Antietam Creek. Thus far I had acted upon the advice of Colonel Batchelder in regard to " Bucephalus," but now starting him into an easy lope, I began to speculate upon the possibilities of this ride. Naturally my thoughts turned to the now famous poem of Longfellow, "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere," published 1860, which I had memorized.
I wondered if anything would occur during this ride to make it immortal.
Would some great poet think it worth while to sing a song about it ?
Would some great artist picture " Bucephalus " on a full gallop with a wild-eyed hatless rider ?
I really could not see much resemblance just at the time.
Paul has always been represented as making a terrible noise and hullabaloo - his steed was snorting fire " through every Middlesex village and farm " and " the hurrying hoofbeats of that steed " are
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still echoing from Bunker Hill, through Lexington, to the old bridge at Concord, where was fired the gun " heard round the world."
He was riding to arouse all the rebels to arms - I was riding to proclaim the coming of rebels in arms. The word rebel suggests a similarity, but there are classes as kinds in Rebeldom, and two kinds are referred to here.
He rode over highways which in a few days were to become historic. Quite possible he realized it. I rode over a highway where in a year, a month, and a day the bravest of the nut-brown legions of Iee and the bravest of Burnside's " boys in blue " were to meet and struggle for the right of way.
Across the peaceful pastures where now the crickets chirp and song birds warble, through acres of waving corn, in a year, a month, and a day will rush battalions, batteries, cavalry and infantry - one hundred thousand men and more -- tearing up the Mother Earth, tearing down the Brother Man. Along the length of this road from Dunker Church to the Burnside bridge on Antietam Creek, over pasture and meadow, through many a corn-field, will roll and break the great waves of battle, and between the rising and setting of the sun of Sept. 17, '62, more men will have fallen beneath the relent- less power of those waves, dead or bruised and battered, than the British army lost during the eight years' War of the Revolution.
Fortunately, I was not conversant with the language of the stars, so while looking frequently above in admiration of the starry firma- ment (if those bodies of the solar system called planets do influence the destinies of men), I had no vision or power to read, and thankful am I those twinkling stars gave no sign of " the bloody work they should look upon " in a year, a month, and a day. For being in ignorance of what the fates had in store for the future, I rode on in full enjoyment of the present.
I recall that I had an ambition to become a cavalry-man. Who that has read " Charles O'Malley, the Irish Dragoon " has not? This ambition received a new and fresh impetus to-night, growing and . keeping pace with the speed of my steed. Life in the saddle has such charms - no heavy arms, no knapsack, no tramping through mud that sticks to your shoes till they weigh twenty pounds each ! - What a fascination and inspiration there is in the dashing cavalry- man with his jingling spurs and rattling sabre-chains !
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For a while I contemplate resigning my office of sergeant-major of the Thirteenth and accepting a captaincy in the cavalry. Possibly General Banks will be so impressed by my appearance, when I dash up to his headquarters, that he will at once commission and detail me to serve on his staff. I decide to accept.
Thus meditating and castle-building I rode along this pleasant way and drew rein at the old iron works at the confluence of Antietam Creek and the Potomac river. Here were stationed Companies A and B of the Thirteenth. Lieut. A. N. Sampson was officer of the guard at the time. I remained here long enough to drink a dipper of coffee, give him some instructions as directed by Adjutant Bradlee, then hastened on my journey. Over the bridge, which here crosses the Antietam, up a little hill on the other side, then down again, turning sharply to the left and I was on the road which follows for a few miles and quite near to the Potomac river, along which runs the Chesapeake and Ohio canal.
It is written of Revere :
" He felt the damp of the river fog That rises when the sun goes down."
Now the fog on the Mystic is a thin vaporous thing, but the fog I struck that night on the Potomac was heavy as a snow-bank, so dense no human sight could pierce it five feet away.
Some old legend tells of a horse who bore a headless rider - my legend is of a rider on a headless horse !
But wherever his head might be I knew his torso was under me and his feet in the right place, for " loud on the ledge is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides."
The rhythmical beating of hoofs in the gallop is music in my ear. 1 soon learned, however, there was another fellow some distance down the road, who heard this hoof-beating and the sound which struck his tympanum had to him no note of music.
Aware that a road, somewhere near here, led away from the river up Maryland Heights, I had pulled my horse to a jog trot when I was suddenly ordered to " halt !" I could see no sentinel, nor could I locate the direction from which the order came. For a moment only was there any doubt, for my horse shying so quickly caused a tightening of the curb-rein, and he was sitting on his haunches with
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the point of a bayonet at his breast, while a second command, " Dismount, or I'll shoot !" came through the fog-bank in front of me. The position of my horse made the act of dismounting an easy one.
It is possible I might have dismounted without any orders from the fog.
The little " click-click" of the lock which occurs in the act of cocking a musket is not in itself an alarming sound ; I have heard it a thousand times, but always when at or near the butt of the gun. Being at the muzzle end, it is much more noticeable, sharper, and pierces the densest fog ; and when the " man behind the gun " is a total stranger and imagines you to be an enemy, the clicking of the lock may be regarded as an indication of an unfavorable issue of that particular interview.
In this instance the " man behind the gun " proved to be master of it and himself, also the situation.
Omitting the formula of picket duty, " Who goes there, etc.," he called for the officer of the guard. The picket post was a few yards back in the woods, upon the very road I was to take over the Heights. Having satisfied this officer that I was really a bearer of despatches to the commanding general, and not one of Ashby's cav- alry in disguise, I rode out of the damp of the river fog into the depths of the dark forests that line the sides and crown the Heights of Maryland. The road being quite steep in places and difficult to see, plodding at a walk was the best speed to be made.
When about two miles from the picket post my horse acted so strangely that I dismounted and had an interview with him. He told me in horse vernacular that he had a touch of colic and wanted to lie down, and this he would have succeeded in doing if I had not made urgent efforts to prevent it by turning him around, back- ing, rubbing vigorously, applying the switch smartly, anything to keep him on his feet. As soon as he would move forward I led him at a fast walk. He was a horse of great spirit and responded quickly to my efforts, but was evidently in pain for some time.
To add to my perplexity I had, during the struggles with the colicy animal, become confused as to the general direction of my route and could find no evidence or sign of a trail.
With the loss of way and loss of horse, the life of a cavalryman
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seemed to lose some of its charm and I decided not to accept any commission under that of a colonel.
Struggling on through the underbrush, I reached a small clearing where stood a shanty of logs which hardly seemed habitable, but I found on approaching that I could hear the sound of voices. Its appearance was not inviting and was immediately connected in my mind with the stories of the moonshine whiskey stills of the moun- tains of Virginia and Kentucky. Intent on finding my way out of this tangle, I rapped loudly on what seemed to be a door. After a short wait a voice asked, ' who's there ? " and " what do you want? " I replied, " a soldier - the shortest way to Harper's Ferry." Upon this the upper half of the door swung out a little and by the dim, flickering light of a candle held high above it appeared the face of old John Brown ! Well ! Well ! Startling? Yes, it was indeed ! For a month or more my comrades and I had been singing the fact of " John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the ground." Now I had discovered or uncovered him. Possibly my vision was somewhat distorted under the circumstances ; perhaps " I felt the spell of the place and the hour and the secret dread of that lonely shanty." So I'll admit that it might have been John Brown's double who gave me such clear directions that I was soon on the road to Harper's Ferry.
It does not seem strange to me that to-day I cannot recall whether the distance from the shanty of John Brown's ghost, or double, to Sandy Hook was accomplished on foot or horseback ; whether we (the horse and [) slid down the mountain side into Pleasant Valley, or cleared the precipice at the Ferry with one mighty bound ; but I do recall being in the saddle and urging Bucephalus to show up bravely, as the end of our journey and troubles was in sight.
The dashing act, which I thought to perform through the street of Sandy Hook, upon a " steed flying fearless and fleet," was aban- doned as was also my plan of approach to the headquarters of the commanding general. My arrival was intended to be impressive as became a man from the Old Bay State ; brilliant as became a soldier from that State bearing important despatches to her former governor, now general. The facts are, that I rode quietly through a wagon camp and mule yard, to a point as near headquarters as the guard would permit, and dismounting, was directed to a large, old- fashioned farm-house to find the general.
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Here I was requested by an orderly to give him my despatch, as the general had retired. I said that my instructions were to deliver them only to the general commanding; the orderly crossed a large hall and disappeared through a doorway. When that door opened again, the general appeared clothed in white from his neck to the floor. Yes, he had on his - his " robe de nuit." Also, he was clothed with that dignity so natural and becoming to him.
I have seen him many times, as governor of the Bay State; as its congressman ; on the lecture platform ; on the stump ; at the head of battalions, and at the head of the banquet table : and always the same air of dignity surrounded and gave him a majestic appearance, although not a large man physically.
On this particular occasion he had but to throw one long loose end of that robe over his shoulder, hold a scroll in the other hand and I should have been standing in the presence of a Roman senator. He read my despatch from the colonel then commanding at Sharpsburg, and I was quite surprised at the calmness he displayed after reading. He thanked me in a courtly manner, bade me thank the colonel for his prompt report of proceedings up the river ; called an orderly and directed him to show me with my message to . the tent of Gen. Robert Williams, his adjutant-general.
During the interview no reference was made to a vacancy now or likely to occur upon his staff. The tent of General Williams was close by. As soon as he had read my despatch I told him about my experience of the night and of the condition of the horse I rode, which belonged to Lieutenant-Colonel Batchelder. Late as it was, his veterinary was called to attend him. The contents of my despatch did not seem to alarm him and he said that he would have a reply for me to take on my return in the morning, when, if my horse proved to be no better, I should be mounted on another. He then advised my retiring, which I was glad to do, in an adjoin- ing tent escorted by an orderly. Here I slept on a pile of blankets till early morn, and would have slept till dewy eve had it not been for those mules. Up to this time I had met but few of the genus mule ; had heard a solo occasionally from him, when he thought his ration short or overdue ; but to have six hundred of him suddenly burst out in grand chorus, accompanied by six hundred iron hitching- chains, rattled against one hundred sheet-iron plates, fastened to one
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hundred wagon-poles to prevent abrasion, was a new experience to me. Iawoke. To the combination (which seemed to be sufficient ) was soon added the voices of the drivers, one hundred male voices !
As to tones, they were in full accord and harmony with the mules, but the words (though in the English language) do not all appear in the lexicon of people of culture.
Being addressed in the form of responses to the mules' requests for breakfast, they were in mule vernacular and can hardly be recorded here.
Later, during my service, I became more intimate with the army mule and confess to some affection for him, and to-day could write chapters on his characteristics, - his virtues which were many, and his vices which were few. At present will only say that I do not think his voice adapted to the rendition of any of Beethoven's Symphonies, particularly just as " the morning light is breaking."
Somewhere in his anatomy - I should judge near the larynx -- nature has placed a number of saws and a few rasps, not in use for regular breathing, but when excited, or he wants to raise his voice in song, he draws it in and out through these obstructions. Well ! He thinks it music !
Now, right here, by all precedents, my story should end.
Who cares for the rider, his goal being reached? Yet, thinking some comrades would like to learn the fate of the horse, I will add that the veterinary surgeon advised me not to use him.
By order of General Williams I was mounted on what he called a scout's horse. He was a saddler, sure ; had the speed of the wind, and covered the distance back to camp in less than two hours, showing a strong desire to shorten that time.
The horses were exchanged in a few days. Colonel Batchelder's entirely recovered and remained in good condition during the rest of his service. I was not greatly surprised in reaching camp to find that no attack had been made and "all quiet along the Potomac " the last report from the fords.
" The rebel rides on his raids no more," And the story of my ride is o'er, While in it are errors, I will not deny : Facts are here told, to which history may tie.
ELLIOT C. PIERCE.
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