CHAPTER XIX. THE PROCLAMATION
BLACKS were constantly coming into the Union lines, and though it was a hard problem to dispose of them, yet General Grant's care of them was most humane. Few among them were aware of the immortal proclamation of Abraham Lincoln, but believed themselves still subject to their old masters.
The colored folks all through the war had shown very friendly feelings toward the Union army, as many an act of kindness at their hands had testified. Those who came into camp, as well as the white refugees, were put to various labors. Surely no race, save the African, ever produced such a quantity of culinary artists, judging from the claims they set up. Whenever a darkey was queried as to his calling, whether he had been a field hand or a house servant, he always answered that he was "a fust-rate cook, massa; can gib yo' some fust-class dishes."
"Still more good news, boys; General Lee has been routed at Gettysburg, and several of his generals killed or wounded. Among the latter is General Wade Hampton. Lee's brilliant sortie has been checked by three of the hardest days' fighting ever witnessed in this war. Both armies fought like demons. But we have driven Lee and his followers off the soil of Virginia. General Meade, the master spirit, has given them a taste of his fine generalship.
"He's never jealous of his officers under him—that is another trait of his," spoke up a man who had fought under him.
"Yes, and Pickett, with his magnificent column, was there, and was nearly annihilated, for he lost nearly every officer he had."
"The fight was hottest, they say, at Round Top. The Confed sharpshooters held Devil's Den, and a ghostly place it is. I know every inch of the ground, for I was born three miles from there," said another man.
"How strange," said Ralph, "that two such glorious victories should follow each other—Gettysburg in the East, and Vicksburg in the Southwest. General Lee has been instructed that an invasion of the North is impossible, and we have cut the Confederacy in two by opening the Mississippi to navigation from Cairo to the Gulf. Surely, the God of battles is on our side," he reverently continued, for Ralph knew that without His overruling care, we are but naught.
The martyrs of Gettysburg, those who had laid down their lives for universal liberty, were not forgotten by A National cemetery, in which the soldiers' who fell in that campaign were to be buried, was laid out. The ground was dedicated on the 19th of November, 1861, and here, with the wintry winds making music round their graves, the remains of 3,560 brave men were laid to rest, according to the order of their respective States. It was a fitting tribute to bravery, and the occasion was most impressive.
Edward Everett was chosen as the orator of the day. President Lincoln was invited to honor the event by his presence, and he received a gentle hint that his voice would be a welcome tribute.
He came, with no speech prepared, save a few fugitive thoughts which he scratched down on an old envelope, on his way to Gettysburg, and intended solely as references.
When he was called on, he rose, and in his simple, unaffected way he gave to his hearers an immortal speech.
A long time after its delivery, Mr. Lincoln, at the urgent request of friends, rewrote it and affixed his signature.
The copy gives an exact facsimile of his handwriting, and thus in a double sense it becomes a most valuable addition to one's reading matter.
The days of idleness had not come to them yet. Victory did not mean inaction. They were embarked on board a steamer, bound for Natchez, Mississippi, which town was taken with little resistance. They also seized several pieces of artillery, a large number of prisoners, and 5,000 head of cattle designed for use in the Southern army. A quantity of Government stores fell into their hands, also. At Natchez they were detailed to do provost duty.
This was to Ralph a pleasant change from the awful scenes of carnage he had been a participant in. The morning of September 1st the regiment was ordered out to attack a body of rebels who were harassing the Union people at St. Catharine's Creek.
They found a small force stationed here who were levying contributions from the country around, but they promptly drove them back to their hiding-places. At Cross Bayou, Louisiana, they were again called into action, and suppressed the guerrilla bands who preyed on all alike.
Guerrilla warfare is most exasperating. The West was full of these vicious and irresponsible men, who, under a leader of courage and brains, would unite to prey on and murder rich and poor alike. They could skulk in the depths of the woods, and dash out upon their victims, and after gratifying their murderous designs, they would flee to their homes and lie in concealment till some new exploit would reveal their lurking place. Probably the best organized and most reckless of these bands was led by Colonel John S. Mosby, whose daring deeds made his name a terror. His raids were remarkable for their boldness and success. He never was captured, although his band was thinned often by the frequent efforts on the part of the Federals to bring him to justice.
"We are ordered back to Vicksburg, to do provost duty there," the captain informed his men, who heard it with variable feelings.
Grumbling was heard from some of the younger ones, who were anxious to be "at the front," and to them acting as provost guards smacked too much of being kept in the background. The older ones heard the news with much satisfaction, however.
They returned to Vicksburg, with very different emotions to those they felt just after the surrender of General Pemberton, and even though they were not welcomed, their coming insured peace and protection from the contentions without, and the rough element within. Doing post duty is quite as necessary as constant warfare, but few were the occasions for interference on the part of the soldiers.
Skirmishes were frequent, but the days of the rebellion were drawing to a close. The Confederates realized that the hours of the Confederacy were numbered, but still they struggled on. How ardently Ralph wished that peace would dawn. He abhorred the bloodshed that the protracted conflict entailed.
Time passed heavily, and he began to fret at the duty assigned. Events so brilliant that everything paled before them were transpiring elsewhere, and the boys spirit burned to be in the fray.
Morgan, the Confederate guerrilla, had planned a bold raid across the Ohio, and had captured Columbia and Lebanon, Kentucky, seized two steamers, and, going into Indiana, had left a trail of ruin and destruction behind him, as he hastened toward Cincinnati, burning bridges and stores, tearing up railroad tracks, and plundering every one, irrespective of their views. How far his depredations would have been carried, cannot be judged, but at Buffington Ford he was pursued so closely that he was driven make a stand and fight. Here he was defeated, and, fleeing up the stream, was again attacked at New Lisbon, where he surrendered, and was sent to the Ohio penitentiary, but a few months later he dug under the walls and fled.
July 18 the regiment was again aroused by receiving orders to move on to Grand Gulf, Mississippi, where a large force of Confederates were posted. They found them waiting for them, and gave battle at once, taking a few prisoners, who were sent to the military post for future exchange.
The awful Battle of the Wilderness had gone down into history, with its record of unparalleled daring, and its list of 60,000 dead on the two sides, sending up a wail to Heaven. It was in this fatal battle that General Longstreet, of the Confederate army, received a severe wound on the same ground and under a similar mistake, as that which cost Stonewall Jackson his life, a year before The General was returning from the front, when he was seen by some of his own men, and fired upon, under the supposition that he belonged to the National cavalry.
The Atlanta campaign, which had added to General Sherman's everlasting renown, had lost to the Union cause one of its bravest generals—the brilliant McPherson, who lost his life by venturing into the woods almost alone, where he was shot by the Confederates, and his horse dashed into the Union lines bleeding, but riderless.
The Confederate vessel Alabama, commanded by Raphael Semmes, was at Cherbourg, France. She had been cruising round for two years, preying upon American commerce. The United States man of war, Kearsarge, Captain John A. Winslow, lay off the port, expecting Semmes to come out. The latter sent a polite request to Winslow, asking him not to leave those waters, as he intended to fight him. This was exactly Captain Winslow's wish. On Sunday, June 19, the Alabama went out of the harbor with flying colors, only to be lured off eight miles from the coast, by Captain Winslow, who then turned and attacked the enemy.
After the Kearsarge began the battle, the firing was terrific and her shots told heavily. Captain Winslow's shells cut the mizzenmast of the Alabama in two. The crew were half of them killed by a shell, and the gunners had been swept away. After an hour's battle, it was seen that the Alabama was sinking, her officers struck their colors, and threw the swords, that would no longer avail against their adversary, into the sea.
Captain Winslow lowered boats from his vessel to save the remaining crew of the Alabama, when suddenly her stern went down, her bow was tossed into the air and the Alabama went to the bottom, carrying nearly all the men. Semmes was picked up by a yacht, with forty sailors, the Kearsarge rescued some, and all the rest were drowned.
The autumn had come. October had put on its gaudy dress, and the Seventy-second were still in Vicksburg. By their sedate and manly bearing and perfect discipline, they had won the friendly toleration of the very people who had dreaded their coming, but who now felt secure in the protection of their property.
Business had been to a certain degree resumed, quiet had settled down over the city, and the great events of that year were had in the papers from the North, which came freely into the city.
"At last we are going to move again," said Ralph, as they gathered round headquarters. "We are to report to General Howard and go with Sherman on his 'March to the Sea.'"
"Well, it'll be a relief, for this sort of life is too much like playing soldier to suit me," a gray-haired private responded.
It was a light-hearted body of men who left Vicksburg that day, but when they reached Nashville, they were disappointed to learn that they were too late to join Sherman, but the Seventeenth Corps was cut off and assigned to General Schofield's Command, then stationed at Columbia, Tennessee. It was approaching winter's rigors, and General Hood had harassed the Federal army at all points, and was trying to persuade Sherman away from Atlanta. When he found he could not do so, he massed his whole strength for the purpose of destroying General Thomas' forces. Turning his face in the direction of Nashville, he met a barrier in the heavy rains which had fallen, rendering the roads almost impassable, and it was well into November before he reached Duck River, forty miles south of Nashville.
General Schofield expected him, but Hood flanked him by crossing to the other shore, which led the Union general to deem it prudent to attempt to reach Nashville.
Quickly he retired to Franklin, where he succeeded in getting across the river, throwing up earthworks, and placing his artillery. The scene was a stirring one. General Hood forced his men up against the strong breastworks with a recklessness that was appalling. They were doomed, for the terrific onslaught of musketry and artillery cut them down so fast that they were piled up in heaps, dying and dead, the entire length of the line.
The struggle at the breastworks was so fierce that it became a hot, mad encounter between the two armies, who fought literally, hand to hand, while their fire flashed in each others faces. Officers dismounted, and fought beside their men. The contest became so close that the standards of both armies were upon the earthworks at the same time.
A ditch ran outside the works, which was filled with the Confederates, who could not cross it under such a blinding fire. Here they met their heaviest losses. The smoke from the National side was so dense, and kept so near to the earth, that it added to the horror of the scene by bringing on almost complete darkness. It was one of the hardest fought battles of the war, and not until midnight did General Schofield order a retreat to Nashville, a wise move, for had he been content to remain at Franklin, the fortunes of the day would have been changed very essentially, for Hood planted all his artillery there that night, and thus, aided by General Forrest's cavalry, the victory of the day before would surely have been turned into a defeat.
They were worn out—unable to fight longer, and so completely exhausted by lack of sleep that many of the men in this retreat stumbled and fell on their faces, and only the vigorous pricking of the bayonet by their companions aroused them to a sense of the danger they were in of being captured,—thus they were hurried along.
The whole strength of the army was now concentrated on the defeat of Hood. On the fifteenth of December General Thomas, who had been grumbled at and called "slow," delivered a crushing blow by moving upon Hood's front and flank with such force that he fled precipitately toward Franklin, with Wilson's famous cavalry in hot pursuit.
General Thomas made a clean sweep of the artillery, capturing every piece, and taking forty-five hundred prisoners.
The morning of February 9 was cold and frosty, and as the soldiers huddled round the crackling fires built in the open air, they recounted tales of the incidents they had seen, or fought again the battles of the past four years.
"I enlisted to the end of the war," said Ralph. "'When this cruel was is over,' I shall go home and try to be content," Some of his companions shared his feelings; to these the prospect of returning home was a delightful one, but others had grown so fond of this life of danger and peril that a return to the peaceful pursuits of home-life seemed tame and dull. War hardens and blunts the finer feelings, making men callous and indifferent to the gentler ministrations of home.
It was with mixed feelings of joy and regret that the regiment embarked on the steamer for New Orleans. The voyage was a break in the daily life, but when land soldiers are penned up on board a boat there is not much r to break the monotony. At noon of the fourth day they laid up at a little landing to "wood up." Not a house was to be seen, the tall trees stood up black and gloomy, and the dull gray sky lowered ominously over them. Glad to feel the earth beneath their feet, a few of the more venturesome leaped ashore for a "run in the timber," as they expressed it, though they prudently kept near the boat.
Ralph was sitting on the deck when he heard the report of a rifle, and jumping up, he called out, "Our men are attacked!"
Instantly every man's weapon was pointed in the direction from whence came the sound. A poor fellow had roamed a few steps farther from his comrades than caution would have dictated, and had been fired upon by guerrillas, who were skulking behind the trees in the leafy depths of the forest. Another man staggered to the edge of the bank, and would have fallen overboard, were it not for Ralph's quick leap. He had been wounded in the arm, and as he was helped on board he said; "There is a band of them up there in the woods."
"Fire!" came the word of command, and the bullets whistled after the fleeing band, who did not return the shots, however. Whether they were hit, was not known. A detail was sent to bring in the body of the dead soldier who had fallen just at the edge of the woods. This incident checked the gay spirits of the men, but, after all, it was one of the possibilities of war, and might have befallen any one there.
They reached the city of New Orleans on the evening of February 21st, and encamped at a beautiful little village about eight miles below that city. But their stay was brief, and again they were transported across the Gulf to Dauphine Island, Alabama. The March weather was health-inspiring, but they had no leisure for admiring natures lovely face, for there was more fighting ahead.
Mobile Bay was now the destined point. Crossing over to the mainland, they spent several days in skirmishing, it being General Grants design to divert the enemy's attention from his real intention, which was to attack and subdue Spanish Fort, before whose walls they were arrayed on the dawn of March 27. Bombardment began early. A dense curtain of smoke hung over the fort, like a pall, and after four days of vigorous assault, their guns were silenced, and just before the midnight hour, the works were carried, amid wild cheers and exultation.
Great events were taking place while the Western army was busy. Sheridan and his cavalry had not been idle in the Shenandoah Valley, and at Waynesboro' General Custer, the intrepid, who commanded his Third Division, routed General Early, and took 1,500 prisoners, and every gun and train he had. Sheridan was not content with this victory, but he ruined the locks in the James River Canal, destroyed parts of the railroad, thus cutting off supplies, and then joined General Grant's army, and passed through Dinwiddie Court House with his splendid body of cavalry, and attacking the right flank of the Confederates at Five Forks, found no difficulty in dislodging their cavalry, when a strong force of infantry came to their rescue, who in their turn routed Sheridan most unexpectedly. At once Grant hurried the Fifth Corps forward to his assistance, but it was noon of the first of April before he could get them into position.
Bringing up his mounted force in front, who dashed forward in gallant style, he led the Fifth Corps so as to completely encircle the Confederates. This manouver was an unpleasant surprise to the enemy, and a victory for the Federal side. Five Forks was held by them, and 5,000 prisoners fell into the hands of the Union army.
Following up his advantage, General Grant leveled two more forts, whose defenders still resolutely held out—Forts Gregg and Whitworth, at the latter of which the Confederate General Hill was shot.
General Lee's flight was a sad ending to his earnest hopes and faithful espousal of the cause which he believed right. He was pursued closely by General Grant, who attacked him whenever the two armies approached each other. These conflicts were severe and destructive, as it presented the strange fact of two bodies of soldiers, both skilled and brave, moving along over the open country, unprotected by any entrenchments, and continually falling upon each other with desperation. To add to the gloom of Lee's situation, his men were half-famished and nearly worn out.
Arriving at Appomattox Court House, a week after leaving Petersburg, he was again checked by Sheridan's dismounted cavalry, who were massed in a solid line across his path, but this gave him no uneasiness. He advanced with confidence that he could easily break their ranks, when to his dismay they drew off to the right, and his progress was barred by a heavy force of blue-coats, with their glittering weapons.
A halt was made, and as Sheridans men were about to charge upon them, a flag of truce was sent out, which caused a cessation of hostilities.
General Lee's hopes had suddenly been destroyed. He had bravely held out, even in the face of adverse fate, and even in March had summoned General Gordon, who had command of Stonewall Jackson's old corps, to a conference, and that general had frankly told him the hopelessness of a further struggle. His own admission was that his army were almost starving, he could not furnish men, or food, or horses, and after visiting the Confederate Congress at Richmond the next day, he came back almost heart-broken, but with no power to stay the tide of blood. The desperate attack on Fort Steadman and the failure of the Confederate troops to cover their retreat followed.
General Grant's liberal terms which he dictated to the defeated men were a marvel of generosity. He merely asked that they lay down their arms and return to their homes, where he promised them fullest protection in all their rights, so long as they did not again take up arms against the government. He also permitted them to take their horses with them, as they "would need them for plowing," so sure he was that the end of the terrible war had come, and that men would be glad to resume the peaceful pursuits of life.
The two great commanders, Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee, had exchanged several notes relative to the surrender, and on the 9th of April they met at the McLean House, where the terms were made known, and the next day General Lee issued a farewell address to his army, whose love and devotion to him had proven itself in many a hard-fought field.