IN MEMORY
of
A N N A MARSHALL
Purch ASED FROM FUNDS PRESENTED to
THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
BY HER FORMER STUDENTS


|
/Miller











A DRUM'S STORY
AND
OTHER TALES
BY
DELAVAN S. MILLER
AUTHOR OF “DRUM TAPS IN DIXIE"
PUBLISHED BY
3%ungerforb-490lbrook Company
watertown, N.Y.
£cºw .
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ve. ºooºl


This volume
I gratefully dedicate
to
MY WIFE
My severest Critic; my most willing Helper
To whose Faith, Courage and Cheerfulness
I owe more than
I could declare in many volumes





THE TALES IN THIS VOLUME
Q Q, Q,
PAGE
A DRUM'S STORY - - - - - - - 11
A VETERAN AND HIS GRANDCHILDREN - 29
LINCOLN AND TAD - - - - - - - 41
THE DEFENSES OF WASHINGTON - - 47
STORY OF THE SECOND BULL RUN - - - 55
CAMPAIGNING WITH GRANT - - - - 65
A DRUMMER BOY IN GRAY - - - - - 79
WAR STORY TOLD IN CHURCHYARD - - - 89
AN ADVENTURE ON THE EAST'N SHO’ - 101
HEROINES OF '61 AND BARBARA FRIETCHIE 109
DOWN THE FAIRFAX PIKE - - - - 119
MAJOR MALLORY OF MALLORYVILLE - - 129
THE STRANGE CASE OF GEO. MURDSTONE 143
GYPSY, MY RED ROAN - - - - - - 153
FIGHTING THEIR OLD BATTLES O’ER - - 163
SIX SOLDIERS WITH SEVEN LEGS OFF - - 171
THE GRAND REVIEW - - - - - - 185
WHISTLING PETE - - - - - - - 199
GOV. MORGAN’S PETS - - - - - - 211
JEFFERSON COUNTY IN THE WAR FOR THE
UNION - - - - - - - - 221
TAPS - - - - - - - - - 229





A Drum’s Story





A Drum's Story
and it is blessed with numerous ears which are
always listening.
And then what jolly companions the drums had
What happy-go-lucky, free-from-care young-
sters the lads were who beat the drums. They saw
all the fun of the thing, had unbounded enthusi-
asm, were tireless, fearless, enjoyed the pomp and
glitter of military life, and were little affected by
the horrors of war. So I say that an old army drum
has far more pleasant memories than sad ones.
Although I am now old and rusty looking, I
was once the most beautiful drum in a fine music
store on Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington.
It was in the early days of the great Civil War
and as I sat there in a glass case I could hear the
tramping of soldiers as they marched down the
avenue keeping step to fife and drum.
Didn’t it excite me, though? And I wondered if
I should ever be carried at the head of a regi-
ment on the march or in battle.
MY BOY APPEARS.
One day there walked into the store an officer
leading by the hand a little lad, the smallest sol-
dier boy that I had ever seen.
He was prettily dressed in a uniform that had
been made to fit him, and his dark blue jacket
was ornamented with a profusion of gold braid
and brass buttons.
12


A Drum's Story
Tattoo was sounded at 9 o'clock, soon followed by
“Lights out,” and then all was silent save the oc-
casional challenge of the sentries, and the neigh-
ing of horses.
THE LONG ROLL.
My initiation into the service began that very
night. Along about 12 o’clock the orderly ser-
geant came to our tent and ordered an alarm
sounded, and a little boy all unused to war, but
who was no novice with the drum, slung me over
his shoulders and stood out on the parade ground
and rattled off, as for dear life, the “Long roll”
while hundreds of men came tumbling out of their
tents and hurried to man the guns in the forts.
It was one of Moseby’s raids on a cavalry camp
near by. Some horses were captured and the
pickets fired a few shots after the daring Con-
federates as they sped away.
THE REVEILLE:k
Light on the morning hills. The reveillé
Thrills, like an echo of Eternity
Along its echoing slopes and listening lake
Crying “Awake!”
Awake! The sentient bugle breathed the word,
The sleeping soldier, instant waking, heard;
And no one knoweth what dear faces there,
What winning battles, what unspoken prayer
Slipped from his dreaming sense reluctantly,
When sounded Reveillé.
*Philo Butler Bowman in Pouth's Companion.
14


And Other Tales
Awake! Upon the balance of today
Swings, tremulous, a nation's destiny.
Today, and men will drink the cause of Right,
And Gods, to fear, will marshall for the fight.
Today and Love will write her name in blood
On holy ground, where late a soldier stood.
But some will wake in joy, to victory
When next sounds Reveillé.
Tomorrow, and upon his comrades' face
A shadow. In the ranks a vacant place.
His Colors wrapped about him, the “Amen”
Of sounding “Taps”, a sob, perhaps, And then
Beyond our ken, sweet Christ, for thy dear sake,
Bid him “Awake!”
Light on the morning hills: we cannot know
What hopes his life, reluctant to forego
Yielded before that call,—what blinded eyes
Weep for his fall. God show them in the skies,
The Eternal dawn . But this we know, that he
Woke, glad, at Reveillé.
Light on the Eternal hills. The Reveillé
Rings from the borders of Eternity
To bless the heart's rejoicing, soothe its ache
Crying “Awake!”
The reveille is sounded at break of day and is
the soldier’s awakening.
the soldier come forth and be a man.
The reveille is a lively performance of ten or
flfteen minutes and the drummer boys, fifers and
It is a disturber of
pleasant dreams. It is a call to duty. It bids
buglers vie with each other in seeing who can make
the most noise.
I will never forget my first morning in camp.
I5


A Drum's Story
It being our first reveille and my drummer boy
being the first one that the regiment had, natur-
ally felt a little timid and he modestly suggested
that we let some one else “lead off.”
The first to break the stillness of the early
morn was a bugler of the Harris Light Cavalry
down near Cloud’s mill. His bugle notes were
low and sweet at first like the twittering of a song
bird chirping good morning to its mate.
A response comes from the trumpeter of the
Havelock battery and the two race with each
other as their bugle tones get clearer and stron-
ger.
Then Gracey, our Gracey of the 2d Heavy, who
was the most wonderful bugler in the whole army of
the Potomac, and who later was chosen to sound
the charge for 20,000 troops at Cold Harbor,
because his bugle calls could be heard farther
than others, came out on the parade ground and
putting his silver trumpet to his lips there issued
forth a sound as if the birds of all the hillsides
and valley had burst forth in joyous song, and
then a sweet, glad call went far across the Vir-
ginia valley, and to the very tops of the hills
beyond. -
Then the drummer boys of General Phil Kear-
ney’s Jersey Brigade in camp at the foothills let
us know that they were there as they execute the
“Three Camps” and “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
The Irish lads of General Thomas Francis
16


And Other Tales
Meagher's brigade take a hand in and the strains
of “Shamus O’Bryne” and “Kathleen Mavoureen”
get mixed up with “Nelly was a Lady” and “Oh
Susannah Don’t You Cry For Me,” which seem
to be favorites with the Pennsylvania brigade.
The boys of the 7th Indiana rattle off “John
Anderson My Joe,” “Yankee Doodle” and “Get
Out of the Way, Old Dan Tucker,” while the bag-
pipers of the Scottish Highlanders reel off “Annie
Laurie” and “The Campbells are Coming, Hur-
rah, Hurrah.”
By this time a score or more of martial bands .
and as many buglers have joined in the melee and
the fresh morning air is full of deafening melo-
dies. The camps are alive. Another day is ush-
ered in. A day with its routine of duties, of joys
and sorrows, of hopes, of sickness of maybe
death to many.
SERGEANT JACK FARLEY.
In chronicling the events of my first experiences
in camp life there is revived in memory an actor
whom I deem worthy of a place in my mem-
oirs and I therefore pause in my story and will
introduce him to the reader right here.
We will call him Sergeant Jack Farley although
he did not bear that name on the rolls.
He had seen service abroad in the Queen’s Foot,
and was a fine type of a soldier, about five feet
17


A Drum's Story
ten, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, plenty of
good hard flesh and red blood that colored his
face to a deep ruddy hue.
He came to our tent one night after dress pa-
rade and said to my drummer boy: “Say, my lad,
if you’ll pardon an old drummer boy’s impertin-
ence, I’d like to offer a bit of criticism about
your drummin”.”
“I was born in sight of a camp where my father
was a soldier, an’ as soon as I was big enough to
carry a drum I was put on the rolls of my father’s
regiment.
“Now the particular thing I notice about your
drummin’—an’ I’ve been watching you closely at
guard mountings and dress parades—is that your
drum sticks go skipping around all over the nice
white head of your beautiful drum. 'Tis all wrong,
my boy, an” would not have been allowed when I
was handling the sticks.
“Why, when I was a drum major an’ a boy
wanted to join the corps I used to take a pint
cup, place it on the head of a drum, draw a line
around it with a pencil, an’ if the lad made a mark
on the drum head outside that he surely heard
some loud talking by Jack Farley, an’ after a
few lessons if he couldn’t keep his sticks in the
center of his drum head he had to go look up
another job.
“Now I was going to propose to you that you
come over in the ravine back of the cook’s tent
I8


A Drum's Story
said to myself, ‘Jack Farley you’re a man now
an” must take your place in the ranks with the
men.” There I’ve been since an” there I’ll
serve my time; but laddie, next to the green
flag of old Ireland there’s nothing that warms
my Irish heart more than a lively, well ex-
ecuted performance on a drum, but it does
grieve me though to see the boys of the 69th
Irish with their caps setting jauntily on the sides
of their heads an’ leading such a fine regiment out
on parade to the tune of Rory O’More an’ their
drum sticks battering the whole surface of their
drum heads. So my boy, I’ll watch you from the
ranks, and remember that Jack Farley is taking
a lively interest in you.”
A few months later the sergeant came to our
tent one evening and handed my drummer boy
a solid gold ring, requesting him to wear it as a
token of his esteem and friendship.
After this there were long marches and fierce
battles. The sergeant often carried part of the
load of the drummer boy on the march, and the
boy more than once took to the sergeant on the
front line a canteen of fresh water.
THE SERGEANT'S LAST MARCH.
One hot day in June, 1864, 10,000 men were
stretched out on the ground at Cold Harbor. All
went down in the space of an hour in the early
morning.
20


And Other Tales
A drummer boy was bathing the fevered brow
of a mortally wounded soldier.
The dying man looked into the face of the boy
and said something as follows:
“Say, laddie, Jack Farley's going on a long
march, but don’t think he’s afraid. He may be
a bit rough but he never knowingly injured one
of his fellow men, an’ I don’t believe the great
captain of all will be too hard on an old soldier,
so my boy when the grand muster takes place on
the other side, keep a good lookout for the old ser-
geant.”
Yes, a bit roughened, perhaps, but a brave sol-
dier, and 'neath his old army shirt there had
breathed a warm, true Irish heart.
Yes, I was the first drum carried at the head
of the 2d New York Heavy Artillery. I was
with them at Bull Run and up and down and
across Virginia until Appomattox.
I led them in the grand review at Washington
and was carried down the line with the tattered
battleflags of the regiment when muskets were
stacked for the last time.
It was a wonderful experience, and it all seems
so far away that I sometimes wonder if I am the
same beautiful drum that was once on exhibition
in the elegant music store on the far-famed Penn-
sylvania Avenue in Washington |
I can hardly believe my own eyes for to-day I
21


A Drum's Story
had a real good look at myself and to say that I
was surprised puts it mildly.
ATTIC TREASURES.
Some of the children of my old companion,
friend and owner—no sir, come to think, it is his
grand children—have been playing in the attic
to-day, where my cozy corner is, for the rain is
pouring down and they had to play in the house.
And this attic is the most wonderful place with
its little dormer windows and the winding stair-
way that leads to the big, roomy room, where
are so many treasures that money could not pur-
chase. Not of great money value to others are
these treasures, but priceless to their owners.
There are little beds. Some were the children’s
years ago. Dolls’ beds, too. Little cradles,
tables, chairs, jumping ropes, carts, sleds, gal-
loping horses, hoops with bells on, skates, and
trunks and boxes full of wonderful old dolls and
dishes. Clothes that are so queer in shape that
they always cause shouts of laughter when they
are donned by the little grand-children who come
up here to play house-keeping.
Close by my side hangs another drum. It is a
little drum, and its sides are just as shiny. Its
head as white and clean as ever. Its ears straight;
but now and then it seems to me its eye is dim
and full of tears. This always happens after
my owner or his good wife have been up here
22


And Other Tales
and have patted the little drum as they always
do.
“My baby’s drum,” they say, and that brings
to memory the touch of little white hands that
were just learning to beat its head when the an-
gels whispered to the little boy and he went away,
leaving the little drum, and the blue soldier cap
“like papa’s.”
The grand-children never ask to take the little
drum. They look at it and say, “it was our little
Uncle’s drum, and if we played on it, it would
make grandpa and grandma very, very sad.”
To-day in arranging the attic for house-keep-
ing some of the children placed an old mirror just
at the right angle for me to behold myself. Good-
ness! what a change has come over me in 45 years.
I wonder the children are not almost afraid of
me. But no, the darlings are not. I am to them
grandpa's beautiful big drum that he used to
carry when he went off to a really, truly war with
the soldier men.
And they tell their little friends how grandpa
used to wake the soldiers up every morning play-
ing on my head. What wonderful big battles
I have been in, and how tired grandpa used to get
carrying me on the long marches when the soldiers
were hurrying to some other battle. For grandpa
then was just a little boy like Albert and Richard.
Well, of course everything changes and I sup-
pose I must with the rest. I am battle-scarred
23


A Drum's Story
like the rest of the old veterans. My head was
once pierced by a piece of shell, and of course had
to be patched. If I had been a boy they would
have called it trepanning, but with a drum 'tis
just a plain patch.
I have been shampooed so many times that my
head refuses to give up any more of its dirt. It is
black, blue, brown and blood-stained, which won’t
come off. Of course with my one eye I can see just as
well as ever, or I should not have seen how bad I
did look in the old looking glass. And perhaps
the old glass is not just as good as it was once
and made me look worse than I really do. But I
have been through enough of real war to make
anything look old and rusty.
As I sit and think of the past there is much
comes to mind that I would like to tell the boys
and girls—yes, the men and women of the present
time “lest they forget,” for people are so thought-
less that they take every blessing of this glorious
land of ours, its righteous government, its pros-
perity, its blessings of schools and churches for
everybody; and then the blessed privilege of ev-
ery man a king and every woman a queen of this
greatest and most glorious of all nations as just
a happenstance. But it has all cost so much, yet
how few even think of it.
The old soldier with an empty sleeve, or minus
a leg; the man an invalid for years because of
hardships endured or wounds received on the bat-
, 24


And Other Tales
:lefield; the thousands of graves on the hillsides
and in the valleys mean nothing to so many, and
yet but for all these things this land of ours
would not be what it is to-day.
I know the old motto, “The things of to-day
are the history of tomorrow.” All true, even an
old drum can understand that. But don’t forget
the days that were before yesterday.
Oh, there are so many things I want to talk
about, but the children are putting away the play-
things; are going to leave me alone again, and
I cannot think so well when they are gone. It’s
lonely, I do hope they will think to put away the
old mirror. I don’t want to look at myself any
more to-day. -
25





A Veteran and His Grandchildren





A Veteran and His Grandchildren
A NOTHER Memorial Day parade was over,
and a tired veteran sat on the porch of his
home looking fondly at a beautiful Amer-
ican flag waving across the front lawn. He had
learned to love that flag when he was but a small
boy.
Beth, Betty, Albert and Richard, four little
grand-children, were playing with an old drum—
a real war drum, but the grandfather scarcely
saw or heard them. He was thinking of other
days, of other scenes.
Beth, the eldest of the four said: “Let’s have
grandpa tell us about when he was a little boy
and went off to a big war where there were lots
of soldiers, an’ real pistols, an’ sabres, an’ big
cannon, an’ bands, an” drums, an” little drummer
boys that didn’t have any mamas to take care of
them when they were sick, or tuck them up in bed
at night an’ hear their prayers.”
The two youngest of the grand-children crawled
up on the veteran’s lap and snuggled close to his
breast. The veteran ran his fingers fondly through
29


A Drum's Story
the little one’s tresses and remained thoughtfully
silent.
With childish impatience the little ones re-
minded grandpa that they were waiting for their
story.
“Yes it is true that the drummer boys didn’t
have their mamas to take care of them, but it is
more than probable that a large majority of
the drummer boys, who took part in the war,
were there because they didn’t have any mamas
at home.”
“Didn’t you, grandpa?”
“No darlings, my mother kissed me good bye
for the last time and fell asleep when I was but
two or three years older than Beth, and less than
two years later I saw my father riding away with
a company of volunteers for the war.”
“Didn’t I want to go too?”
“Well you may be sure that I did. Being left
behind when my father was going to the war was
about the keenest disappointment that had crossed
my young life.
“My father had been a drum major in the
Militia before the war and had taught me to
handle the sticks fairly well.
“I had attended one ‘general training’ with him
and the showy uniforms, the music, the pranc-
ing horses fairly bewitched me, and from that
day I was possessed with an ambition to be a sol-
dier.
30


And Other Tales
“Ah, how little I then thought that my dream
would so soon be realized.
“It was but a little more than a year when
Fort Sumter was fired upon and the sound of fife
and drum was heard in every village and hamlet
rallying the young men to the war meetings'
where eloquent speakers urged them to enlist to
defend the Stars and Stripes.
“I beat a drum at many pole raisings and pa-
triotic gatherings and almost imagined that I
was a volunteer myself, but when my father went
away with a company I was told that I was quite
too small for a soldier.
“But I did not give up the idea of being one,
and a few months later when the captain of my
father's company came home on a visit I begged
so hard for him to let me go back with him that
he could not refuse me, although I recall that he
said more than once that he did not know what
he could do with one so small.
“Did your papa know that you were coming,
grandpa?”
“No children, you may be sure that he did not.
A more surpised man never lived than he was the
afternoon I followed the captain into the fort
where the soldiers were drilling with the big can-
non, and the officer taking me to my father said:
“Sergeant I hope you will forgive me for bring-
ing your boy to you, but possibly he will be bet-
ter off here with you than at home without a
31.


A Drum's Story
mother. Then like a tender hearted man that
he was, he placed a hand on my head and said
“If anything should happen to you Sergeant, I’ll
take good care of the little lad.”
“What a nice captain,” said little Richard, as
he nestled up closer to grandpa.
“Yes, he was a nice captain to your grandpa,
and was as kind and considerate with him as if
he had been his own little boy, but a soldier is a
soldier no matter if he is little or big, and after
I had been regularly enrolled, uniformed and had
gotten my drum I was expected to obey orders
and perform my duties the same as any other
soldier.”
“Did they have soldier clothes to fit little boys,
grandpa?”
Grandpa laughed as he made answer:
“Say children, you ought to have seen me in
my first uniform with the coat sleeves hanging
down over my hands, my trousers with three or
four reefs in them and hanging like potato sacks
around my little legs. And then the Government
shoes, ‘brogans,’ the boys used to call them,
there was room for both of my little feet in one
of the smallest the quartermaster had. But a camp
tailor soon altered the clothes, putting a lot of
red braid and brass buttons all over the front
of the jacket and I was prouder than any pea-
cock when dressed in my new uniform I led our
company out on the parade ground, tapping the
32


A Drum’s Story
ured only about five feet, four inches up and down,
but was nearly as big around the waist as he was
tall. He was a right jolly old fellow like Santa
Claus only he didn’t wear whiskers. The John-
nies captured Uncle Hawley at the second battle
of Bull Run, but Stonewall Jackson after looking
him over concluded that he would be something
of an elephant on their hands and ordered him
paroled and sent back to the Union lines.
“We were not always blessed with as good a
cook as Uncle Hawley, or one that was as cleanly
in the performance of his culinary duties.
“It was while Hawley was absent in the pa-
role camp that one was serving as cook about
whom there was much complaint. Matters were
brought to a climax one night by an Irishman
who made bold to say to the captain as we were
about breaking ranks after dress parade.
“‘Cap'n might I be permitted to file a com-
plaint against our cook?”
“‘What is it, Mike?” said the officer.
“‘Well, sir,” says Mike, “I think it bad enough
for him to boil his shirts and trousers in the same
kettles that he makes tay and coffee in, but when
it comes to taking a bath in the tub that he washes
our potatoes in, I kick.” -
“Grandpa, did you ever shoot a RebP’’
“No, little darling. Thank God, I have not got
that on my conscience. Indeed I don’t believe
that I ever pointed a loaded gun at a fellow be-
34


And Other Tales
ing. The drummer boys were not armed with
anything but a slender, straight sword which
was forever getting tangled up with our little
legs. We called them “toad stabbers,” and used
them to toast bacon and hard tack before the
camp fires.”
“What is it inside of your old drum that makes
a noise, grandpa?” said Richard.
“Nothing laddie. It is but an empty shell,
over each end of which is stretched a piece of
tough skin, yet if I but tap the head of the drum,
with a stick, a voice responds from within, and if
I were to exercise myself on its head with two
sticks it would give forth throbbing sounds that
would thrill thousands of soldiers as it did so
many, many times in the long ago.
“You notice those cords stretched across one
of the heads. Well those are called snares and they
enact a lively performance on one head while
the drum sticks are beating the other.
“There was one peculiarity about my drum
that I must mention. There seemed to be a wave
of vibrant harmony between one of the snares
of my drum and the report of a cannon, even
though it was many miles away. As strange as
it may seem it is nevertheless true that I have
lain on the ground with my ear close to my drum
and have had it give me the noise of conflict which
could not be heard in any other manner.
“If I slip my handkerchief under the snares,
35


A Drum's Story
the drum will give forth a wailing sound. This
is called muffling a drum which is always done
when the drums play at a soldier’s funeral.
“The first time that I muffled my drum was to
escort the remains of one of our drummer boys
to his last resting place near Arlington, Virginia.
“It was a sad duty that we had to perform, for
we all loved little Jimmie—He had been so gentle
and pure, and seemed so unsuited to take a part
in cruel war that perhaps the angels called him
home for that reason.
“He had the surgeon send for his comrades of
the drum corps when he knew that the end was
near, and we stood at “parade rest” while Harry
Marshall, our drum major, read the beautiful
words of the 23rd Psalm as tears trickled down
our cheeks.
“We gave him a soldier’s burial the next Sab-
bath and then went back to camp playing a lively
quickstep, which seemed quite heartless to my
young mind.”
“I’ll be a drummer too, when I go to war,”
said Albert.
“I’m afraid you won’t get a chance my little
warrior bold, for martial music seems to be go-
ing out of fashion now-a-days.
“I am told that the wise army boards, sitting
in upholstered chairs at Washington, and im-
agining that they know all about war, have ban-
ished fifes and drums from the army. "Tis a shame!
36


And Other Tales
They have been heard in every camp and upon
all the battlefields of the world. What inspira-
tion they furnished the Patriots at Lexington and
Bunker Hill? How they cheered the boys in blue
and lightened their loads on the long marches
through the South. No music is comparable to
that of martial music for a marching column.
Maybe though, if they have a real genuine war
again they’ll have the lads and their drums back.”
“You didn’t have any ‘Rough Riders’ in that
war, did you, grandpa?”
“Didn’t we though. Rough Riders, as well
as rough fighters. When you get older you’ll
be thrilled as you read about Phil Sheridan’s
ride at Winchester, and about the dashing Cus-
ter, the gallant Kilpatrick, Generals Gregg,
Crook, Wilson, Kautz, Merritt, Grierson, Stone-
man the raider, Pleasanton and other famous cav-
alry leaders on the Union side.
“The Confederates had equally as gallant Rid-
ers on their side. The names of Fitzhugh Lee,
Wade Hampton, Stuart, Joe Wheeler, Morgan,
Moseby, Imborden and others are mentioned in
connection with all the important events of those
stirring days; and we all rejoice that Lee and
Wheeler fought again under the Stars and Stripes
in the Spanish War.”
“But you didn’t have “Teddy.’”
“No, but I’m sure he would have taken a hand
in it if he had been around.”
37


A Drum's Story
“Why did you call your soldiers the ‘boys in
blue,” grandpa?”
“I suppose it was because they wore blue clothes
and that there might be no mistake and shoot the
wrong man. The Confederates wore gray clothes.
So we speak of the soldiers of the two armies as
the blue and the gray.
“But, grandpa, the soldiers don’t wear blue
clothes now.”
“No, they wear an olive drab affair that is a
cross between a cowboy’s outfit and bicycle togs.
It may be serviceable but there isn’t a suggestion
of appropriateness about the outfit, and no poet
will ever be inspired to write a song by seeing the
soldiers rigged out in such an unmilitary uniform.
“The boys that Lincoln loved; the stern fighters
of Grant, Sherman and Sheridan, consecrated the
blue uniform on hundreds of battlefields and it
should not be laid aside, at least until the long
drawn notes of ‘taps’ are blown over the graves
of the last survivor of the fighting legions of the
sixties.”
38


Lincoln and Tad





Lincoln and Tad
66 Gº": tell us about Lincoln and
his little boy and the big review
of soldiers when the bands played,
the flags waved, and the horses pranced.”
“Ah,” said the veteran, “how well I remember
the event. It was a red letter day in my young
life. I had been in camp but a few weeks and
had hardly gotten my new drum broken in when
it was announced on dress parade one night that
the President would visit the forts the next day
and review the troops south of the Potomac.
“That night there was a general slicking up
around camp. Guns and equipment were cleaned,
brasses polished, knapsacks packed and every-
thing made ready for the morrow.
“The drummer boys polished up their drums
and after reveille the next morning put in more
than an hour practicing “Hail to the Chief.”
“The review took place on a large field north
of our fort. The infantry massed on one side,
the cavalry and artillery on the other.
“My, but it was a pretty sight when they
rode on the field and down the lines of the troops.
41


A Drum's Story
“The President was accompanied by some of
his cabinet and many distinguished officers with
their aides.
“They were resplendent in bright, new uni-
forms, profusely trimmed with gold braid, brass
buttons as well as shining epaulets on their shoul-
ders, and they mostly wore plumed hats which
made them look quite dashing.
“In marked contrast to the officers the Presi-
dent wore a plain black suit over which was a
long linen duster.
“He had on a tall stove pipe hat and with his
long legs dangling loosely at the sides of his
horse, and his trousers hunched up on his boot
legs, he was anything but a military figure.
“It mattered not though to the boys in blue.
They loved “Uncle Abe,” as they called him, and
as he rode down the lines the soldiers greeted him
with cheers which brought smiles to his care-
worn face.
“Doubtless those cheers seemed to say to him:
‘You’re all right Uncle Abe, go ahead and do
right, and we’ll stand by you to the last man.”
“After the President and the generals had in-
spected the troops they took position at one side
of the field, and we marched in review with the
drums beating, the bugles blowing, the bands play-
ing and the colors flying. -
“I used to think that a circus parade was about
the most entrancing sight imaginable, but after
42


And Other Tales
I saw the thousands and thousands of soldiers
marching that day in all the pomp and panoply of
war, with their bayonets and sabres glistening in
the sunlight, I was thrilled as I had never been
before, and the memory of it makes my blood run
quicker to-day.”
“But some of the soldiers got killed, didn’t
they grandpa?”
“Yes, my dears, that is the dark side of the
picture that I have just tried to paint for you,
and it makes me sad to think how many of those
that took part in the review that day gave up
their lives after that. Doubtless hundreds and
hundreds of them were just buried in the trenches
after the big battles with not a thing to mark their
resting places.”
“Say, grandpa, don’t forget to tell us about
Lincoln’s little boy.”
“No, little ones, I’m coming to that now.
“After the review was over the President and
party inspected the fortifications in the vicinity.
Our fort was one of the largest and most im-
portant in the line of defenses south of the Poto-
mac and was equipped with a variety of cannon
such as 24, 42, 64 and 100 pounders, also mor-
tars and what was then quite a curiosity, some
English, breech-loading steel guns. The party
were anxious to see these, and have them tested
in their presence.
“When President Lincoln entered the fort he
43


A Drum's Story
was leading by the hand his little son, Tad, and
he kept very close to his father during the firing
of the cannon, but when the party passed out of
the fort, and the troops presented arms, and the
fifers and drummers played ‘Hail to the Chief,'
Tad pulled his papa around near the drum corps
and after we had finished our performance the
President asked many of the lads questions con-
cerning their names, age, home life, etc.
“In response to an inquiry of his father, Tad
said that he should like to be a drummer boy, too.
“Lincoln smiled, and then the great big, lovable
and tender hearted man bade the youngsters good
bye and said that he should pray that they might
go through the war in safety. -
“It was but a few weeks before that he had been
crushed almost to the earth because the great
Commander of all had called home one of his own
little boys.” -
“There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!”
44





A Drum's Story
father’s home for over a year. It was called Fort
Haggerty in honor of Major Haggerty of the
69th New York, whose men constructed it.
“Up on the hill to the right was Fort Cor-
coran, so called after the colonel of this gallant
Irish regiment. Our regimental headquarters
were there for a long time, and on a level plateau
south was where Colonel Whistler drilled us day
after day in the broiling sun until the 2d Heavy
became one of the best drilled regiments in the
service.
“Colonel Whistler was a Regular Army officer
who stood six feet, two inches in his stockings,
had a peppery temperament, and a voice like a
lion, and when anything didn’t go to suit him there
would issue from his mouth, as from a rapid fir-
ing gun, words that were highly charged with,
sulphur and brimstone.
“Arlington, the grand old home of Robert E.
Lee, was not over half a mile from Fort Corcoran,
and when I re-enlisted I was sworn into the ser-
vice in the old dining room of the mansion where
many a gay party had assembled in days past.
“Arlington was flanked by many of the most
formidable forts in the line of defenses south of
the Potomac. If the Confederates had made an
attempt to capture Washington from the south
side of the Potomac the attack would doubtless
have been made in the vicinity of Arlington.
If they could have planted a few batteries on the
48


And Other Tales
heights they could have riddled the city with shot
and shell in a few hours.
“Out on the Ballston road five or six miles from
Fort Corcoran is Munson’s hill which the Confed-
erates occupied early in the war and the Confed-
erate flag flying there could be seen from the dome
of the Capitol. º
“We have been reading of late much about the
Wright brothers and the tests of their flying ma-
chine at Fort Meyer, Wa. This fort is near the
site of old Fort Corcoran and was originally called
Fort Whipple in honor of a gallant officer who
gave his life for the Union. Our regiment did
much of the construction work of the old fort.
“It seems almost too bad that the defenses of
Washington could not have been preserved as
monuments to commemorate the pluck, endurance
and intelligence of American soldiers.
“The magnitude of the forts and earthworks
has seldom been equalled in war, and what was
most wonderful they were built by young men
from schools, farms, stores, shops, law and medi-
cal schools who, a few months before, had not
even known or thought of the a, b, c’s of the
science of war.
“The forts had to be built rain or shine,
trenches dug, abattis placed for additional de-
fences, wells dug, roads and bridges built, and
then the men who garrisoned the forts must
know everything pertaining to one—all the dif-
49


A Drum's Story
ferent classes of cannon; the old smooth bores,
24, 42, 64 and 100 pounders, brass Napoleons,
Whitworth steel breech loaders, mortars, howit-
zers, parrot and Rodman guns; also the differ-
ent kinds of shell, sharpnel, hand grenades, grape
and cannister and other incidentals. And then
the “Heavies’ had to learn all the infantry tactics.
There were battalion drills, reviews, skirmish drills
with learning to load and fire a musket while ly-
ing in the Virginia mud. And let me tell you that
the sacred soil was very soft at times as well as
tenacious. Why when one tried to pull his foot
out of the sticky stuff there was a noise like that
of a suction pump when the water is exhausted.
But the boys of ’61 conquered the Virginia mud
and rapidly developed into the most perfect spec-
imens of soldiers that the world has ever known;
and all in spite of the fact that a large percentage
of the officers in the early part of the war were
incompetent and unfit for their positions. They
had won their commissions by political wire pulling
at Washington, and it was invariably the case
that this class of officers were given to putting
on airs and showing off their authority over men
who outranked them in patriotism, intelligence and
morals.
“One of this kind of officers on inspection one
day said to a bright young fellow: “Your musket
is not as shining as it ought to be.’ ‘I know it
50


And Other Tales
sir,’ he replied, ‘we have been too busy of late
polishing our spades building the forts.”
“Many slurs have been cast on the Heavy ar-
tillery regiments for the “soft’ thing that they
were supposed to have had in the forts around
Washington, but if they had rendered the Na-
tion no other service they might well feel a just
pride in that.
“The fact remains, however, that the Johnnies
didn’t capture Washington although they re-
peatedly promised their friends that they were
going to do that little job.
“But in addition to building the forts and
guarding the Nation’s Capitol the “Heavies’ later
made a record at the front that placed many of
them high on the honor roll of the fighting regi-
ments.”
51





Story of the Second Bull Run





Story of the Second Bull Run
“T ELL us about a big battle, grandpa.”
“Yes, tell us about Bull Run where
the Johnnies made you skiddo,” ad-
ded little Albert.
“Well, children there was some pretty lively
sprinting there, sure enough. It was a regular
Marathon race from Manassas back to Fairfax
Court House.
“The second battle of Bull Run or Manassas
as it is sometimes called, was opened by a battery
of artillery and our regiment. We were up
against 40,000 of Stonewall Jackson’s soldiers
and didn’t know it for several hours.
“Our colonel had the nerve to send a message
to Stonewall Jackson asking him to surrender.
Jackson didn’t surrender, but he did make the
2d New York Artillery “get up and git' right
smart, as the Johnnies used to say.
“We were on the way to join General Pope’s
army and blundered onto Stonewall Jackson’s
command one night near Manassas.
“The brilliant Confederate leader had outwitted
55


A Drum's Story
General Pope and had slipped around between
him and Washington.
“We had marched about twenty miles that day
and had gone into camp that night near Bull
Run bridge. We were a pretty tired lot and
were soon sleeping on the ground as only tired
soldiers can.
“All of a sudden we were awakened by the
booming of cannon and rattle of musketry near
at hand.
“We immediately sat up and took notice that
there was something doing in that vicinity for the
road was soon filled with white and colored people,
soldiers and teamsters all fleeing towards Cen-
treville.
“An officer rode up to our colonel and informed
him that a large force of the enemy were at the
junction, and had attacked his command captur-
ing most of his men and guns.
“While he was telling his story the sky became
brilliantly lighted up and we knew that the en-
emy were burning the railroad depot and the
large quantities of stores for Pope’s army that
were there.
“Our colonel didn’t take any stock in there
being much of a force of the enemy and told the
artillery officer to go back with his battery and
he would march his regiment up to the junction
and make short work of those guerillas.
“It was a dark, cloudy, mysterious night and I
56


And Other Tales
recall what a queer sensation, the braying of
some of the frightened mules, produced on me as
we were marching along in the inky blackness of
that Virginia night.
“Bull Run is a wild mountain stream which at
some seasons of the year is a raging torrent. It
runs through a ravine which is densely fringed
with underbrush, and the country about is hilly,
wooded and cut up with narrow paths making
it difficult to manoeuver an army in that locality.
“Well, we marched and countermarched the
most of that night, stumbling over logs and ev-
ery now and then getting tangled up in the vines
that grew in profusion. Finally our colonel or-
dered a halt, and we lay down on the ground,
the soldiers being ordered to keep their loaded
muskets at their sides.
“As soon as it was day light the colonel ordered
an advance, throwing a strong skirmish line out
before the regiment.”
“Weren’t you afraid, grafidpa?”
“Well, I hardly think that we knew enough
about war at that time to have much fear. The
men had been terribly anxious to go to the front
and have a little taste of real war before the thing
was over, for many feared that the rebellion
might collapse and they have to go back home
without having had a smell of the Johnnies’ pow-
der. So that morning as we got up out of the
wet grass and bushes, the boys were as happy as
57


A Drum's Story
though it was a picnic party. They rubbed their
muskets dry, hastily partook of coffee and hard
tack, which they seasoned with witty sayings and
sharp jokes on one another, and then the colonel’s
bugler sounded ‘forward’ on his trumpet and
we slowly advanced towards Manassas Junction.
“Our skirmishers encountered those of the en-
emy before going very far, and we saw off to
the south some formidable earthworks, from which
many cannon peered at us threateningly, and
while our regiment was being formed in battle
line we saw several of those black cannon run a
tongue of flame out of their mouths, followed by
puffs of smoke, and a few seconds later several
shell went screaming over our heads and tore up
the earth as they exploded to the rear of our
line.
“A section of artillery which had been saved
from the disaster of the previous night took posi-
tion on our left, and they returned the fire of the
Confederate guns.
“‘Begins to look as though we were going to
have a little fun boys,” said Albert Bishop, a
big, raw-boned, six footer of our company.
“Then some Confederate cavalry rode out from
the right of their intrenchments and as they came
forward our skirmishers fired upon them and we
saw several riderless horses go galloping across
the field.
“A strong force of Confederate infantry which
58


And Other Tales
had been lying unobserved in front of their earth-
works now rose up and poured a terrible volley
into our skirmishers. The noise was like ten thou-
sand packs of Fourth of July fire crackers going
off under a lot of barrels.
“Then the cannon opened on us from all along
the front and our colonel ordered the regiment
to lie down which saved us from many casualties
as most of the solid shot and shell passed over
our heads, although occasionally a shell would
explode in our front, ploughing up the ground
and scattering dirt and pieces of shell around in
a very careless manner.
“The first one of our company to receive a
wound was Uncle ‘Cy’ Russell, the oldest member
of the company. A little piece of a shell struck
him over one of his eyes inflicting but a slight
wound which bled profusely. Uncle ‘Cy” didn’t
mind a small thing like that, and wetting his
handkerchief in water tied it around his head
and kept his place in the ranks.
“He had a son who was also a member of the
company. He was a six footer, a droll character
and a splendid soldier. When his father gat hit
he said to him: ‘Well, dad, that’s a pretty close
call, and if I can get a crack at the “grayback?
who sighted that cannon I’ll pay him back with
interest.”
“During the severe cannonading my drum re-
ceived a wound in the head. I had left it with
59 -
* ,


A Drum's Story
some of the baggage a little to the rear of the
line and a small piece of shell pierced its head.”
“What did the drummer boys do during the
battle, grandpa?”
“Our regiment did not have much of a drum
corps at that time. Jack Budlong and I were the
only drummers and we ran things pretty much
to suit ourselves. Later when a full corps was
organized and there was a battle the surgeons
took us in charge and would tie red bands around
our arms and send us to bring the wounded from
the field. We used to assist in the dressing of
the wounds, give the suffering, fevered ones water,
help bury the dead and when there wasn’t any-
thing else on hand act as orderlies and couriers.
Oh, they made the youngsters earn their $13.00 a
month, I assure you.
“Soon after the old drum got hit that day,
things got pretty warm for us. The Confeder-
ates attempted to turn our left flank which sub-
jected the regiment to a cross-fire so our colonel
thought best to fall back toward Bull Run.
“About this time the 11th and 12th Ohio, who
had been in camp at Union Mills, came to our as-
sistance also a Pennsylvania cavalry regiment,
but against us were twenty-five or thirty regi-
ments of infantry, a dozen batteries of light ar-
tillery besides General Stuart’s force of cavalry,
so there was nothing else to do but retreat or
be captured or annihilated. The retreat was or-
*
60


And Other Tales
derly enough on the start, but General Stuart's
cavalry got after us and a regular stampede en-
sued.
“I think that the troops would have stood their
ground better but for the irresponsible teamsters
of three or four hundred baggage wagons that
had been parked near Bull Run, and when a few
shell had been dropped among them they took
fright and not being under the command of of
ficers acted on the impulse of the moment. Many
of them cutting their horses’ traces mounted them
and galloped off yelling like mad men. Those
who tried to drive away with their wagons soon
blocked the roadway which became filled with fly-
ing troops, horses and colored people.
“Reinforcements came about this time. General
Taylor’s famous Jersey brigade of four regi-
ments had been sent forward by rail from Alex-
andria. They were a fine lot of soldiers, well of
ficered and disciplined but they could not stop
the tide. It was as if the dam of a river had
been swept away and the waters were rushing on-
ward unrestrained.
“The Jerseymen made a gallant fight—we
heard them cheering between the volleys of mus-
ketry, but they were overpowered and became a
part of the demoralized mass of humanity that
were choking the roadway in the mad rush to
reach Fairfax Court House where it was expected
a part of McClellan’s army might be.
61


A Drum's Story
“The Confederate cavalry under the dashing
General Stuart, followed closely the fleeing troops,
riding among them and capturing many prison-
ers.”
“Did they get you, grandpa?”
“No, I escaped in a baggage wagon and took
the ride of my life. Charley Rogers of our com-
pany drove the four horses, attached to the wagon
in which I made the journey. He had guided
eight horses in many a circus parade before the
war, had a cool head, and of course was an ex-
pert reinsman, which doubtless had much to do
with our safe journey down that Virginia turn-
pike, filled with infuriated horses, reckless riders
and drivers, disabled wagons and pandemonium
reigning supreme. It was a repetition of the
first Bull Run skedaddle. But the battle of the
second was more prolonged than the first which
was a one day’s fight, while the second lasted
through four or five days, but as in the first the
Union forces were worsted and General Pope’s
army fell back within the intrenchments which
guarded the approaches to Washington on the
south side of the Potomac.”
62


Campaigning with Grant





“Campaigning with Grant”
“Tº us about some more battles,
grandpa. Tell us about fighting with
General Grant.”
“Well, it was in the spring of 1864 that Gen-
eral Grant, who had been very successful with
the armies in the West, was commissioned Lieu-
tenant General, which made him Commander of
all the armies.
“He came to Washington to meet the President,
and then in a brief, modest order, assumed com-
mand and announced that his headquarters would
be in the field with the Army of the Potomac.
“This gave great satisfaction to the soldiers of
that army who had fought, marched and suffered
many defeats, largely because of petty jealousies
and political wire pulling at Washington.
“While they did not throw their caps in the air
for General Grant, they had great, admiration
for his lion-like qualities of the soldier, and his
presence with the army inspired the soldiers with
confidence that they had not felt under other
commanders.
65


A Drum's Story
“General Grant wanted plenty of men for he
knew that many would be killed and wounded. So
he asked that the 40,000 veteran soldiers in the
defenses of Washington be sent to the Army of the
Potomac.
“Secretary Stanton took fright and objected
saying that the Confederates would capture
Washington.
“President Lincoln asked Grant about it, and
he very quietly said that if they would furnish
him the soldiers he would keep General Lee so
busy that he would not have time to molest Wash-
ington.
“That settled it and the Heavy Artillery Regi-
ments went to the front.
“The orders came to us in the night. We were
called up and they were read to us and the men
cheered for scarcely a man but wanted to take an
active part in the great struggle that had already
commenced in the Wilderness.
“The next day our regiment marched away,
1800 strong—a splendid body of men, intelligent,
muscular, thoroughly drilled and disciplined; and
I doubt not we presented a very striking appear-
ance with a fine brass band and a large drum corps
leading. A drenching rain storm came on us af-
ter we were a couple of miles on the way to take
a transport at Alexandria. We got a thorough
soaking and went aboard the boat lying around
in our wet clothes all night.
66


And Other Tales
“I will skip the particulars of our march to
Spottsylvania the next day. Of the exhausting
heat, the blinding clouds of dust, the torturing
pangs of thirst. When we had caught up with
Grant’s army that night we had covered a dis-
tance of 35 miles and were about as tired and
footsore a lot of soldiers as ever bivouaced in the
open air. But goodness, gracious, how we did
sleep there on the ground with our shoes tucked
under our heads for pillows. I believe we were too
tired to dream, but I would willingly take such a
march again for such a sleep and the appetite that
I had the next morning.”
“Did the cooks have a good breakfast ready
for you when you got up, grandpa?”
Grandpa laughed heartily before he made re-
ply.
“Why, bless your hearts, we didn’t have any
cooks when we were campaigning with Grant. It
was every man for himself and there was too much
marching, digging trenches and fighting to be
bothered with camp kettles and such things.
“We were awakened that morning, not by the
shrill trumpet call or'the drum’s reveille, but by
the rattling fire of 10,000 or more muskets and the
booming of artillery as an accompaniment.
“We got upon our feet, rubbed the dust out
of our eyes, shook out and rolled up our blankets,
the boys laughing and joking with one another
just as if they had rolled out of the nicest of
67


A Drum's Story
beds and were getting up to the most appetizing
breakfast imaginable.
“No, they didn’t wait that morning for us to
boil a little coffee. A mile away, near Spottsyl-
vania Court House, there was fierce fighting go-
ing on, the Second and Sixth Corps, supported
by Artillery, having assaulted the Confederate
lines at 4 o’clock a. m.
“The country was densely wooded thereabouts,
but we could see the puffs of smoke when the ar-
tillery was discharged along a ridge in our front.
We passed out of the woods into an open field
surrounded by evergreen trees. New breastworks
with men and artillery in line of battle were in the
woods and open field. Our regiment was massed
in the rear and ordered to lie down. The Confed-
erate artillery sent some shell over our heads and
they sounded anything but pleasant. It was the
first time our regiment had been under fire since
the second Bull Run and as a large portion of the
regiment had joined since that event it was to
them their first introduction.
“As I have mentioned we had not been given
time to make a cup of coffee and more than half
of the men were without canteens of water, but
while we were lying there in the blazing sun we
drummer boys did a little reconnoitering, being
allowed a few more liberties than the men in the
ranks, and we found a nice spring not far away
and filled our canteens and took them to our
68


A Drum's Story
Grant quietly smoked as he used his field glass
and gave orders. It is said that during those ex-
citing days he used to smoke as many as two dozen
strong cigars in a day.
“General Grant was yet new to the Army of the
Potomac, but the men liked him and on every hand
expressions of satisfaction were heard. They had
faith in him. They liked his modesty and unos-
tentatious manners. Meade was another one that
the common soldier believed in too, and the men
often remarked that Grant and Meade would
make a good team, and so it proved.
“The big Heavy Artillery regiments, number-
ing more than many of the veteran brigades, fur-
nished a lot of amusement for the bronzed, bat-
tle-scarred men who had been fighting at the front
for more than two years, and as we marched along
we would hear such expressions as : “Those uni-
forms won’t look so clean and starchy, nor their
knapsacks won’t be so heavy after they get into
a fight or two.”
“And then another would hail us with: ‘I say
there Weighties You’ll miss your soft bread and
feather beds this summer.”
“These banterings were received good na-
turedly by the “Heavies,” who did not have long
to wait for an opportunity to show the veterans
of the Army of the Potomac that they were not
only drilled and disciplined to perfection, but that
they could fight as well.
70


And Other Tales
“The opportunity came the next day, when that
great Confederate Commander, Lee, surmising
that Grant was planning a movement, delivered
one of the sudden counter-blows, for which the
Confederates were famous, on the right wing of
General Grant’s Army.
“It was a complete surprise and Ewell’s veter-
ans broke the lines where they assaulted, but several
of the heavy artillery regiments were near at hand
and they were rushed into the battle without any
warning. They knew nothing about the bush-
whacking style of fighting, but just kept together
and poured volley after volley into the enemy, re-
pulsing their onslaught and finally driving them
off capturing many prisoners, but not without
severe losses. The casualties of our regiment in
this affair were about 250, and many commands
suffered worse.”
“Where did the drummer boys go during the
battle, grandpa?”
“Well, I cannot answer for those of the other
regiments, but I have very keen recollections of
our experiences that memorable day and night.
We had received instructions as to our duties,
from our Colonel the day before. We were to be
under the orders of the regimental surgeon dur-
ing any engagement in which the regiment might
take part. So that afternoon when our regiment
had doubled-quicked into position near some ar-
tillery and were loading their muskets and fixing
71


A Drum's Story
bayonets, the Surgeon ordered us to lay aside all
unnecessary luggage while he tore up strips of
red flannel which he tied around one of our arms,
giving us instructions as to our duties in the bat-
tle that the swelling tide of musketry, increasing
in volume each moment, indicated was close at
hand.
“We were in a large open field that sloped to-
wards some pine woods. The scene about us was
one of overwhelming excitement. Other troops
were rushed across the field to the right of us.
Aides-de-Camp and orderlies were riding here
and there on horses reeking with foam. A bat-
tery of light artillery came galloping up with
the drivers lashing their horses and wheeled their
guns into position in the rear of the regiment, and
then: Bang—bang—bang! Boom—boom—boom!
Crash—crack—crack—whang! and the shells went
flying over our heads into the woods.
“An officer galloped up to our Colonel and
called out: “Forward your regiment on the double-
quick, the Rebels are driving us back in your
front.”
“The colonel gave the command and we went
down across that field on a run, the shells from
our artillery passing over us, and the bullets from
the Confederates zipping around us or ploughing
up the dirt in front.
“We came upon the 1st Massachusetts Heavy
Artillery falling back before the fierce fire in their
72


And Other Tales
front. They were a fine body of men and were
contesting every inch of the ground. I recall that
one of their wounded captains, who was still with
his men, sang out to them as we rushed past.
“Three cheers for the old 2d New York.” We had
been brigaded with them for about two years and a
very friendly feeling existed between the men of
the two regiments.
“I cannot tell you the details of the battle that
lasted till after dark. 'Tis one confused mass.
The boom of artillery, the crash of musketry, the
smoke, the shouts of the officers, the shrieks of
the wounded, the cheers when the enemy retreated
—all are mixed up in my mind without much con-
nection between them.
“I assisted to the rear the first man wounded
in our company. His name was Loucks and he
was one of the oldest members. Of the others I
have no distinct recollection only that there were
many. There was no sleep for us that night. Suf-
fering men had to be helped and a fear was upon
me all of the time that the next man might prove
to be my own father. Thank God I was spared
that, for he went through the battle and all the
succeeding ones of the Army of the Potomac down
to Appomattox, unharmed, and we came home to-
gether. -
“The scenes around Spottsylvania were hor-
rible in the extreme. More than 200,000 men had
for days been engaged in mortal combat. The
73


A Drum’s Story
green sod everywhere stained with the blood of
dying men. Ridges marked the places where thou-
sands had sternly fought and bravely fallen, and
it was a sad sight to see the heaps of blood-stained
clothing, discarded knapsacks, shattered muskets,
disabled cannon as well as the windrows of dead
horses at the points where the artillery had been
stationed. -
“Those scenes have left an impress upon my
mind that time cannot efface.”
“Beside a stricken field I stood;
On the torn turf, on grass and wood,
Hung heavily the dew of blood.
Still, in their fresh mounds lay the slain,
But all the air was quick with pain,
And gusty sighs, and tearful rain.”
“Did that battle end the war, grandpa?”
“Bless your dear little hearts, no. It was just
the beginning of the most remarkable campaign
in history. In the years to come you will read of
that great struggle between Grant’s and Lee’s
armies in the summer of 1864. Of the dreadful
slaughter at Cold Harbor and in front of Peters-
burg. Of Sherman’s grand march to the Sea, as
well as other important operations on land and
water. But all eyes were turned on the forces op-
erating in Virginia. Lee had for three years been
able to successfully combat the Army of the Po-
tomac under various commanders, but it is re-
74
*


And Other Tales
ported that after the battle of Spottsylvania he
said: “The Army of the Potomac has at last found
its commander.” -
“General Grant recognized the fact that he was
matched against the ablest general of the Confed-
eracy, and that the army under him was composed
of the finest soldiers of the South. Best of all
the officers under Lee had been loyal to their com-
mander through reverses as well as victories, a
condition of affairs that had never existed in the
Army of the Potomac. So when Grant counted
up his losses around Spottsylvania and found that
they amounted to about 40,000 he asked for more
men and sent back to Washington the famous dis-
patch: ‘I propose to fight it out on this line if
it takes all summer!’”
75





A Drummer Boy in Gray





A Drummer Boy in Gray
66 Gº tell us about the little Rebel
drummer boy that you found in a
wagon.”
“Ah, children, it was indeed a most pathetic
incident. It is more than forty-four years since
the memorable campaign which had its finish at
Appomattox, but do you know I can still see that
beautiful, childish face with the sunken, bronze
cheeks and the dark, expressive eyes, looking up
to my comrade and me as we stood over him on
the battlefield of Sailor’s Creek.
“There was victory in the air for the boys
in blue, for we were fast hemming in the men in
gray and all felt that the end was in sight, but
somehow as I look back to those days in later
years my heart is tinged with sadness when I
think of Lee and his devoted followers, who though
almost without hope, ragged, hungry, foot-
sore, bleeding with wounds, fought on and re-
mained loyal to their cause and the great leader
that they had followed for four years. It is a sad
picture in memory, but I am thrilled with admira-
79


A Drum's Story
tion for the men who fought so gallantly against
overwhelming odds.
“The third day before the surrender of Lee’s
army there was a running fight extending over
fifteen miles or more of country. The cavalry
under Generals Sheridan, Merritt, Crook and Cus-
ter were driving the enemy on the flanks. The
Confederates were making a desperate effort to
get away with their wagon trains and would only
fight when pressed too hard. All day they fought
on the defensive, holding us in check with their
artillery until their trains would get a mile or so
away, and then the artillerymen would limber up
and make a run for a new position, from which
they would shell us until we crowded them too
close when they would use grape and cannister.
“The fighting was part of the time across a
rolling country with woods and swamps alter-
nating with open fields through which the lines
of battle followed closely on the skirmish line,
maintaining an excellent alignment which was
very remarkable considering that while part of
a brigade was in an open field the other portion
of the line might be working its way through im-
penetrable undergrowth, stuck in a swamp or wad-
ing a stream.
“The troops in front of our Corps (the Second)
were General John B. Gordon's, a Corps that in-
cluded some of the famous fighting regiments of
the Confederate Army.
80


And Other Tales
“About four o’clock in the afternoon they made
a stand at Sailor’s Creek where a large part of
the trains of Lee’s army were huddled together
at the crossing of the creek.
“Ewell’s and Anderson’s troops formed on the
north side of the creek, and determined to check
the Union advance so that their trains could get
across the stream.
“As we came over the hill the Confederates op-
ened fire, both artillery and infantry. Our regi-
ment came to a halt in a piece of pine woods, with
trees about the size of stove pipe. The men
dropped on their knees, sheltering themselves as
best they could behind the timber while they
loaded and fired as fast as possible.
“While in this position we could get occasional
glimpses of the precious wagon train moving al-
most parallel with our front, and our men fear-
ing it might get away grew impatient and some
of the boys sang out to charge, and, though I
do not think there was any orders to do so, away
we went with a rush until we came to a fence be-
hind which the Johnnies were sheltering them-
selves, but the enemy held to the fence, and did
not leave it until we reached it. Here we had to
stop long enough to tear it down or climb over it.
Our supports were close behind us and the cavalry
on our right was closing in on the rear of the
train. We were abreast of it and our left was
swinging round onto it.
81


And Other Tales
“It was almost a hand-to-hand encounter
around the wagon train. On a hill across the
creek some Confederate artillery had taken posi-
tion and were pouring an enfilading fire into our
troops, but some of our artillery came in to the
left of the brigade on a gallop and taking posi-
tion, quickly drove off the enemy's guns and the
defenders of the wagon train tried to save them-
selves. Hundreds were captured, however, also
the train of three or four hundred wagons, thir-
teen flags and three cannon.”
“Where does the little drummer boy in gray
come in, grandpa?”
“Right here, children, only we old veterans
hardly know where to stop when we get to talking
about those days. Our boys had great sport go-
ing through the captured train. There was all
kinds of plunder in the wagons. A paymaster’s
trunk with nearly a half million dollars of Con-
federate money, officers’ uniforms, jugs of apple
jack, bacon and commissary stores that the
Confederate soldiers were starving for. But war
is war and the boys made merry as they paraded
around in colonel’s and major general’s uniforms,
red sashes and ate broiled bacon, toasted hard
tack, pickles and coffee with real genuine fresh
milk in it, for one of the boys had overtaken a
cow and milked her. Every one was in the best
of spirits, and elated over our success, and little
83


And Other Tales
“In the morning they found the little drummer
boy from the Palmetto state cold in death. They
buried him on the field, and when they were turn-
ing away from the spot there were great big
lumps in their throats, and one said to the other,
as he brushed a tear from his dust covered cheek,
“Say, Will, this war is all wrong.’”
“What did you do with his drum, grandpa?”
“Why bless your hearts, the drummer boys of
the Confederate Army were all carrying muskets
instead of drums in the last year of the war.”
85





War Story Told in Churchyard


�~~）__ __. _. _ _


War Story Told in Churchyard
5,000 soldiers stood in the form of a hol-
low square in the rear of the Union lines
near Petersburg, Virginia.
They were in two ranks, facing each other and
about ten or twelve paces apart. A cordon of
mounted cavalry with drawn sabres was outside
the lines of infantry and two pieces of artillery
were in position at each angle of the square. At
4 p. m. sharp a suspected Confederate spy sen-
tenced to be shot, started on what was supposed
to be his last march. He was surrounded by 12
guards under command of an officer and led by a
brass band playing a dead march. They pro-
ceeded around the square between the files of sol-
diers. After completing the circuit the condemned
man was seated upon a coffin, blindfolded and
handcuffed.
The 12 guards were each handed a loaded mus-
ket, one of which held a blank cartridge.
O. beautiful autumn day in the year 1864,
89


A Drum’s Story
The officer gave the command “Ready! Aim P’
Five thousand men held their breath waiting for
the next word when out from the ranks rode an
officer and handed the commander of the guards
an official envelope, which he tore open and read
the paper enclosed.
“Carry arms!” was his next command, and the
guards returned their muskets to their sides. Then
word was passed around the lines that President
Lincoln had commuted the man’s sentence to im-
prisonment.
The troops marched back to their positions in
the trenches. The usual artillery duels took place
that night. The pickets exchanged shots with
each other, and the incident, if not blotted out of
memory, was submerged by the events that came
thick and fast in a soldier’s experiences with
Grant’s army.
THE SEQUEL.
Memory is a most wonderful gift of man, and
it is curious how a trifling incident or an insig-
nificant circumstance will unfold the events of
long ago and enable one to recall old friends and
associations that had seemingly been forgotten.
It is more than two-fifths of a century since a
party of three, of whom he that pens these words
was one, traversed on horseback, the eastern shores
of Maryland and Virginia.
90


And Other Tales
Time, with his keen sickle, has cut down two
of the three comrades. The colonel sleeps amid
the granite hills of New Hampshire, the captain
in a village cemetery of the Empire State. The
survivor was browsing among his valued friends
the other evening and picking up an old volume
he opened it and there written on the inside of
the cover he found this inscription: “Purchased at
Chestertown, Kent County, Maryland, 1866.”
Forty years is a long time in one’s life and
things do get hazy and dim in the memory, but
in an instant the trip down through the Chesa-
peake country all came back, and the three jolly
comrades were cantering their horses down along
the pikes of the “East'n Sho’,” were smelling the
breezes from the Atlantic ocean that came wafted
across the peninsula, and were feasting on terrapin,
canvas-back duck, spiced ham, crabs, fish, oys-
ters, plum puddings, Maryland biscuit and other
good things to eat that the dwellers of the Ches-
apeake country always had on their tables in
those days.
Good hotels were not plenty down there then,
but it mattered not, for the people who dwelt
there 40 years ago were decidedly Southern and
hospitality stands in the front ranks of a Sou-
therner's code of living.
Often when a man was met on the highway, or
some tiller of the soil was hailed from the road-
side to ask the way to the nearest town, after the
91


A_Drum's Story
information was given an invitation usually fol-
lowed to stop over an’ rest up a bit, an’ eat a
little snak with us.
They always had plenty of time to be sociable,
or if they did not they took it, and it is worthy
of mention that no person in those days ever pas-
sed another on the road or in the street without
a greeting of “good morning,” “good afternoon,”
or a “pleasant day, sir.”
Possibly the young generations of the Eastern
Shore have become “commercialized,” but it is to
be hoped not for the survivor of the three horse-
men, who made the trip in the sixties has promised
himself that one of these days he will take another
ride down through that charming country where
fruits, flowers and hospitality abound. And if he
were going to do it he would choose to make the
journey on horseback for there is no better way
to see a country and its people than from the
saddle.
A carriage was a rare sight down on the penin-
sula 40 years ago. They had plenty of fine hor-
ses, but they were broken to the saddle and women
as well as men rode to town or went visiting their
friends on horseback.
“Befo’ de wah’,” the Marylanders were devoted
to cutdoor life and sports such as fox and rabbit
hunting, racing, fishing, duck hunting and at the
close of a day’s sport a gathering would take place
at some large farm house, where they would feast,
92


And Other Tales
dance, drink rum punch and play cards till late
in the night.
Forty years ago the lower peninsula was a
sportsman’s paradise. Ducks, wild geese, herons,
eagles, quail, partridge, reed birds, red winged
black birds and other winged game were plentiful
around Chesapeake Bay and its tributaries, and
when it came to fish any old darky boatman could
take you where you could catch bass, blue fish,
perch, rock, shad and an occasional sturgeon until
you were tired of the sport. Then the oarsman
would row you ashore and while you smoked a ci-
gar he would gather crabs and oysters and pre-
pare you a feast there on the beach.
STORY TOLD IN CHURCH YARD.
The party tarried a week or ten days at-well
never mind the name. It was an old town where
there was much wealth and refinement.
Sabbath morning they wended their way to a
stately old church. In fact everybody who made
the least pretense to respectability attended di-
vine worship on the Sabbath. After the service
the three comrades strolled through an old bury-
ing ground that was adjacent.
They stopped at the side of a well-kept plot,
where fresh flowers had been placed that morning.
On a marble slab they read this inscription:
“Here Lies Martha, Wife of and Our Lit-
tle Mary.”
93


A Drum's Story
The names recalled the story of Martha, Mary
and Lazarus, and the three comrades lingered
around the spot and talked of childhood days,
their Sunday School teachers and of mother and
her prayers and hopes. A stranger approached
and begged pardon for intruding. He had noticed
our army badges, which we had not then discarded.
He had seen them under far different circumstan-
ces and they had touched him. If we could sit
on the grass for a few moments, he would tell us
a story.
As we listened to his sad story I noted that he
was tall, slender and graceful, with piercing black
eyes setting deep in a swarthy face. Like most
of the gentlemen of the South he had small, shapely
hands and feet. His clothes were loose fitting, and
a diamond stud relieved the snowy whiteness of
a wide expanse of shirt bosom. It is 40 years ago
this season since we met the man in an “Eastern
Sho,” church yard. He is now sleeping in that
hallowed spot beside his loved ones.
HIS STORY.
When Lee’s hosts invaded the North in 1863,
his army received many accessions from the border
states. The stranger we met told of his going
and leaving a bride of a few months. His brother
had already joined the Union Army and was serv-
ing in a Maryland regiment, so it was brother
against brother, as was often the case.
94


And Other Tales
He passed through the battle of Gettysburg
unharmed and went south with the Confederate
Army.
A few months later he received a letter from his
wife. It had come through the Union lines. He
took from a leather letter case that same letter
and read the message that came to him from home.
It is a long time since the occurrence, but I
think that I remember every word. It was about
as follows:
“Dearest Husband: I am so weak I can scarcely
write, but I must send you a few words which I
feel will be my last message. Doubtless before this
reaches your hands, I shall be laid away in the old
church yard.
“At my side there is the sweetest little girl baby
that ever looked into a mother’s face. We call
her Mary as you wished.
“Oh, Tom, if I could see you with her in your
arms I could die happy, but I know that it can-
not be. 'Tis.a cruel war, but I do not mean to
murmur. You did what you thought was right
and God bless you for it. I shall pray unceasingly
that you may be spared to come home and care
for our little girl. If I am gone, remember that
I shall be watching and waiting for you, dear one.
Your own loving Martha.”
He could hardly control himself until he had
finished reading. Then he broke down and sob-
bed as if his heart would break.
95


A Drum's Story
The Colonel and the Captain, who had led their
men amidst the storm of shot and shell on many
a battlefield, and the drummer boy, shed tears of
sympathy.
When he could control himself he looked up and
said: “If either of you gentlemen had been the
man that received that letter what would you have
done?”
And the Colonel, who stood six feet in his
stockings, said, “I should have gone through hell
fire but I would have reached her.”
“And that is what I almost did,” remarked the
Iman.
Then turning to the Captain he said: “I rec-
ognized you to-day as the officer who commanded
a squad of soldiers that were about to shoot one
condemned to die on a charge of being a Confed-
erate spy.” -
“I was that man, but not a spy, and that is
why I wanted you to listen to my story.
“I was not a deserter from my regiment, either,
for I showed the letter to my Colonel and he said
while he could not give me his permission, he
would not blame me if I went. I thanked him
and promised that I would return as soon as pos.
sible.
“I reached home in time to see my wife before
she died, and remained about three weeks, hoping
that my little girl might be spared to me.
“The next day after my arrival home one of
96


And Other Tales
our old neighbors, Judge—, who had a son in the
Union Army, came to our door and asked for me.
“‘Tom,” he said, ‘I have come to tell you that
we all know that you are at home and know what
brought you here. You have no need to secrete
yourself. You are safe in this community, even
if we do not all sympathize with the cause you
have been fighting for.”
“‘I do not believe there is a man in this town
mean or low enough to report you to the author-
ities, so just stay as long as you want to, and if
you feel it your duty to go back South again, it
will be all right.”
Continuing, he said:
“Our little Mary soon followed her mother, and
as I had nothing to live for, I tried to reach my
old regiment, but in an attempt to pass through
the lines at Petersburg I was detected and accused
of being a Confederate spy. It was only through
influential friends who presented my case to Presi-
dent Lincoln that my life was spared, he commut-
ing the sentence to imprisonment during the war.”
As the speaker finished his narrative we heard
a voice calling: “Marse Tom! Marse Tom P' and
looking over our shoulders, we beheld an aged
negro leaning over the back fence.
“Mist'iss bin waitin’ dinner fo' you nigh onto
an hour, Marse Tom. She say dat if you do’n
come along right smart, dat de tar’pins won’t be
fit fo” de niggah’s to eat.”
97





An Adventure on the East'n Sho’
BLACKBIRD INN.
dinner at a hotel called “Blackbird Inn.”
Queer name, isn’t it? And queerer still
that through all the experiences that are crowded
into one’s life in forty years that he should
remember the name of a hotel where he happened
to stop for refreshments. The Blackbird Inn
was down on the banks of the Pocomoke River.
And by the way the first naval battle of America
was fought on that river nearly 300 years ago
between trading vessels and some armed sloops sent
to enforce the authority of Lord Baltimore. But
all of this is a matter of history and has nothing
to do with our story.
The Blackbird Inn was a resort for duck hun-
ters, fishermen and boatmen, and did a thriving
business. Many of the patrons had seen much of
the rough side of life both on land and water,
and as might be expected some of them were not
angels.
O. day the three comrades stopped for
I01


And Other Tales
you Yanks every day in the week an” twice on
Sunday.
“Say, stranger, maybe 'tis none of my business
but I’d just like to know what command you
served in P”
The Colonel courteously replied, “the –th New
Hampshire, Hancock's corps, Army of the Po-
tomac, and my comrades were members of a New
York regiment in the same command.”
Dinner being announced the three travelers re-
paired to the dining room, where they found a
good old Chesapeake dinner awaiting them.
'Tis a long time to remember a bill of fare, but
memory recalls Chesapeake Bay shad fried with
hominy, roasted sweet potatoes, cold boiled East’n
Sho’ spiced ham, hot co’n bread, cold roast duck,
and for dessert, Maryland fried pies and brandy
peaches.
While the comrades were lingering over their
coffee the proprietor of the Blackbird came into
the dining room and said:
“I thought I’d give you’ns a little advice. That
man Tom Allen is a ‘bad man’ an’ he’s bound to
have a fuss with you’ns, therefore I thought I’d
give you a little hint an’ maybe you’d like to slip
out’n the side door, mount your horses an’ ride
away without meetin” him again.”
The colonel acted as spokesman for the party
and after thanking the landlord for the friendly
information said: “Our horses are pretty well
103


A Drum's Story
fagged out with a 15 mile ride through the mud
this afternoon, the weather is a little bad for
horseback riding, and as your table accommoda-
tions seem to be pretty good we have about made
up our minds to stop over 'till late this afternoon,
and in case the drizzling rain does not let up we
might stay overnight provided you can accommo-
date us.”
The landlord assured the party that he would
do his best to make his guests comfortable, but
added, “Look out for Tom Allen.”
When the party entered the barroom again
every voice was instantly hushed as though wait-
ing for an explosion and it soon came.
The three comrades had lighted cigars and
seated themselves a little apart from the rest. In
a few moments Tom Allen got up, walked over
by the side of the colonel and said:
“Say, Yank, you’ns didn’t whip us fair in war.
We’uns were just crushed to death by the hordes
of hired soldiers Grant had.
“We’uns fought for love of country, while you
blankety, blank Yanks went soldiering for the
money that was in it. I’ve been waitin’ a long
time to tell some of you’ns face to face what I
thought of you, an” now as I’ve got a good chance
I’m goin’ to do it.” And then he exploded an in-
sulting oath and followed up with a lot of vile
epithets.
The colonel had not said a word, but while the
104


And Other Tales
torrent of abuse and insult was pouring from the
mouth of the big Virginian, he arose and slapped
him with the flat of his hand on the side of the
man’s head.
Tom Allen staggered from the blow, but recov-
ering himself, said: “Now, you’ve got to fight
an’ we’ll see who is the best man.”
Both men took off their coats. The colonel
took a revolver from his hip pocket and handing
it to the landlord told him to lay it up back of
the bar and then requested Allen to do likewise
which he did. Then they faced each other. The
Virginian, the taller, but the granite state man
the better form, with the advantage that he was
an all around boxer, wrestler and athlete.
The Virginian made a rush for him but the
colonel parried his sledge hammer blows and watch-
ing his chance ran in under his arms, caught him
around the body and threw him over his hip, the
two men falling together. Tom Allen was a giant
in strength but lacked the skill. However, he
was able to get up with the colonel on top of him,
and then they sparred around the room, tipping
over the chairs and tables until the colonel saw
his opportunity and quick as a flash dealt the
Virginian a blow that sent him sprawling on the
floor.
No one had offered to interfere until Allen went
down with a bloody face and then one of his chums
started towards the colonel, but the captain pulled
105


A.Drum's Story
a revolver and thrusting it before him said, “I’ll
shoot the first man that interferes in this affair,
or attempts to draw a pistol or knife.”
The Ex-Confederate arose somewhat dazed, and
with the fight all knocked out of him. Raising
his right hand he offered his antagonist a military
salute and said: “Colonel, I’m doggoned if you
ain’t the best man I ever met on the Pocomoke.
All hands come an’ take something with Tom
Allen.”
That night the colonel who was possessed of
hypnotic powers, and was a marvelous story-teller,
entertained until a late hour the crowd assembled
in the bar-room of the Blackbird Inn.
The next morning the three comrades rode away
while Tom Allen waved them an adieu from the
porch of the Virginia Inn.
106





Heroines of ’61 and Barbara
Frietchie
and devoted labors of the grand women of
those days—both on the side of the North
and South. Much might be written for their
grand deeds would fill volumes.
Back of all the heroism, the hardships and suf-
fering endured by the soldiers of the Civil War
one needs to go to find real loyalty, love of home
and country.
The mothers of the “boys of ’61” like the Spar-
tan mothers of old had taught their sons love of
native land from the cradle and when the day
dawned that soldiers were needed they buckled on
the sword for husband and son and bade them God
speed in their battles for the right. And beardless
boys became mighty warriors in one night.
All the women could not go to the front. But
many did as soon as the first shots were fired. Hos-
pitals lacked not the gentle, soothing hand of wo-
man. Lives were saved, hearts were cheered, mes-
sages of the dying to their loved ones were re-
L ITTLE has been written about the unselfish
109


A Drum's Story
corded and thousands of penitent ones were point-
ed to the cross before death came. Nor were
their labors confined to the hospitals. Many fol-
lowed the troops in their active campaigns right
down to the battlefields where the blood flowed
fast and where the scenes of suffering made the
stoutest hearts faint. The names of a few like
Clara Barton, have found a place in history. But
hundreds, aye, thousands who did just as much,
who were beloved by the soldiers, are remembered
only, “by what they have done.”
Memory brings before me tonight, as I sit in
my comfortable home so far away from those days,
a loyal woman who was one of the grandest char-
acters that the Good Master ever created. Mrs.
William H. Holstein, a Pennsylvanian of wealth
and high social position, who with her husband left
their beautiful home in the suburbs of Philadel-
phia, went to the front and spent three years
among the terrible scenes of suffering.
I see her as I write, just as I saw her for the
first time at Cold Harbor, that bloody June day
in 1864, when 10,000 men were put out of action
in less than an hour. She was presiding over a
“diet kitchen” near the battlefield, that fed over
2,000 sick and wounded men before midnight. And
later she related to me how she gave her straw
pillow that night to a mortally wounded boy who
was crying for “mother.”
Working with the surgeons as the drummer boys
110


And Other Tales
did after every big battle in 1864—for no men
could be spared from the ranks, it was my pleasure
to meet Mrs. Holstein frequently, and it is a very
precious memory.
Doubtless my youthfulness and the knowledge
that my own dear mother was watching her boy
from the other shore, appealed to the warm, moth-
erly heart of this grand woman and she mani-
fested much interest in her “little soldier boy.”
One day when I had gone to the 2d corps diet
kitchen to get some broth for a wounded comrade,
she called to me and presented me to General
Hartranft, an old neighbor of the Holstein’s,
who was then a gallant officer of the 9th corps;
after the war Governor of Pennsylvania and a
prominent candidate for the Presidency. Of
course I am not expected to repeat what Mrs.
Holstein said about the little lad when he was
presented to the distinguished officer, nor his re-
marks in reply.
Mrs. Holstein told me how she became inter-
ested in the soldiers. The battle of Antietam
brought the horrors of war startingly near her
home. Major Holstein returned from the battle-
field, telling his wife of men lying by the roadside,
in barns, sheds and outhouses, and that they were
dying for food and care.
She hesitated no longer, but went to friends and
neighbors and appealed for food, medicine and
clothing and hastened to the front.
111


And Other Tales
One morning she went to a tent with some
nourishing food and as she stepped inside she asked
“Are there any from Pennsylvania here?” Sev-
eral replied in the affirmative; but one poor fellow
near her sank back upon his bed of straw and said
in a tone of despair, “Well, as I am from New
York, I suppose I am not to have any of that nice
food.” She hastened to correct his mistake and
said that from that moment she never knew any
distinction of States.
BARBARA FRIETCHIE.
Mrs. Holstein always believed that she knew
the original of Whittier's charming story so told
that it will live for ages.
While at Frederick City she made her home
at the house of a well-known loyal family.
As Stonewall Jackson’s men marched through
the town they trailed the stars and stripes through
the dust at their horses’ feet as they rode along.
The loyal family, unwilling to look upon the
disgraceful act which they were powerless to pre-
vent, closed their doors and windows that they
might be out of sight. But as they had neigh-
bors who sympathized with the South they were
pointed out as noted Unionists and the Confeder-
ates were not sparing of their taunts as they
marched by.
Their triumphant march was of short duration.
The tide was turned and the Johnnies had to re-
113





Down the Fairfax Pike


Down the Fairfax Pike
after the close of the Civil War a veteran
with coat thrown across his arm was walk-
ing along the road leading out from Alexandria,
Virginia, in the direction of Fairfax Court House.
The day before he had marched down Penn-
sylvania Avenue with 60,000 or 70,000 survivors
of that great war, but on this day he wanted to
get away from the crowds that thronged the streets
and every public building so he took a boat and
crossed over the Potomac to Alexandria, and then
started afoot out King street in the direction of
Fairfax.
Thirty years before he had trod that same road-
way that leads through a charming little valley,
but under far different circumstances. Then ev-
ery field was a camp of armed men. The hill-
sides were white with tents and muzzles of can-
non peered threateningly from the crest of ev-
ery hill top. Bugle calls could be heard in every
direction and the noise of fife and drum in scores
of camps drowned the notes of the song birds.
O” a beautiful Autumn day about 30 years
119


A Drum's Story
He recalled what an impression it had made on
him the first evening in camp when with his fa-
ther he had walked out on the bluffs at Fort
Worth, from where could be seen the campfires
and the lights in the tents of over 50,000 soldiers.
Many things can happen in 30 years. Much
had happened in the life of the boy who had grown
to manhood. He stood alone on this autumn
day in the '90's where he and his father had stood
so long before. The father had answered the
last roll call, and as the son turned away from
the spot there was a tear for the absent one.
The old Fairfax “Pike” in war-time was a much
traveled thoroughfare. Every tree and bit of
foliage was laden with the red clay dust that
filled the air as regiments of soldiers, batteries
of artillery, squadrons of cavalry and supply
trains passed along.
The veteran recalled the day he had seen Gen-
eral McClellan ride down the road when his troops,
just back from the Peninsular Campaign, lined
it on either side for nearly three miles, and though
ragged and footsore they gave “Little Mac” a
most enthusiastic reception. \
Thirty years had wrought a great change, and
on this day everything denoted peace. Cattle
dotted the fields instead of soldiers, birds sang.
The grass was green. The air was free from dust,
mellow and invigorating. Wild grapevines and
rose bushes were growing among the abatis of the
120


And Other Tales
old earthworks that time and the elements had
nearly obliterated. Fairfax Seminary, a famous
institution of learning, which was utilized as a
hospital during the war, remained and the build-
ings and grounds had been restored to their for-
mer beauty and grandeur. The same mulberry
trees were there on the hillside, but the berries did
not taste as sweet as in other days.
The veteran observed a most unique outfit pas-
sing along the road, consisting of an aged negro
driving a span of ancient mules hitched to a cov-
ered wagon that had been through the war and on
the sides of the top could be faintly discerned the
letters “C. S. A.”
THE OLD SWIMMING HOLE.
Four Mile Run threaded its way through the
little valley as in days of yore and tempted the
veteran to seek its magnolia shaded banks. It had
been a good friend in other days. In its clear,
cooling waters he had bathed and refreshed him-
self at the close of many sweltering summer days
in '62.
He wondered if he could find the old swimming
hole and starting across the fields went straight
to it.
Its banks, left to nature, had become green
again. Laurel bushes grew along its shores and
there was the refreshing smell of mint and penny-
royal.
121


And Other Tales
*
.
said: “I sut’ny 'member de sec’nd what use’ to
be up at Fort Worth. De secºnd a mighty fine
reg'men sure, but dey was powerful foragers.
When one Marse Cameron’s chickens see one of
dat reg'men come 'long he lay right down an’ turn
up his feet cause he know he's a goner. Me an’
Loretta used to go up to de fo’t to see de dress
p'rades. Say, boss, but yo sut’ny had a fine brass
ban’. I used to tell Loretta dat if I could learn
to play a ho’n an’ lead a ban’ on p'rade dat I’d
be willin’ to lay right down an” die.”
“Who was Loretta?”
“Why she was my bes’ gurl an’ a mighty high
steppah, too. When Loretta an' I get an’ after-
noon off an’ go down to Alexandria we’d have all
dem Duke street cullud people twisting their
necks mos’ off looking after us.”
“Have you always lived in the Cameron family?”
queried the veteran.
“Yes, mistah, I’s bo’n at Cameron Hall an’
Colonel Gawge an’ I fished in dis Run when he
was in short clo’s. When young marse went to
de wah he say to me, “Tom, when I win my shoul-
der straps I’m coming home to see de folks an’ I’ll
take you back wid me to hol’ my hoss an’ to brush
de duss’ off my clo’s after a battle.”
“Marse Gawge win his shoulder straps sure
'nuff, fo’ dem Cameron’s bo’n fighters.
“One night Marse came home—he was then a
majah—he stay roun” free or fo' days keepin’
193


And Other Tales
“De Judge had some ob de best runnin’ hosses
in Fairfax County an’ de two dat Marse Gawge
an’ I rode dat night was de pick ob de lot.
“Whew didn’t we go clippity clip down de
pike, ober fences an’ cross lots. No use for dem
Lincum sojers try to catch us.
“I tell you I's mighty glad I’s wid Marse Gawge
at Cole Harbor when he los’ his arm.
“I knowd sumpin’ goin’ to happen dat day fo”
I had a dream de night befo” an’ I see all de Cam-
eron ducks in a row down by dis yere Run an dey
was stan'in’ on one foot.
“I tell Marse Gawge 'bout it in de mornin’ but
he laugh as he mount black Bess an’ ride out
front ob his reg'men. Fifteen minutes later he
come ridin’ back all covered with blood an’ when
his hoss stop he fall off one side in my a'ms. I
remin’ Marse Gawge 'bout de dream an” he say,
‘Quit dat dreamin' you black rascal an’ get me
to a surgeon befo' I bleed to death.”
“No, Marse Gawge didn’t quit if he did lose
one arm. De Cameron’s are bo’n fighters as I
tole you an’ after he got well we followed Bob
Lee till de last shot was fired.”
“I presume that after Colonel Cameron re-
turned there was a wedding at Squire Haddon’s?”
queried the veteran.
Faithful Tom smiled as he answered:
“Yes, an” dis yere little gal is Miss Ruth, de
gran’-daughter.”
195


A Drum's Story
FAITHLESS LORETTA.
The veteran had surmised that there was prob-
ably another wedding at the close of hostilities
and while black Tom had been reminiscing he
had pictured a snug cabin near by with trellises
of morning glories sheltering the doorway and the
high-stepping Loretta, now portly and less
sprightly, sitting in the shade while she watched
a sextette of pickanniny grandchildren digging in
the sand, so when Tom paused in his narrative
the veteran inquired “How's Loretta?”
“Say, Mistah,” replied Tom. “Dat gurl sut'
nly play me a low down, mean trick when I’s
away to de wah.
“She went an’ got married to de drum majah
of a cullud reg’men, an” now she is takin’ in wash-
in’ to feed her chiluns while de drum majah spen’
his time fishin’ an” playin’ craps an’ loafin' 'roun’
waitin’ for his penshun check.”
126


Major Mallory of Malloryville





Major Mallory of Malloryville
T was on a Santa Fe train, west of Kansas
City, that I met Maj. Ben Mallory, of Mal-
loryville, Michigan. The name is a fictitious
one but the man was genuine—the “real stuff.”
Nearly six feet tall, thick set, florid complexion,
ruddy cheeks, white hair, a military mustache and
chin whisker; a blunt, plain spoken man, who call-
ed a spade a spade; one who when he says it’s so,
'tis so.
When I entered the train at Topeka, I noticed
him on the opposite side of the car from where I
took a seat. He looked hard at the little brown
button in the lapel of my coat, and I looked at
the one he wore. At Kansas City a number of
people left the train, and the G. A. R. man said:
“Comrade, if you don’t mind, I’d like to have
you sit with me.”
I didn’t mind, and I found him intensely in-
teresting and entertaining. He said he was “all-
fired tired and lonesome,” having come through
from Los Angeles, where he had spent nearly
four years for his health.
129


A Drum's Story
I ventured the opinion that he had doubtless
received much benefit and enjoyment from his so-
journ in that beautiful land of flowers, fruit, per-
petual sunshine and summer. Much to my sur-
prise the major answered:
“I was never so sick of a country in all my
life. California, sir, is a big fake. ‘Tis all on
paper. There are some beauty spots, but they
have all been made. There is nothing there but
fruit, flowers and fleas, and by the Lord Harry!
sir, the fruit is not fit to eat. Nothing but mush.
All water soaked, and tasteless. Why I'm just
dying to get back home and stick my teeth into
a good old-fashioned Rhode Island greening, or
Northern spy, such as we raise along the lake
shore.
“Great Scott! they don’t know what a good
apple is in California.
“Yes, I said fleas. The women come out of the
houses every morning and shake the fleas out of
their bedding and clothing. It sort of reminded
me of soldiering, when we used to skirmish daily up
and down the seams of our shirt and trousers in
quest of those detested ‘graybacks’ that we could
not get rid of when in the field.
“Oh, California is all right for tourists with
plenty of money, but as a place to live, not any
for me. They are robbers, sir. Everybody is on
the ‘beat,” and they go to bed trying to think
how they can rope some newcomer into a scheme
130


And Other Tales
that will fleece him on the morrow. Every one
who serves you have their hands out for tips. Talk
about fast living, why they have got Chicago and
New York skunked.”
It occurred to the Major that he had not asked
to what command I had belonged, and when he
learned it was the 2nd New York his enthusiasm
knew no bounds.
“Great Scott, to think that you and I served
in the same corps under General Hancock! There
was a soldier for you what was a soldier! A lead-
er that all loved to follow. A born fighter and a
gentleman!
“So you were a drummer boy. Better stop off
at Malloryville for a day or two and see Jim Hub-
bard, my drummer boy. That is he used to be
although you would hardly believe it now, he has
grown to be such a great big man, and weighs
over 250 pounds. I like to think of Jim, though,
as he was in war times. Just a little kid 13 or 14
years old, and small at that, but he could out-
march all the big men of the company, and was
as full of ginger as a two year old colt, cutting
up all sorts of didos and boyish pranks, and, by
thunder, sir, he wasn’t afraid of anything.
“At the battle of Fredericksburg, when the
troops crossed the river under fire in pontoon
boats, Jim would not be left behind, although all
the musicians were ordered to stay on the north
side with the ‘coffee coolers.” But when we were
131


And Other Tales
was a soldier. Tall, straight, never a look to the
right or the left, but when he leads a division of
the old boys in a parade at a G. A. R. encampment
there is applause all along the line.
CLUNG TO THE BRIDLE.
“It makes me laugh whenever I think of a little
incident about Jim at Gettysburg. It was on
the third day, during the terrific cannonading pre-
ceding Pickett's charge. Jim was carrying a gun,
because his drum was ruined by a piece of shell
the day before in the fight over in the wheatfield.
“Our lieutenant-colonel had dismounted and
stood holding his horse nearly in front of my
company. The animal was badly frightened by
the noise of the shrieking shells, and whenever
one passed close by would rear and plunge so as
to be almost unmanageable. The officer was an-
noyed and, turning around, saw little Jim with a
musket taller than himself.
“‘Here, boy,” says the officer, “lead my horse
to the rear and hold him until this affair is over,
and mind that you keep a good hold of the bridle
so that he don’t get away from you.”
“‘All right, sir,’ says Jim, as he led the horse
away. - -
“About 15 minutes later Jimmie appeared along
the line with his musket in one hand, the bridle
in the other and his face, clothes and hands spat-
tered with blood. Going up to the officer, he sa-
luted and said:
133


A Drum's Story
“‘Here's your bridle, colonel.”
“‘But where is my horse,” inquired the officer.
And Jimmie replied:
“‘What’s left of him, sir, is back of that bat-
tery, there, over on the ridge.”
“Sure enough the horse had been struck in
the side by an exploding shell and literally torn
to pieces, while our drummer boy escaped without
a scratch.
TOM O’HARA.
“Yes, I forgot to tell you who Tom was. Well,
his full name was Thomas O’Hara, first sergeant
of my company. He was a great big, brave,
white, noble-hearted fellow, and distinguished
himself in the charge at Cold Harbor enough to
entitle him to a colonel’s commission.
“Tom and I were both wounded there, and that
night, when we lay on the deck watching the stars
as we steamed across Chesapeake Bay, and could
not sleep for our aching wounds, I told Tom that
I was going to recommend him for promotion,
and the first thing he said was: “For God’s sake,
captain, don’t do it. If I pull through with this
wound (He was shot through the body), all I
ask is to serve to the end as orderly sergeant of
old Company B. There is not such another lot
of men in the service. I love all the boys, and we
get along well together. Now they call me Tom,
but if I wore shoulder straps they wouldn’t dare
134


A Drum's Story
the cowboys used to come to town and proceed to
paint it red, and after they had filled up with beer
and whiskey, they would display their insolence
in various ways, such as riding at breakneck speed
through the streets, shooting their revolvers off
in the air, killing cats and dogs and frightening
people generally.
“The police force was not of the right sort to
deal with the situation. Now, Tom had made
something of a reputation in town, because on
numerous occasions when the railroad men had
gone on the war path, Tom would go around
town and drive them out to their camps. One day
Tom came to me and said: “The officials over at
B— want me to act as Chief of Police a year,
and I’ve about decided to accept their offer of
$200 a month.”
“For God’s sake don’t do it, Tom, I said. You
will die with your boots on in less than a month,
and I’ll have to go back to Michigan alone. But
Tom accepted in spite of my remonstrance, and
a new era dawned in B–, although Tom had
many a tussle and close shave during the first
three months of his marshalship, I believe they
called it.
“I might relate thrilling incidents all the way
to Chicago, connected with his year’s service. One
evening five cowbows came to town and proceeded
to have the time of their life. They started down
the main street kicking over boxes and barrels,
136


And Other Tales
pulling down blinds from the windows and rais-
ing the old Harry generally. Tom was soon on
their trail, and when he overtook them he intro-
duced himself by laying three of them out on the
ground. And they went down so that they stayed
there, while he grappled with the other two.
“Tom was a regular cyclone when he got his
Irish up, and he took the other two and bumped
their heads together and then piled them up with
the others; sat upon them while somebody ran
for a drayman, and the whole gang were carted
off to the lockup. Tom of course, had to use his
revolver on more than one occasion, but always
took good care not to shoot to kill, although he
wounded three or four in the legs or hands.
Strange to relate, he never was “scratched’ with a
bullet in any encounter he had, and all because he
was too quick for the other fellow.
A MISSOURI RANGER.
“About a month after the episode with the cow-
boys, Tom was strolling down the street, one af-
ternoon, when a boy from the Palace hotel came
running up to him and said that a gentleman
wanted to see him up at the hotel. Tom walked
down to the famous hostelry and found quite a
congregation on the veranda, as well as inside.
“As he entered the bar-room, he noticed a big
man with a soft slouch hat pushed over on the
back of his head, a cigar in the corner of his
137


A Drum's Story
terially in cleaning up the town and making it
a decent, law abiding place. When Tom had
served his year out, we decided to shake the red
clay dust of Missouri from our feet, and we re-
turned to good old Michigan with money enough
to start in life.”
BACK TO MALLORY WILLE.
The next day the Major left our train at Mal-
loryville. Before leaving the car, he bade us all
good bye and remarked:
“Tonight I’ll be in the old home, thank God,
and sleep in a bed that is not inhabited by fleas.
Tomorrow evening, I’ll go down to Tom O'Hara's
store and as we eat a few Greenings and North-
ern Spys, we will talk about the days long gone.
“In a few years the bugle will sound for the
last roll call, and then my son will see that I’m
laid alongside of his mother—the noblest woman
and truest, tenderest wife that ever lived. Then,
“taps p 53
140


Strange Case of Geo. Murdstone





Strange Case of Geo. Murdstone
T was a fine April day not many years ago that
I I was a passenger on a New York Central train
that was speeding along the beautiful and
historic Mohawk valley. I was particularly for-
tunate in having as my companion a reverend gen-
tleman who tells a story as entertainingly as he
preaches eloquently, and as I am not going to
mention his name will add that he exemplifies in
his daily life the truths he so forcefully presents
to his hearers on the Sabbath.
He enjoys a good cigar, too, which adds so
much to the sociability of a traveling companion
and so far as I see does no harm. On this par-
ticular afternoon we enjoyed our cigars while the
clergyman entertained with stories both grave and
gay.
After we had lighted our second “Pink of Per-
fection,” he told the story of George Murdstone, a
volunteer soldier in the War of the Rebellion.
The reverend gentleman has made several trips
to foreign countries, and on the occasion of one
many years ago, he spent several weeks in Lon-
143


A Drum’s Story
don, putting up at the Royal Crescent Inn. Pos-
sibly I haven’t gotten the name of the hostelry
just right, but I am sure it was a “Royal” some-
thing.
One day as he was leaving his room he was met
by the housekeper who said that as he was from
the United States she desired to tell him a little
of her life with a view of asking him to help if
he could to solve a mystery connected with it.
HER STORY.
“My name is Mary Murdstone. I formerly lived
in the United States near Detroit.
“When 17 years old I married a man by the
name of George Murdstone. He was two or three
years older than I and a handsomer young fellow
was never seen. In less than a year the Civil
War broke out and my George volunteered.
“It almost broke my heart to have him leave
me, but I can tell you that I was proud of him
when I saw him marching away with his company,
the most soldierly looking one in the ranks.
“His letters came regularly and I fairly lived
on them.
“After Fair Oaks he was promoted to corporal,
and he wrote me that he meant to come home
wearing shoulder straps.
“I have forgotten the names of many of the
great battles he participated in. I recall Bull
144


A Drum's Story
The clergyman said that he had been most
favorably impressed with the woman as well as
deeply touched by her pathetic story, and he as-
sured her that he would do all in his power to
learn if the army records could throw any light on
the missing soldier.
FOUND IN LONDON.
Two or three days after listening to the story
of Mrs. Murdstone the clergyman was visiting one
of the famous art galleries of London and while
strolling around he came upon a group standing
before a painting representing the battle of Get-
tysburg. In the party were an elderly gentleman
and his daughter. Their interest in the battle
scene was intensified from the fact that a son of
the man and a brother of the young lady, had
given his life for his country in that famous bat-
tle. -
The young lady said to her father “Oh, how
terrible, father, to think of our Harry dying amid
such scenes of carnage and suffering and not a
loved one near.” -
The father was too deeply affected to make re-
ply, and the bystanders looked on in sympathetic
silence.
Finally a man who had stood a little apart
from the party, but who had been looking at the
painting and had overheard the conversation,
turned to the father and daughter and said: “I
146


A Drum's Story
“My regiment, the 26th Michigan, was in line
just to the left of that clump of trees which was
the objective point of Pickett’s charge.
“We repelled three charges in 24 hours, and
not a foot of our line was lost. There we stood,
fought and beat back the foe, and I am proud I
was there, and well you may be sir, that you gave
a son on the battlefield where liberty and the
equality of man was established.”
The clergyman had noted that the speaker
named the same regiment as Mrs. Murdstone had
said her husband had been a member of, so when
he had finished his description of the battle he
touched him on the arm and asked him for a few
moments’ conversation. He then told him that
he was interested in a former member of the reg-
iment mentioned, and finally asked him if he know
a soldier by the name of George Murdstone.
He replied that he had known him well.
They had “marched side by side, had touched
elbows on many a battlefield:” indeed he had been
his most intimate comrade, “but poor fellow he
received his death wound at Gettysburg.”
The clergyman then told him about his meeting
Mrs. Murdstone and asked the man if he would
not go and tell her of her husband’s death. The
man assented and a meeting was arranged for the
following day.
Promptly at the appointed time the man ap-
peared and the two went to meet Mrs. Murd-
148


And Other Tales
stone, who had been apprised of a call from one
who could clear up the mystery concerning her
missing husband.
When the veteran was presented to her she
turned deathly white, gasped, and then advanced
towards him pillowing her head on his breast and
sobbed: “George Murdstone, my long lost hus-
band.”
GEORGE MURDSTONE'S STORY.
That evening Murdstone related to the clergy-
man the story of his life after Gettysburg, and in
doing so expressed the opinion that it would prob-
ably have been better if he had been killed by the
shell that shocked him so that he was left on the
battlefield for dead. Brain fever followed, and
after his recovery he had been subject to fits of
irrational conduct and was the victim of strange
hallucinations, when for months he could hardly
distinguish right from wrong.
He had been possessed with a mania for travel
and had visited all quarters of the globe.
Little by little he had been dropping down
through various degrees of respectability until
he was an associate of disreputable persons of
both sexes, and had long since given up trying to
earn an honest shilling.
He said that he knew that he should not have
gone to call on his wife, but he had wanted to see
her once more, and had trusted that he had be-
149


A Drum's Story
come so changed that she would not recognize
him.
Our cigars had gone out during the recital of
the story and as we relighted them the doctor
of divinity said: “It would doubtless have been
much better for Mrs. Murdstone if I had not found
her worthless husband.”
P. S.—If anybody should be curious enough to
look over the muster rolls of the 26th Michigan,
they would not find the name of George Murd-
stone. It is a fictitious one. I have also availed
myself of a privilege accorded writers and have
assigned the character to a different regiment
than that to which he belonged. The story is,
however, a true one.
I50


Gypsy, My Red Roan


A Drum's Story
the muzzles of blazing cannon, for he is at his
best when the bands are playing, the red fire burn-
ing, the rockets bursting and the cannon boom-
Ing.
He has probably been in more G. A. R. parades
than any horse in the country. In fact he has had
an active part in all the big parades that have
taken place in our city the past twenty years, and
two years in succession he took first prize for the
best saddle horse at the Jefferson County Fair.
Gypsy is not a trick horse by any means. He
just knows things because it was born in him to
know them.
Perhaps it is pure imagination, but when rid-
ing him out on a country road I have often
thought he could interpret my very thoughts and
desires, so far as they concerned him. Indeed, I
am not sure but that the bridle reins are a trans-
mitter of thought between horse and rider.
Did you ever get up at 5 in the morning, when
nature is at its best, and take a canter of several
miles out in the country, mounted on a horse who
enjoyed the run as well as rider?
If you have never felt the intoxicating, deliri-
ous glow that comes to a rider at such times,
take my word that you have missed something
out of the ordinary.
Bicycles and automobiles—bah! Bring me my
horse, my red roan, saddled and bridled. Some-
thing alive, something that can think, and we’ll
154


And Other Tales
away from the noise and strife of the busy town,
and as I sit astride my favorite steed, I’ll hear the
birds sing, and view the skies, the wooded hills,
the fields, the tiny streams that wind through the
meadows, and be at peace with God and man. Ah,
how true it is that our greatest pleasures are not
purchased with money.
The great satisfaction about riding Gypsy is
that he enjoys it as much as his rider. Nothing
suits him so well as a five mile run on a crisp
October morning. He needs no whip or spur to
make him take the bit.
GLORIOUS RIDES.
For several years when serving Brookside Cem-
etery as its president, I used to in the summer
time, on an average of two or three mornings a
week, take a ride out to that beautiful resting
place of our dead, consult with Patrick Donahue,
one of the best-hearted fellows, and most competent
and obliging of superintendents, and be back home
before half of the population of the town were out
of their beds. -
Glorious rides those! And most pleasant mem-
ories connected therewith.
My red roan knew where all the tender grasses
and sweetest patches of clover grew by the way-
side, and he had a cunning way of jerking the
bridle reins to ask my permission to stop and
taste them while sprinkled with the morning dew.
155


* A Drum's Story
He loved to wade in the brook where it crosses
the roadway near the entrance to Brookside and
then he and my noble dog, “Wic,” who always
accompanied us, would race for dear life to the
top of the hill overlooking the city.
“Wic” was a swift runner a few years ago, but
Gypsy was too fleet of foot for him and would
always leave him behind on the home stretch.
Gypsy and Wic are almost inseparable and man-
ifest their affection by kissing each others’ noses.
We have a large tiger cat named “Trif” that is
fond of riding Gypsy around the yard, and at
the sound of the roan’s hoof-beats will run down
the lane to meet him.
Occasionally somebody observes that Gypsy
must be getting along in years. True, the mu-
merals are piling up against him, but it matters
not. He feels young; therefore, is young, and
when under saddle he shows the same mettle and
action as he did 20 years ago, when first I mount-
ed him. -
Yes, 20 years he has served us and as he was
four or five years old when I purchased him, you
can figure his present age pretty closely.
Few horses serve one family 20 years, and few,
indeed, render such faithful, splendid service, or
give so much pleasure to a family as Gypsy has.
He drives hitched to a carriage as nicely as he
acts with saddle and bridle.
The children that used to ride, drive and pet
156


A Drum's Story
when the bass were running on the shoals, I hap-
pened to look up and saw a horse that looked very
much like the red roan, running like mad down
the road toward Sackets Harbor. It was evident
Gypsy had escaped and was going home and leave
us to walk. But there was no use of our trying to
catch him, so we lighted another cigar, attended
to our fishing and now and then landed a black
bass.
Imagine our surprise when we went ashore that
night, to find the roan all secure in the stable.
It was true that he had escaped and had his fun
and frolic, even going almost up to the village.
Several tried to catch him, but his heels would go
up in the air when they came near and away he
would run. When they let him alone he ate grass
by the roadside until satisfied, and then meekly
trotted back down to the little stable on the point,
was secured and as he heard my footsteps coming
up from the landing, he gave me the usual wel-
coming whinny, and to this day I have been puz-
zled in my mind to know if he really understood
that it was his duty to come back and wait for
his master. Who can answer?
In years past we have had many offers to part
with him. I remember one day, about ten years
ago, a gentleman came into my place of business
and gave me his card—General So-an-So, from
a city in our state. He said, “I saw you riding
a roan horse through the Square last evening
158


And Other Tales
and I want to purchase him for my son. I have
been told that you are attached to him and will
not part with him for what he is worth, but never
mind his value, tell me what consideration will
tempt you to sell him.”
And the answer was: “He is one of the family
and so long as the family can provide for him,
and his life is spared, he will eat hay and oats
at 20 Winslow street.”
Gypsy is just a horse, but—
159


Fighting Their Old Battles O'er





Fighting Their Old Battles O'er
years ago, the writer drove several miles
along a sparsely settled road, intending
to catch a train at the station of a little town
less than a hundred miles from Watertown. The
warmth of the day, the scent of clover and flower-
ing shrubs, the song of birds that filled the air,
the enchantment of nature unadorned on every
hand so bewitched the driver that the horse was
allowed to grow lazy, while the driver mused and
the train connection was missed.
Now there are many worse things that can hap-
pen to one than to be stranded at a good
old-fashioned, well-kept country tavern where
the landlord personally looks after his guests’
comfort and entertainment. Everything around
an old tavern is so democratic that it takes one
back to other days when the pace was not as swift
and one decent, respectable man was quite as good
as another if he did not have as much wealth.
The supper table at the country tavern was
loaded with things good to eat and one was not
O. a pleasant June afternoon not many
163


A Drum's Story
bothered with a bill of fare printed in the Italian
language. Let’s see, there was picked-up codfish
with real cream, baked potatoes, cold roast beef,
hot biscuit such as mother used to make, butter
colored with June grass, maple syrup, strawberry
short cake, cookies with caraway seeds, two kinds
of cake, with a choice of tea, coffee and milk.
Opposite the writer was a gentleman minus one
arm. He looked across the table, smiled and said,
“Comrade, it makes me regret the loss of an arm
when I sit down to an abundance of good things
to eat such as we have here.”
“What regiment?” he inquired.
“Oh, the Second New York.”
“Why, then we were neighbors in Hancock’s
old Second Corps. My regiment was the Sev-
enth New York, Third Brigade, First Division.”
Continuing he said: “I am a Boston man, but
was reared in good old York State. Part of the
Company I had the honor to command came from
up in this section. Having business near here I
have stopped off to look up some of my boys.
The landlord has sent out about a mile to bring in
my old first sergeant, who lost a leg at Gettysburg.”
He arrived when we were smoking on the broad
veranda in front of the tavern. His left leg was
off close up to the body and he came up the steps
with difficulty using both crutch and cane.
“Hello sergeant!” was the greeting of his old
commander.
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A Drum's Story
“Dead, too,” replied the sergeant.
“We all remember little Billy Wilson, full of
his capers in camp, but one of the jolliest and
bravest soldiers at the front. I have particular
reason to remember him, for to him more than
any other I owe my life. He would not leave
me when I lay desperately wounded on the field
at Ream's Station and our troops had to abandon
their position. He with the aid of another car-
ried me back to the surgeons, who gave me prompt
attention and saved my life. I have often thought
of him and wondered if he was still living.”
“He is out there in the cemetery with the rest
of the boys,” said the sergeant.
“Then there was Ben Hudson, the drollest of
mortals. Always insisted on tenting alone. Never
laughed at a joke, whistled or sang a song. Good
soldier, though, and under his stern exterior must
have had a tender heart. Always had water
in his canteen for the sick and the wounded ones.
And don’t you remember how he was always carry-
ing little Will Whitney’s traps on the march? Ben
always had money too, and the boys could always
get a loan of a dollar if Ben thought they were square.
“Poor old Ben got the wound that settled him
the same afternoon that you were hit. When the
boys found him that night he had just life enough
to ask if the Rebs were whipped, and when some-
one replied ‘Yes,’ he murmured, ‘I’m satisfied,’
and those were his last words.”
166


And Other Tales
And so the roll was gone over by the captain
and his old sergeant and of the 25 or 30 young
men from that village and vicinity who had served
under the captain, nearly all had answered the
last roll call. The bystanders had ceased their
talking and were listening with respectful and
sympathetic interest to the two veterans.
Then a big, sturdy log driver, who knew some-
thing of hardship, comradeship and danger, said:
“Say, I want to treat you old vets. I do. All
hands come up and take suthin’.”
The veterans didn’t drink, and took cigars,
and out of respect to them all the others followed
their example, and then settled back in their
chairs while the men who knew what real war was
resumed their talk about forced marches in Wir-
ginia mud, picket duty and the skirmish line;
forts, redoubts, cannon, muskets, swords, the
charge, the repulse, hard tack, bugle and drum
calls, rifle pits and other warlike things.
The whistle of the evening train called the
writer and so he left them fighting their old bat-
tles o’er.
167


Six Soldiers with Seven Legs Off
by a visit from Gen. Tanner, the comman-
der-in-Chief of the Grand Army of the Re-
public and ex-commissioner of pensions. He ad-
dressed a large audience in the opera house in the
afternoon, and “told stories” for over two hours
at the same place in the evening. Those who heard
the famous corporal will recall how his eloquence
thrilled his hearers, moving them from tears to
smiles and from smiles to tears.
At the close of the evening meeting he asked
some of the “old boys” to accompany him to his
hotel “for,” said the general, “I cannot sleep
until along towards morning, because of my ach-
ing feet (He had lost them both at Bull Run),
and you fellows have got to go and sit up with
me, and while we smoke a few cigars we’ll tell a
story or two.”
Comrade Tanner told one story that I shall
never forget, and I wish I might tell it to the
reader as he told it to us that night. It was a
wonderful story of a comrade's love and revealed
S EVERAL years ago our city was honored
171


A Drum's Story
the great big, warm heart of “Corporal Jim
Tanner,” who has done so much for his old com-
rades.
Corporal Tanner was a member of a famous
New York regiment, the 40th New York Infantry,
known throughout the army as the “Mozarts.”
Col. Tom Eagan was their commander, and the
“Mozarts” under the leadership of their gallant
colonel achieved an enviable reputation as fight-
ers and the history of the regiment is resplendent
with deeds of valor and devotion to the cause.
The “Mozarts” served in Gen. Phil Kearney’s Di-
vision, and were with him when he was killed at
Chantilly, which was the closing scene in that
disastrous affair—the second battle of Bull Run,
where Pope’s forces were defeated in a several
days’ contest and had to retire to the defences of
Washington.
Corporal Tanner was wounded at the second
Bull Run, while his regiment was supporting a
battery of light artillery. He told how they lay
there for a long time watching the shells in the
air, and speculating on the probability of being
hit by one. When the Johnnies got the range
many did get hit, and after a time it came Tan-
ner’s turn. He said that he had just thrown
one foot over the other to ease his position and
had always regretted the act, for immediately after
a shell exploded right over the line where he was
lying, and he knew that something had happened
172


And Other Tales
to him, but did not realize to what extent until
one of his comrades exclaimed:
“For God’s sake! look, boys, Jim Tanner has
had both feet torn off!”
Then they unrolled a blanket and placed him
upon it and, as they lifted him up to carry him
back to the surgeons, one of the boys said “hold
a minute!” He had noticed one of Tanner’s feet
dangling over the edge of the blanket, held only
by a few shreds of skin. The comrade placed the
foot on the blanket, wiped the blood from his
hands on its edge and remarked: “Poor Jim's
marching days are over.”
The corporal said that more than 30 years af-
terwards a man walked into his office in Wash-
ington and said “My name is Curtis. I’m the
man that lifted your foot on the blanket at Bull
Run, and I want your help in a little matter. I
am postmaster of my town out west and want to
serve another term so as to pay off the mort-
gage on my home, but another man—not an old
soldier—has got his eye on the job, and I’m afraid
he’ll get it unless I can get you to help me. Will
you?”
Corporal Tanner said that the man who soiled
his hands in his blood held the postoffice another
term. -
HORRORS OF WAR.
Who can picture the horrors of a battlefield
173


A Drum's Story
after the tempest is o’er. What pen can tell half
the sufferings of the battle-smoked, thirsty, hun-
gry, wounded men, lying helpless on the ground,
begging for water, for surgeons and praying
that they may live to see loved ones again. Who
can tell of the anguish of those who, their last
fight ended, closed their eyes and sank to rest
before help could reach them. The half can never
be told, and it is too painful in its remembrances
to dwell upon at any length. Comrade Tanner
related to us his experiences the day after his
wound. How that six of them with seven legs off
lay there under the shelter of a tent fly; of the aw-
ful thirst and craving for something tart that
comes from the fevered condition of the wounded.
Near their tent was an old apple tree. Gladly
would they have signed away a month’s pay for
one of the apples lying on the ground beneath
the tree. Finally a comrade lying outside the tent,
who had a wound in the side, said:
“Boys, I will try and crawl out under that tree
and get some of those apples for you.”
He crawled out there, a few inches at a time,
for the wounded side must be kept up, and filled
his pockets and his shirt front with the apples;
then returned to his comrades, and passed the lit-
tle worm-eaten fruit in to those more helpless
than he.
“Never did anything taste so good,” said Tan-
ner. “But,” he continued, “that noble fellow died
174


And Other Tales
came forward and greeted me with genuine South-
ern cordiality, for he is a most agreeable and
polished gentleman. What could he do for me?
When I pointed to those waiting and said that I
would take my turn he courteously said:
“‘You are first on my waiting list.”
“He led the way to his private office, rolled
around two easy chairs and motioned me to one.
But I thanked him and said that what I wanted
to tell him could best be said standing. I want to
talk to you as plain Corporal Tanner today, and
prefer to stand before you as man to man, where
I can look you in the eye.
“I apologized for taking his valuable time to
listen to reminiscences, but said that I was going
to ask him to hear me while I related a war story.
“‘My time is at your service, corporal, and I
shall be pleased to hear your story,” he replied.
“It was probably when you were a little boy, I
said, that a great battle, lasting three or four
days, was fought so near this city that the boom-
ing of the artillery and even the roar of mus-
ketry was heard at the capitol. I related the
story of the battle as I remembered it—and God
knows I will never forget, for the incidents are
graven on my memory with an iron pen, dipped
in human blood. +
“I told him of my wound, of the six of us with
seven legs off lying on the ground the next day;
of our agonizing thirst, of the man probably
179


A Drum's Story
sacrificing his life to crawl out and get a few
worm-eaten apples for us, of my finding one of
my companions in after years and appointing
him to a position in the pension office, and sir,
that man is sitting at this time in my office,
crushed and broken-hearted, and unless somebody
takes up the fight for him—for he is too modest
to speak for himself—will go back to his little
home in Massachusetts, give up the fight and per-
haps end his days in a poor house, all because
you have turned him out of the department. I
wiped the perspiration from my forehead and wait-
ed for him to reply, and what he said did him
credit.
“His eyes were moist with tears as he said:
“‘I have no apology to make for being born
south of the Mason and Dixon line, and it is more
than probable that had I been old enough to bear
arms I should have been with Lee and Stonewall
Jackson at Bull Run, and on other great battle-
fields of the sixties.
““Those were stirring days, and I place on the
highest pedestal of my esteem the men who stood
up manfully and battled for what they believed
was right. This applies to the men who wore the
blue as well as those who wore the gray, and when
there passes in the street a body of Grand Army
men I always stand uncovered.
“‘God knows that I would not intentionally
do one of them an injustice, and I can only say
180


And Other Tales
that in this matter there is some unintentional mis-
take.”
“As he paused, I pulled from my pocket the
dismissal of my old comrade and, holding it be-
fore him said, ‘you signed it?”
“‘Yes,’ he replied, “but I signed it just as you
doubtless signed many papers when commissioner,
scarcely knowing their contents, but accepting
the assurance of your subordinates that they were
all right.”
“He then picked up a card bearing his name
and making a memorandum on the back of it,
said: ‘Take this back to your comrade and tell
him to present it at the department tomorrow
and I will attend to his reinstatement.”
“I thanked him, and then made my way back
to my office as fast as two wooden legs would
carry me. My comrade was sitting by the table
with his face buried on his arms the picture of
despair.
“‘Dry your tears, old fellow,” I said, ‘brace up
and be a man again. Hoke Smith wants you to
hang your hat up in the pension office in the
morning, and go to drawing pay again—And
say, ‘Smithy,’ mind that you keep a good watch
on that door and see that it doesn’t fall off its
hinges.’”
I81


The Grand Review





The Grand Review
66 HAT did they do with all the sol-
W W diers, grandpa, when the big war
was over?”
“It was indeed a problem little ones, how to dis-
solve an army of over a million soldiers, and send
them back into the paths of peace and quiet cit-
izenship. But the end came at last. Four years
of war were over. The last long march had been
taken. No more lying behind the hastily thrown
up breastworks, listening to the booming cannon,
screaming shells and waiting for the command
“forward!” No more rumbling of the artillery
along the roads. No clanking of sabres as the
cavalry dashed by. No bugle calls. No noise of
fife and drum. All was stilled. A stillness that
might almost startle one after all the awful din
of war for four years. But the end had come and
the President and his cabinet, the senators and
representatives of the people at Washington
wanted to look on the mighty hosts that had saved
their country from dissolution.
“So the great armies of Grant, Sheridan and
185


And Other Tales
regiment to see the boys and several of them said:
‘Your place is in the ranks with us tomorrow.
Come over in the morning with your drum and
march with the old boys who love you.”
“That settled it, and I marched that day with
those whom I had tramped with on so many long
and weary marches.
“They massed all the drummer boys of our di-
vision at the head of the line, making a drum
corps of about a hundred, and when we rattled
off “Yankee Doodle,” “The Girl I Left Behind Me”
and ‘When Johnnie Comes Marching Home,” we
just lifted the old ‘Wets’ right off their feet.
“Talk about marching, those old boys of the
sixties knew how to do it. They had the easy
swing that had been acquired by years of practice
on the long marches through the South.
“The morning of the review dawned bright and
beautiful. The air was redolent with the perfume
of"May flowers. The birds seemed to understand
that something of great importance was at hand,
and each little warbler tried to out do the other.
The world seemed full of song and joy. The
shadow of the battles was lifted. The brave dead
who had given their lives in the conflict were glori-
fied and not forgotten in the day of rejoicing.
NO DRESS PARADE AFFAIR.
“The boys had tried to fix up for the grand
march and review. But poor fellows, they had a
187


And Other Tales
pomattox, and Sherman’s Army came from the
Carolinas.
FOOTSORE BUT LIGHT HEARTED.
“They were footsore, ragged and dusty as I
have stated, but they were light hearted. They
had been victorious in a great war for the right
and were bringing the stars and stripes back
without dishonor.
“We crossed over the famous Long Bridge
early the morning of the review. To the Army
of the Potomac was accorded the honor of ap-
pearing the first day. The line was formed east
of the Capitol.
“Thousands and thousands of people had been
pouring into Washington for many days to be
present at the review.
“The buildings were almost covered with bunt-
ing and flags. Children were massed on all sides
of the Capitol waving tiny flags and shouting
glad songs of triumph as the soldiers marched
along. Many hundred brass bands and drum
corps all added their joyous melody to the shouts
and cheers of the multitudes who not only packed
the streets but covered every building and house
top where it was possible for a person to main-
tain a position.
“On the Avenue where the troops marched,
mounted cavalrymen with drawn sabres had hard
work to keep a passageway open for the victori-
ous hosts.
189


A Drum's Story
“On, on, they marched, all day long. Regiment
after regiment of infantry, many of them, how-
ever, but mere skeletons of what they had been
in point of numbers when they had been in Wash-
ington before.
“All the famous generals rode at the head of
their commands.
“The cannon that had thundered at Bull Run
and Gettysburg. The cannon that had support-
ed the boys in blue at Malvern Hill, Spottsyl-
vania and Cold Harbor. Cannon that had bat-
tered down the earthworks of the enemy at Pet-
ersburg were there that day.
“Then there was the clatter of thousands of
iron shod war horses and the clanking of sab-
res as regiments and squadrons of cavalry rode
bv.
y ROUGH RIDERS, TOO.
“Rough riders and rough fighters, were those
old boys of the sixties, who had followed Sheri-
dan, Kilpatrick, Merritt and Crook, and riding
with them was the dashing Custer with his flam-
ing red neck-tie. He rode a fiery war horse too,
that became unmanageable with the hurrahing
and excitement of the occasion and he ran away
with the handsome warrior. Down the Avenue
he went like mad for quite half a mile, past the
reviewing stand, Custer’s long hair streaming
out over his shoulders, but finally he subdued his
charger and rode back to the stand, faced
190


And Other Tales
his horse to the President and other dignitaries,
gracefully saluted and then galloped down the
line while cheers rent the air.
STILL OLD GLORY.
“The shot-riddled battleflags in the lines evok-
ed cheers from the multitudes that fairly drowned
the music of bands at times.
“The once beautiful, silken banners were now
tattered and torn by bullets and shell. Blood-
stained, smoke-begrimmed, many of them scarcely
more than pieces of narrow ribbon, the colors
dim, but they were Old Glory still; and as these old
flags, proudly born aloft by the brave color bear-
ers who had carried them amidst shot and shell,
passed along, ladies and little girls rushed into
the street, strewed the roadway with flowers and
placed wreaths over the heads of the color bear-
ers.”
“Didn’t the drummer boys get any flowers,
grandpa?”
“Ah, yes. All had flowers strewn in their path-
way, and many received wreaths and bouquets;
but the great heroes with the multitudes were the
men that had brought back the old tattered bat-
tle flags.
“At the United States Treasury building, a
thousand or more children were singing songs of
gladness, and suspended across the street was a
great banner on which was painted, “The Only
191


A Drum's Story
Debt We Can Never Pay Is The One We Owe
Our Brave Soldiers and Sailors.”
“The reviewing stand was near the White
House and was occupied by the President and
Cabinet, Senators, Members of Congress, many of
the great War Governors and other distinguished
people.”
LINCOLN ABSENT.
“Grandpa, was Lincoln and his little boy there?”
“Ah, no, my dear children. Lincoln was not
there. Not many weeks before a very bad man
shot President Lincoln while he was at a theatre
with his wife and friends beside him; and he fell
a martyr to the cause of Liberty and Union, the
same as the thousands of brave boys who died
on the battlefields.
“Oh, he was a grand man, and it seemed as
though God had been preparing Lincoln all the
years before for just this crisis. But the bullet
of the assassin caused his death just as the vic-
tory was won.
“It was Lincoln that wrote the Emancipation
Proclamation that gave freedom to 4,000,000 hu-
man beings that were held in bondage; and the
hearts of the boys in blue, while full of joy that
the war was over, were sadly bowed with grief as
they thought of Lincoln, the man that was al-
ways the soldiers’ friend.
“We marched past the reviewing stand, down
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A Drum's Story
200,000 warriors; the faded and well worn uni-
forms; the tattered flags; the artillery; the cav-
alry, the officers who had led their men right up
to flaming guns. Oh, it was glorious, and the long
years have scarcely dimmed the impressions that
the scene made on me.
“One hundred thousand brave men marched
the second day, but no attempt had been made
by them to slick up for the occasion. General
Sherman desired that the people who had never
seen an army on the march should see one just
as it really and truly was ; and the hosts that
had gathered at Washington to witness the re-
view saw Sherman and his army march down
Pennsylvania Avenue just as they looked while
‘Marching Through Georgia.”
“Many contrabands had attached themselves
to Sherman’s Army and they were in the parade
too. Both men and women. Slaves of wealthy
Southerners, and when they left the old planta-
tions they had appropriated many things that had
belonged to old ‘Marse’ and ‘Missis”.
“It was a funny sight to see women as black as
coal dressed in a white or some light colored dress
that may have been too short and exposing their
stockingless ankles, and their big, flat feet en-
cased in coarse, well-worn brogans that some sol-
dier had thrown away.
“Many of them wore gorgeous flower-trimmed
hats and carried dainty little sun shades. Ole
194


And Other Tales
Marse's young Missis had carried them, and they
just borrowed some of their finery to dress up
with when they should reach the ‘Happy Land
O’ Freedom.”
“Little, half naked pickaninnies ran along by
the side of their finely arrayed mamas. There
were great, buxom negroes riding astride an ox
or cow that was often hitched with rope to a
two-wheeled cart such as are often seen in the
South to-day.
“There were many white-haired and bowed-
down negro men and women, just hobbling along,
but they were happy. “Yes, honey, we’s got our
freedom an' we's so happy.”
THE MEN WHO FOUGHT IN THE CLOUDS.
“The dear old stars and stripes, carried by
Sherman’s men were tattered and torn as on the
preceding day, and shouts and cheers never ceased
as the men marched by who had stormed Mission-
ary Ridge, had held the fort at Altoona Pass,
who had fought with Joe Hooker in the clouds
at Lookout Mountain, had won victory after vic-
tory and marched to the Sea.
“Oh, what a two days! It was worth going
through a great war to have been there—indeed,
I am not sure but that it was worth a year or
two of one’s life to have been recorded one of that
victorious host that marched in the grandest re-
view that ever took place on American soil.
195


Whistling Pete





Whistling Pete"
66 AY, grandpa, tell us about Whistling
S Pete, the drummer boy from the Bow-
ery.”
“It seems, children, that Pete is a favorite of
yours, for you never ask for a war story without
a request for something about him.
“Pete came to our regiment with a New York
City company as their drummer boy. He had
been a news boy on the Bowery. No father, no
mother, just a little forsaken fellow, selling pa-
pers to get something to eat, and his lodging
places were boxes and the carts that the draymen
leave out in the streets nights.
“Probably Pete had never been in a church or
Sunday School room, for the Bowery Missions
were not as plentiful in those days; and then as
Pete said: ‘Sunday was my best paper day.”
“There was nothing very bad about Pete, how-
* . Perhaps a word of apology is due to the readers of “Drum Taps in
Dixie,” for the reappearance of Pete Boyle. But a story about the drum corps
of the 2d New York without the Bowery drummer boy would be like the play of
Hamlet with Hamlet left out. Possibly some will like to read about him again
just as my grandchildren like to hear their favorite stories over and over. If
not they can skip “Whistling Pete.”—The Author
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A Drum's Story
ly they used to wait for the ‘Ledger' with its be-
witching stories.
“Mrs. Southworth’s home was just across the
Potomac from our fort, on Georgetown heights.
I had carried many love letters to her daughter
from our adjutant, and the Southworth ladies
had witnessed the dress parades of the 2nd Heavy
a score or more of times so knew all about the
music and the appearance of their smart Drum
Corps, and through their telling about them to
some friends out in the country we were excused
from camp duties and allowed to go to an old
fashioned Country Fair over in Maryland where
they grow the most luscious peaches, sweet pota-
toes, squash and pumpkins; have the finest sad-
dle horses and prettiest girls of any place I was
ever in.
“Well, now, maybe we didn’t enjoy the three
days’ respite from camp life, and then maybe we
did. Yes, come to think about it I am sure that
it was one of the brightest spots in our four years'
war experience.
“The Maryland home where we were quartered,
was nearly surrounded by a peach orchard. The
fruit was just in its prime and the first morning
there, we went out among the trees before break-
fast, and ate the sweet, luscious fruit until we had
to let out our waist-belts two or three notches.
“Yes, they had pink lemonade in those days
too, and everything was free to us lads. It
202


A Drum's Story
“That afternoon our Pete made a hero of him—
self by riding a winning horse in one of the run-
ning races. He had been a helper on the tracks
at Sheepshead Bay, down on Long Island, one or
two seasons and could ride a horse as well as most
of the jockeys.
“Pete's racing instincts were strong and he had
made friends with the horsemen, and when a beau-
tiful chestnut mare had thrown and injured her
rider in a practice run in the morning, Pete had
offered to take his place and that afternoon he
rode the chestnut to victory which increased his
popularity.
THE GREEN EYED MONSTER APPEARS.
“The next morning while we were out in the
orchard stowing away more of those luscious
peaches, a darky approached our party and asked
for “Mistah Boyle,' handing Pete a note which he
read to us. -
“It was worded about like this:
“‘Mr. Peter Boyle, The young lady that you
are so attentive to is a ‘Secesh” sympathizer, and
has a brother with Moseby, the rebel guerilla. As
you are a Union soldier, I thought that you ought
to know. A word to the wise is sufficient.”
“Pete gave the darky a quarter and said, “You
go tell the man that wrote this note that Pete
Boyle said that if he was half a man he would be
with the girl's brother. Tell him I think he is a
204


And Other Tales
sneak and a coward, and if he will come over in
the orchard this afternoon, I will slap his face.”
“The darky looked at us for a full minute and
said: “Fo’ de Lo'd sakes, boss, I reckon I bet-
tah not tole dat to Marse Joe, he got a powerful
tempah and he de boss of all de young fellahs
'roun here.”
“‘All right, Sambo,” says Pete. “You tell
him just what I say.”
“The darky grinned and went away.
“That afternoon Pete was more devoted to the
girl than ever, they made themselves conspicuous
everywhere and I guess that she was a high strung
beauty that Marse Joe couldn’t boss.
“The darky brought Pete another note during
the afternoon. It read, ‘I will meet you in the
peach orchard at 5 o'clock.”
“Of course we all went over with our Pete, and
the Marylander brought three of his friends along.
“They stripped to the waist in true pugilistic
style, and I confess that I was anxious about Pete
when I saw what a great, big, athletic fellow the
Marylander was physically, and half wished I
was back at the camp and did not have to witness
the encounter.
“Marse Joe looked fierce and our Pete all a
smiling. When they got the word the Marylan-
der made a spring at Pete who ducked his head
and butted his big antagonist in his stomach and
he slid over Pete's back. Then he got up and
205


A Drum's Story
came furiously at the Bowery boy again, but Pete
knew a lot of tricks that he had learned on the
Bowery, and quick as a flash stepped aside,
caught Marse Joe by the neck, whirled him around,
tripped and threw him sprawling, sat on him
slapped his face and then let him up.
“The fellow rushed at the Bowery boy again
and the two sparred around for a few moments.
Pete occasionally running in under the fellow’s
arms and giving him a tap. Finally Pete thought
he had fooled with him long enough and landed a
good, hard blow on the fellow’s nose and mouth
which staggered him and made the blood fly.
“The spectators on both sides now thought the
affair had gone far enough and a stop was called.
“Pete offered to shake hands with his antag-
onist, but he sullenly declined and went away
muttering threats. -
“As he disappeared the darky who, unknown
to us all, had been a witness to the affair from be-
hind a board fence, looked over the top and said:
“By gum, Marse Yank, when Massa Lincum an’
de blu’ sojers makes us free, 'Ise gwine to slap
Marse Joe jes as you did, to pay him fo’ de lick-
ings he done lay on me so many times. Den I
reckon dar will be two boys he can’t boss.”
“That evening when we started for our Virginia
camp in a large carry-all, a party of young peo-
ple accompanied us for a long distance on horse-
back.
206





Governor Morgan's Pets





Governor Morgan's Pets
FTER the first battle of Bull Run the
A war feeling was more intense than at any
other time during the war. It was then
that the best men of the country became aroused
and offered their services to help redeem the dis-
grace that all felt had come to the North by the
repulse of its troops on the first great battlefield
of the war.
Among the multitudes of regiments, battalions
and batteries that were hurriedly organized was
one around which my memories and affections are
centered, The Second New York Heavy Artillery.
The nucleus of the organization had been known
as Letson’s Light Artillery, and they went into
camp at Camp Low, Staten Island, New York
Harbor.
Recruiting for the organization had not been
very successful and only from 250 to 300 men
had been gotten together. -
Then Jeremiah Palmer of Oriskany, N. Y., took
the matter in charge and he was authorized by
Governor Morgan to take this body of recruits,
211


A Drum's Story
organize an Artillery regiment and become its
Colonel.
He was a good man and took hold of the mat-
ter with energy, and soon succeeded in organiz-
ing a full regiment which was to be known as
“Governor Morgan’s Flying Artillery,” and it
was held out as an inducement to enlisting in
the regiment that it was to be his particular
favorite regiment, bearing his honored name. In
fact it was to be his pride and pet.
How well I remember the flaming colored post-
ers that were put out setting forth the grand
opportunity that was offered young men to iden-
tify themselves with an organization that was
to immortalize itself.
The regiment was to consist of twelve com-
panies of 156 men each. To be armed with 100
light guns, 500 horses and all the paraphernalia
of war.
Those attractive colored posters picturing the
flying war horses with cannon scattering death
and destruction from their muzzles doubtless lured
many a young man from the quiet paths of peace,
and there was no trouble in filling the regiment
in a short time. Oneida and Herkimer Counties
furnished several companies. Two or three came
from New York City, and one was raised at
Carthage in our own County by Captain Charles
L. Smith.
This was the one with which the fortunes of war
212


And Other Tales
cast my lot; and I am more than proud to have
been a member of such an organization, for in all
the Union Armies there was not a braver, more
intelligent or finer lot of young men. In their
friendships, affections, loyalty to one another, as
well as the Old Flag, they were as one large
family and the Captain as a father. -
As I sit in my home, so far away from those
stirring times, I close my eyes and I see faces and
forms that never grow old. I hear again the
rich Celtic voice of our old orderly, Tom Murphy
as he calls: “Adams, Anderson, Ames” and so
on down the roll of names that ought to be em-
blazoned on a scroll of honor in the Temple of
Fame. -
When I say that the Carthage Company was
selected as the Color Company of the regiment when
we went to the front, it will mean more to the
Veterans who read this, than to those who have
come to manhood since those days, for it was a
post of danger as well as of honor. But the
colors of the 2d New York never fell into the
hands of the enemy. They were brought back
without dishonor, and what is left of the tattered
flags of the regiment are sacredly cared for by
the Oneida County Historical Society.
It was one of the Carthage Company who
brought home one of the precious flags. He sav-
ed it from capture when the color bearer was
killed in one of the great battles, and Robert
213


A Drum's Story
Cline of old Company H seized the colors and
carried them until the close of the war.
Comrade Cline is one of the few survivors of
that company. They number less than the fingers
of my two hands, and as one, I thank God for
the privilege of paying a simple, honest tribute
to my comrades of the days long gone.
The 2d New York was sent to Virginia in No-
vember, 1861 and instead of the war horses and
light guns which had been pictured out so prettily
on the recruiting hand-bills the men were given
muskets and put in the front line of forts of the
defenses south of the Potomac, garrisoning Forts
Ward, Worth, Blenkner and Ellsworth.
There was some pretty hard kicking when it
was announced that the regiment was to serve as
Heavy Artillery instead of Governor Morgan’s
pet regiment of Flying Artillery.
One company did however receive their horses
and field guns; were detached from the regiment
and did good service as the 34th N. Y. Battery.
Captain Kitching who commanded it distin-
guished himself, was rapidly promoted until he
became a General and commanded an artillery
brigade in the Army of the Potomac.
It is worthy of mention that his artillery sup-
ported our regiment and others in the battle at
Spottsylvania, May 19th, 1864; and many of
the officers and men of the regiment hurriedly
renewed an old acquaintance with the distinguished
214


And Other Tales
officer, as they marched past, where he sat on his
horse watching the placing of the field guns.
The 2d New York settled down to the build-
ing of forts, learning all about the big guns as
well as Infantry tactics.
In May 1862, Colonel Gustave Wagener was
sent to take command of the regiment, Colonel
Palmer remaining as lieutenant-colonel.
Colonel Wagener’s conduct at the Second Bull
Run was sharply criticized by the rank and file
of the regiment, and he was relieved of his com-
mand, which gave great satisfaction to the men.
There had also been in 1862, a weeding out of
some other officers of the regiment whose idiosyn-
crasies I have set forth elsewhere.
Readers of “Drum Taps in Dixie” will probably
recall Major Roach “Old Quicker nor that” as
the boys called him. Lieut. Tom. W- and his
big rubber boots, whom the men dubbed “Spider;”
as well as a lieutenant-colonel Burtnett who was
requested to resign, and as he left camp was salut-
ed with groans instead of cheers.
Colonel Wagener was succeeded by Colonel Mil-
ton Cogswell of the Regular Army. He was a
fine officer, but was soon called to a more import-
ant command.
Again the regiment took up garrison duty in
the forts around Arlington, and there came as
our commander Colonel J. N. G. Whistler, a
215


A Drum's Story
Regular army officer of the old school. He was a
thorough drill-master, a strict disciplinarian and
he gave the 2d New York such a dose of West
Point that the regiment was often called the “2d
Regulars.” Col. Whistler was tall, straight as an
arrow, and before his face was disfigured by small
pox had been considered handsome. He was a fine
figure on horseback and was
A FIGHTING COLONEL TOO.
Colonel Whistler took the regiment to the front
when Gen. Grant assumed command, and he proved
himself a good fighter as well as drill master.
The 2d Heavy under his leadership won its
spurs in its first battle with the Army of the
Potomac and was classed in “General Orders” as
the “equal of the Veteran regiments.”
While leading the regiment in the charge at
Spottsylvania Colonel Whistler's horse was wound-
ed, and at the assault of Petersburg Colonel
Whistler was seriously wounded himself. He was
breveted Brigadier General for gallantry and
when he was recovered enough for active service
was given command of a brigade.
After the battle of Spottsylvania the history of
the 2d New York Heavy Artillery is interwoven
with that of the First Brigade, First Division,
Second Corps, in all that wonderful series of
216


And Other Tales
marches, counter-marches, battles, and hardships
of Gen. Grant’s army down to Petersburg.
Then followed the deadly assaults and the rapid
harrassing movements to extend the lines on the
left of the army. Then the brilliant and victor-
ious campaign in 1865 that terminated at Appo-
mattox where the last act of the great war drama
was played.
The 2d New York, with the 2d Army Corps,
fought in the last battle with the Confederate
troops at Farmville, Va., April 7th, 1865.
The regiment was mustered out September 29th
1865, after four years of service. Besides the large
numbers who were disabled and died of sickness as
the result of hardships the regiment lost in killed,
wounded and missing 841 men. These figures tell
the story of their gallantry much more forcibly
than my pen.
217





Jefferson County in the War for
the Union





Jefferson County in the War for
the Union
EARLY 6,000 of the sons of Jefferson
N County volunteered their services to their
country between the years 1861-1865.
They did this that the Nation might live; that
the government founded by our forefathers might
continue to exist, that our flag might wave over
a free people.
Have you memories going back to those stirring
days when the boys in blue bravely marched away
behind the wild music of war? Did you see them
come home with thinned ranks bringing back the
tattered battleflags? If you did you will agree
with me that they deserve the beautiful soldiers’
Monument that adorns our Public Square, telling
in its silent language of the services rendered, and
the heroic deeds of the sons of grand old Jefferson
County in the war for the Union.
They deserve the beautiful monument that Mr.
and Mrs. George Cook generously erected to their
memory, but they deserve more. A history of
their services should be written, and a glorious his-
221


A Drum's Story
tory it would be, teeming with sacrifice, suffering
and death.
We are striving in these strenuous days to
gather a heritage for our children. Something to
hand down from father to son. What a priceless
heritage such a history would be half a century
hence?
Oh, for the ability and the time to tell of the
boys in blue from Jefferson County. Their leav-
ing of home and loved ones. The hard marches,
the great battles, the heroic deeds, the sad burial
of their brothers and neighbors in the long trench-
es on the fields, and all along the way from start
to finish the lone, nameless graves. Only God knows
where some of them sleep.
I cannot resist the temptation, however, to
briefly refer before closing this volume to the
Boys of 61, from Jefferson County.
35TH NEW YORK INFANTRY.
Recruiting for the 35th New York commenced
before the guns of Sumter had hardly cooled off.
The regiment was known as the “Jefferson County
regiment”; was organized at Elmira and was sent
to Virginia in July, 1861.
The regiment cut away much of the timber
south of the Arlington House and assisted in
building some of the forts in that vicinity.
It served under Generals McDowell and Pope
during the summer of 1862 in the campaign
222


And Other Tales
White House Landing, while most of the army
made a forced march across country.
The regiment participated in the first fighting
at Petersburg. Later they were returned to the
defenses of Washington where they remained until
Gen. Early’s army was driven out of Maryland,
when they were ordered to join Gen. Sheridan’s
forces in the Shenandoah valley. They were a
fine body of men, well officered, well drilled, and
under perfect discipline, which probably accounted
for their being such favorites with President
Lincoln and Secretary Stanton.
Fox’s work places their number of killed and
died of wounds as 47.
5TH NEW YORK HEAVY ARTILLERY.
Jefferson County furnished quite a good many
men to the above regiment, although it was largely
recruited in Lewis County. The regiment for a
long time was divided into battalions, one doing
garrison duty in the defenses of Washington until
1863, when it joined the balance of the regiment
at Harper’s Ferry.
The official record places their loss in killed and
died of wounds as 90.
THE 186TH NEW YORK INFANTRY.
The 186th was organized at Sackets Harbor
in the fall of 1864. It was principally recruited
225


A Drum's Story
in Jefferson County, although little Lewis as well
as St. Lawrence and Oswego contributed quite a
number of men.
Bradley Winslow, who had been an officer in the
35th New York was made Colonel of the 186th.
The regiment was mustered into service in Septem-
ber 1864 and was in an engagement on the South
Side railroad near Petersburg the latter part of
the month following.
They spent the winter in the trenches listening
to the whistling minies and shrieking shells that
passed over their heads day after day and night
after night.
The 186th greatly distinguished itself in the
assault and capture of Fort Mahone when Peters-
burg was captured, and its gallant commander was
seriously wounded while leading his men.
The losses of the 186th in killed and wounded
were about 130.
20TH NEW YORK CAVALRY.
The McClellan Cavalry as it was called was
mustered into service for three years at Sackets
Harbor in 1863. Its membership was largely
from Jefferson County, although Lewis, St. Law-
rence and Oswego contributed scores of members.
Many of the men were Veterans having seen
service in the 35th Infantry and other regiments,
and were a fine body of soldiers. They were called
226
*
*


And Other Tales
the “McClellan Cavalry” in honor of General Geo.
B. McClellan for whom the old soldiers had such
an affection. The services of the 20th Cavalry,
were I believe largely made up of scouting expedi-
tions, although they joined the army before Rich-
mond in time to participate in its capture.
FIRST NEW YORK LIGHT ARTILLERY.
Was a regiment that saw much hard service
from the beginning to the end, and was largely
recruited in Jefferson, Lewis and St. Lawrence
Counties. It was mustered into service at Elmira
in the fall of 1861 and from there was sent to
Camp Barry, Washington, where it was equipped
with horses and field guns and instructed in the
light artillery arm of service. A gentleman of
Lowville distinguished as a soldier and jurist, Col.
Henry E. Turner was active in the organizing,
drilling and preparing the 1st Light Artillery for
the hard service that they were soon initiated into,
for several of the batteries went with McClellan
to the Peninsula and fought in the great battles
before Richmond in 1862.
Everybody who has read War history will re-
call the names of such artillery officers as Joseph
Spratt, Charles Mink, Captain Geo. B. Winslow,
Thomas Osborn, Almont Barnes, (both of the
latter as well as Major Mink old Carthage boys),
and many others connected with the different bat-
teries of the 1st New York Light Artillery whose
227


A Drum's Story
guns thundered at Yorktown, Fair Oaks, Malvern
Hill, Bull Run, Antietam, Gettysburg, Fredericks-
burg, Cold Harbor, in fact in all of the famous bat-
tles of the war some of the hard fighting batteries
of the 1st New York were present and distinguished
themselves.
Besides the organizations mentioned old Jeffer-
son County furnished many soldiers for other com-
mands raised in adjoining counties and other parts
of the State.
228


Taps.”
Across the lake the Barracks wavering light
The bugle-call, then darkness—
So, Good night.
Sleep with the wave sounds lapping in your ears,
Sleep, till along the sky the dawn appears
And sounds the Reveillé at morning light.
But now—Good night!
Out through the sally-port the soldiers bear
A comrade, to the couch that waits him there
Its hangings with the Stars and Stripes alight.
Lights out. Good night!
Across the grave the trumpeters last call.
Across far hearts the shadow that must fall
God grant, beyond the gloom they watch for light.
But now—Good night!
Father of Love, we are thy children all
Thou knowest when we walk, and why we fall.
Thy Love leads through the dark, and to the light.
So, peace. Good night.
Oh Reveillé, oh glorious Reveillé
When thou shalt break across the Eternal sea,
Then shall we read the dark, the winter's blight.
So trust. Good night.
Across the quiet lake the Barracks light.
The trumpeter's long call—
Lights out. Good night!
*Phila Butler Bowman in Scribner's. Mrs. Bowman, the author
of Reveille and Taps, is a daughter of Capt. James J. Butler, a
veteran of the Civil and Mexican wars. "Capt. Butler was a
drummer boy, in the Mexican war at the age of fourteen years,
and was the fourth to set foot on the soil of Mexico, after the
declaration of war, the first being Capt. Albert S. Miller, the
second a soldier named Knight, and the third Lieut. Michael
Keefe, at the time a fifer, and the chum of Capt. Butler.
229








What Some of the Readers and Critics
Thought of “Drum Taps in Dixie.”
A BOSTON CRITICISM.
WHAT HENRY HAYNIE HAS TO SAY IN THE BOSTON TIMES
OF D. S. MILLER'S “DRUM TAPS IN DIXIE.”
D. S. Miller has written and published a book, and it
is a book which should appeal not only to the veterans
of the war of the Rebellion, but to every man and woman
in the land who is interested in the doings of the “old
boys” away back yonder in the early sixties. Mr. Miller's
book is entitled “Drum Taps in Dixie.” It is a record of
some few of the many thrilling and important events which
occurred, “Away down Souf in Dixie” forty odd years
ago. + + + + + + + + + + +
Men who played the fifes and lads who beat the drums
were just as necessary as those who carried Springfield
rifles or glittering blades in the days when boys became
men of might in a single night. And many was the time
when the youngsters displayed as much endurance, and
showed as much bravery as their older comrades, on the
long marches and on the battlefields, during that terrible
war. In Comrade Miller's company was an Irishman nam-
ed Jimmy West “who could never keep step.” Upon my
word there was the like of him in my own company. Short
and thick, quick to anger and afraid of no man or any-
thing under the sky, was Private Tansey, but, do all we
could, he was never able to catch the step, or keep it if
his feet were rightly placed. Finally he was made the
regimental blacksmith, and after that it was he and Grant
who put down the Rebellion. * * * * * * *
These stories of a drummer boy's memories are delight-
fully pleasing, and they are “the real stuff.” Mark Twain
once said that “the trouble with old men is they remem-
ber so many things that ain’t so,” but this book of war
reminiscences is different from most of Twain's remin-
iscences.


FROM THE SOUTHERN HISTORY ASSOCIATION,
WASHINGTON, D. C.
The writer of this interesting volume of reminiscences
was 13 years old when he enlisted as a drummer boy in a
New York heavy artillery regiment. His father was a ser-
geant in the same company. Fortunately there is no at-
tempt made to discuss strategy or politics, or to settle
controversies (there is not a controversial sentence in the
book) but there is a straightforward account of army life
as seen by the rank and file. And the memoirs are the more
vivid and relation the clearer because the writer was a
young boy when undergoing the experiences related. The
battles are described, not as they have been written up by
the commanders, but as they were seen by the drummer boys
who were held in the rear to keep them out of unnecessary
danger and for the purpose of helping the surgeons with
the wounded. The account is packed full of short, crisp
anecdotes and sketches of interesting incidents; dress
parades, marches in the mud, capture or loss of supply
trains, acts of heroism on both sides, and all the thou-
sand and one things that go to make up a soldier's life.
The drummer boy's favorite leaders were McClellan and
Hancock, his regiment belonging to Hancock's famous Sec-
ond Corps. The characterization of the regimental officers
during the first years of the war discloses a state of affairs
that explains in some degree the lack of success of the
Federals. Some queer characters reached responsible posi-
tions. After telling how the Confederates were run to bay
at Appomattox the book closes with the grand review in
Washington and the immediate muster-out in New York.
Mr. Miller writes in the best of temper. There is now,
there seems to have been then, no bitterness nor personal
harsh feelings, but only respect for a brave enemy and gen-
erosity for a defeated one. There is a natural pride in vic-
tory but no exaltation over a crushed people. In this re-
spect these memoirs are superior to any others that the re-
viewer has read. May the tribe of Miller increase?
These memories of a drummer boy are delightfully re-
alistic and will give pleasure not only to those who went
to the front, but all who would familiarize themselves
with such details of the war story as may bring out its
personal side.—Utica Observer.


Delavan S. Miller of Watertown, has sent to the Roches-
terian a copy of his book, “Drum Taps in Dixie; Memoirs
of a Drummer Boy; 1861-1865;" and the reading of such
bright, personal sketches has been a great pleasure. Mr.
Miller's father went to the front in the fall of 1861; the
motherless boy went to join him in March, 1862, when 13
years old; and then became a drummer boy for the regi-
ment, afterwards the Second New York Heavy Artillery.
A chance meeting with an old comrade set him to writing out
some of his war memories; and when he began they came
thick and fast; for on the mind of a boy, leaving a village
home for the battlefield, the incidents of the great war
made a vivid impression. Mr. Miller is an active and suc-
cessful business man in Watertown; and he has written
these reminiscences, at spare moments, merely for delight
in the labor, and he deprecates literary criticism. Whether
he is open to censure for any defects in mere style the
Rochestarian cannot really say; for he has been so charmed
with the sincerity, the reality, the vividness, and the ef-
fectiveness of the sketches, that he has not thought of
littler things. The author has given us a revelation of
eager boyishness in himself, of the old village life of the
State, of the incidents of camp, march and battle, and
the characters of the men with whom his lot was cast for
four years of war; and in acknowledging so much pleas-
ure in what he has written, one loses all thought of
criticism. The sketches are realistic, for they stand for
actual experience; but they are artistic, for they suggest
the noble as well as the sordid elements in the daily life
of the armies of the country, and the comrades, however
rough or coarse, who had in them flashes of desperate cour-
age, self-sacrifice, and high sentiment are lovingly de-
scribed and interpreted. This is not to idealize humanity,
but in a higher sense to realize it.
Of course the sketches are somewhat random in their
character; and possibly it may be that for readers in ut-
ter ignorance of the Civil War they may fail in fullness
of detail and information, but to those who know some-
thing of that great era, the quality of suggestiveness is
enough.-The Rochester Post Express.
“A book of Civil War reminiscences, when whole libra-
ries of such material are available, must possess some-
thing distinctive to have it attract attention. Of such a
quality ‘Drum Taps in Dixie' by Delavan S. Miller, may
boast.”—Newark Evening News of New Jersey.


A RETIRED ARMY OFFICER WRITES :
I knew your “Fighting Colonel” and am pleased to learn
that he was well thought of by his volunteer command.
Col. Whistler came of a fighting family. His father and
grandfather were soldiers before him, and Colonel Garland
N. Whistler of the regular army is a son of your old
Colonel. In his younger days Whistler was one of the
handsomest officers of the army and was known as beau
Whistler because of his beauty. He stood 6 feet 3 inches
in his stockings and was as straight as an arrow, * * * *
Judge Turner of Lowville, a former colonel of the 1st
N. Y. Artillery, writes:
My dear comrade:
You cannot imagine with what pleasure I have read
your most admirable work, nor how it has stirred emotions
of mirth as well as of sadness.
The perusal of the book has been delightful and inter-
esting.
In all sincerity I must beg you to accept my compli-
ments for the ability and literary merits of your work
and hope to read more of your sketches.
Very truly yours,
Henry E. Turner.
I have read the narrative with interest and with more
pleasure than I have usually been able to get out of more
pretentious works professing to deal with the incidents of
the great struggle.
You take us back to real camps and among real soldiers,
and make us live over again those fateful years as they
Were.
Your veteran comrades will appreciate and enjoy your
work; their sons and all patriotic citizens who know how
much was at stake in that struggle should be equally in-
terested and profited.
Fraternally,
Gen. S. S. Burdett,
Past Commander-in-Chief, G. A. R.
.


A TRIBUTE FROM GEN. N. M. CURTIS
HERO OF FORT FISHER AND AUTHOR OF “FROM BULL RUN
TO CHANCELLORSVILLE."
Mr. Delavan S. Miller,
Watertown, New York.
My dear Comrade:
I have read “Drum Taps in Dixie” with great pleasure,
a pleasure greater than I have derived from many of our
most popular novels. It would be a great benefit to the
readers of modern fiction if they would read books like
yours, instead of the multitude which consists of language
without a single fact or any purpose except that of kill-
ing time.
“Drum Taps in Dixie” deserves the widest circulation.
It will interest the survivors of our Civil War of whatever
army whether they wore the blue or the gray, and acquaint
those who come after us with the knowledge of that spirit
of comradeship, devotion and valor which inspired the men
who fought from 1861 to 1865. Your book is to be es—
pecially commended for that liberal and generous spirit
which rises above the bitterness engendered in “war days’
to that broad Americanism which should fill the hearts
of all our countrymen throughout the united and indis-
soluble republic.
Sincerely yours,
N. M. Curtis.
Roswell P. Flower Memorial Library,
Watertown, N. Y.
We have in our Library several copies of your book
“Drum Taps in Dixie, and they are constantly in circu-
lation. The book is so full of life and interest, so pictur-
esque and vivid in its descriptions, so true in its narra-
tives, so touching in its pathos and humor, that it is easily
the best book of its kind. You were a boy when you were
a soldier, and you saw and heard the things you describe
at a time when impressions are deep, vivid and permanent.
Every G. A. R. man should have a copy for himself and
children, and every boy in gray should be glad to read
your thrilling pages and pass the book on
S. A. Hayt,
Librarian.


CORPORAL TANNER'S APPRECIATION
D. S. Miller,
Watertown, N. Y.
My dear Comrade:
I write to express, even though in a faint degree, the
pleasure I have experienced from perusing your admirable
little volume entitled “Drum Taps in Dixie.”
I have some fifteen hundred volumes and pamphlets on
the subject of the Civil War, and I can honestly assure
you that among those that treat of the detailed experience
of * soldier your volume stands away up in the front
rankS.
The story is modestly and charmingly told, possessing
special interest, of course, to those who served, but I can
easily imagine that any intelligent person, young or old,
can become greatly interested by perusing it. It deserves
a very wide circulation and I sincerely trust it will have it.
Cordially yours, in F. C. and L.,
James Tanner.
Past Commander-in-Chief G. A. R.
Delavan S. Miller, of Watertown, was but 12 years old
when Sumter was fired on, and his book of war sketches,
“Drum Taps in Dixie” (Hungerford-Holbrook Company),
owes much to that fact. What happens when one is 12
makes a mark which stays, even though life be nothing
more than square meals, arithmetic, leap frog and spelling
lessons. At 12 the curtain has just gone up for the first
time and the characters in the great drama have but now
stepped forth upon the stage.
That freshness of vision never comes again. Never again
will passing events stamp themselves so vividly upon the
mind. What must have been the impression upon the drum-
mer boy from the village of Carthage for whom the curtain
rose on Bull Run and the memorable scenes of whose
early life were Cold Harbor, Petersburg and Appomattox?
It is not strange that Mr. Miller is able to place before
us forty-four years after a remarkable picture of war.
Syracuse Post Standard.


Watertown, N. Y.
Dear Mr. Miller:
I enclose check for book, and congratulate you on doing
it so well.
Yours truly,
W. H. Moore.
Lyons Falls, N. Y.,
My dear Miller:-
I am well pleased with “Drum Taps.” Am reading
every word of the book and I say frankly that I am more
than interested. “Phil” always said that you were a good
one, and I can now see for myself that you are. With
best wishes.
Yours very truly,
J. H. Williams.
D. S. Miller,
Dear friend:—
I have read your reminiscences of the Civil War with
great pleasure. Have read many books of the kind. Some
written by men of much literary fame. Of all yours is
the most interesting it has been my pleasure to read. Your
wife, children, friends and yourself may well feel an
honest pride in your effort. Hoping your book will re-
alize for you the handsome sum it so richly deserves, I
remain sincerely yours,
R. F. Neary.
A lady writes:
I enjoyed Mr. Miller's reminiscences as they were pub-
lished in the Times. But, collected and arranged in book
form, they are really fascinating. I could not bear to put
the book down until I had finished it. Some of the sad
parts made me feel bad to think that a little boy should
have seen so much suffering. I look at other 13 year old
boys and wonder what they would do in such experiences.
If I knew him I would feel like writing to him and thank
him for having written such a vivid account of his four
years' tramp through that terrible war. * + + +


FROM A COMRADE OF THE SECOND HEAVY,
Fort Plain, N. Y.
Tell comrade Miller that I was at that last dress parade
too. He tells things just as they happened. It is like
a visit with one of the old boys. Geo. Gracey, the bugler,
and Pete Boyle, whom he writes about, were both mem-
bers of my company. * * + + + + +
E. H. Roorbach.
Ilion, N. Y.,
“Drum Taps” came to hand all safe. Truly it is one of
the most interesting book that I have read in many a day.
I read it through at two sittings. It has brought back
memories to “Uncle Tom,” of what really happened. And
Mr. Miller ought to congratulate himself on having such
an opinion passed on his undertaking. * + + +
Wells, Fargo & Company,
51 Broadway, N. Y.
I received an advertisement of the book “Drum Taps
in Dixie,” the author being an old and respected friend.
I took pleasure in adding it to our library. Since it was
purchased it has been read by a number of our employ-
ees and among them quite a few who took part in that
terrible struggle and readily recognized the scenes as por-
trayed by you, and while all of them not only tramped
over the ground but have read many histories of it, they
say that yours was the most interesting book they have
ever read and they wanted me to congratulate you upon
your efforts.
Yours truly,
F. J. Hickey,
Gen. Agt., Wells Fargo Ex. Co.
What the author of The Trail of the Grand Seigneur,
Mickey, etc., thinks of “Drum Taps;”
“I am not surprised that your book is meeting with
such success. Human interest is always a compelling lever,
and it is strong in ‘Drum Taps moving the layman as
well as the veteran.”
Olin L. Lyman.