Reminiscences of the Nineteenth Massachusetts regiment

The past few days my feet had been bare, – my old boots not being able to stand the rough service required of them. An old colored woman kept her eyes on my feet, and began to untie her shoes; taking them off, she came to me and said, “Honey, take these shoes.” “Oh, no,” I replied, “you will not get another pair, and a cold winter is coming.” “No matter if I don’t,” she said, “ain’t you suffering all this for me, and hadn’t I ought to go without shoes if they will help you get home?” and she forced me to take them. They were rudely made, the uppers being untanned and sewed with rawhide, while the bottoms were pegged on with homemade pegs, but they did me good service, and I wore them inside the Union lines three months later. Another gave me a pair of socks, and, washing my bleeding feet, I was once more comfortable.

We could find no trace of Sherman’s army, and remained with Isaac two days. We slept in the barn, and were well supplied with food; we also had plenty of peanuts, as they grew on this plantation, and were called “ground peas.” At night the negroes held another meeting, and at their request I read the Bible to them. My scripture lesson was the third chapter of John. They asked me to pray, but I excused myself. I never attended a meeting where all were so earnest. The singing was grand. They sang one song where all shake hands, and the words were, “My brother, ain’t you mighty glad you’re going to leave this sinful army,” etc. They kept time with their feet and hands, closed their eyes, and swayed from side to side as they sang.

The next day we decided that it was best to cross the river. The rebels had cut holes in all the boats, and sunk them; but the negroes were sharp, and had taken them up, repaired them and sunk them again, so all they had to do was turn the water out and they were as good as new.

We embarked just as night was closing in, a negro taking the paddle. The entire inhabitants followed us to the shore and knelt in prayer for our success; no cheers were given, but with hats, aprons and bandannas, they waved their farewells. They remained until they saw us safely landed on the Georgia shore, and we felt that we had parted with dear friends. Our boatman secreted his boat and guided us to the turnpike.

We travelled without interruption for about two hours. The moon was very bright, and all was quiet save the sound of our own footsteps. We had just crossed a bridge when we heard horsemen approaching, so dropped by the roadside, under the shadow of a tree. We did not dare breathe as the five rebel cavalrymen rode past. Renewing our journey, we soon saw a fire by the roadside, and creeping up to it saw a rebel picket on duty, his three comrades sleeping by the fire.

Thinking it dangerous to go on, we turned up a lane and found a negro, who secreted us. From him we learned that the roads were all picketed, and that the mounted patrols were constantly riding up and down. Danger was on every hand, but we still had faith. We remained with the negro through the day, and at night started again; we could not travel in the road, as the pickets were very thick, but made our way slowly through the woods. Arriving at a plantation, we found the negroes much excited. One of the girls started for the mansion, saying she was going to tell master. We caught her and told her she must take care of us, but she would not talk, and turned back to the house, where all the colored people were gathered. We followed and walked in. I was the spokesman and told our story. They asked if we came through the yard. We said we did; they could not see how we got through, as ten rebel cavalrymen were sleeping on the piazza. While we were talking a white woman appeared. She was quite good-looking, had long, curly hair, and her dress was clean and becoming. She said, “I will take care of you;” we thanked her, but said we didn’t care to trust a white woman. This pleased the negroes, as she was a slave and a field-hand besides.

The story she told us the next day was a sad one. The overseer of the plantation was a brute, but had charge of all the slaves. She was employed in the house and he desired to make her his mistress, but she repelled his advances and was severely whipped; again he urged her, with no better results. He then drove her to the swamps to work, and she was employed carrying heavy logs on her shoulders. This was one of the damnable features of slavery. Her brother, named Pat, was the driver. (I have several times used the word driver, and some may not understand its meaning. The driver is an intelligent, faithful slave, selected by the overseer as foreman. He turns out the slaves in the morning by blowing a horn, gives them their tasks, and has charge of them in the field.) She took us to his house, which was better than the rest, and we slept in the room with Pat and his wife.

We were awakened in the morning by the firing of cannon, and the negroes came rushing in with the news that Sherman was coming. The firing grew nearer and nearer, musketry could be plainly heard, and through the cracks in the logs of the house we could see smoke where barns were burning. The negroes grew more and more excited and reported often. “They are coming, boss, they are coming. Massa Sherman’s company will soon be here! They done burn old Sam Jones’s barn, and they are fighting down by the creek; fo’ night you will be with them.”

Our hearts beat hard and fast. Wheeler’s rebel cavalry were forming, and after advancing, fell back. We were sure that night would find us safe under the old flag. We congratulated ourselves on our good judgment, talked of the foolishness of those who had tried to escape through the mountains, when our plan was so much easier, and concluded that of all the men who had escaped we were a little the smartest.

Night came on. The negroes said they would not cross the creek until after dark, and we waited. All night these faithful negroes kept watch for us, and in the morning, with long, sad faces, reported that “Massa Sherman had done gone down the river.” We could not follow by day, but started quite early in the evening. We had gone but a short distance when we struck a company of cavalry camped on the roadside. We entered the swamp to flank them, but it was so dark that we lost our way, and after travelling all night, tearing our clothes and scratching our faces and hands, we came out where we entered, and again passed the day at Pat’s house. We were rather discouraged, and the colored people felt about as badly as we did, yet did all they could to cheer us up. Our friend, the white slave, made us gingerbread and biscuit to take with us, and said many comforting words.

With a firm resolution to get through the lines we began our journey. It was a dark, rainy night, and we had to guess our route. We came to a place where the road forked. Frank was sure he knew the road we ought to take, and I was just as confident that he was wrong. We scolded each other for an hour, not daring to speak above a whisper. These cat-fights occurred nearly every night, and we made up in the daytime. One not in our place might think it strange that we should lose our temper, but we were strained up to the highest point, and were nervous and irritable. It was the same with nearly all who escaped. I have known two men who were fast friends who were never the same after they were recaptured. Not so with Frank and I. He was such a dear, good fellow that he gave in to me nearly every time.

Finding we were on the wrong road we struck across the country and came upon a nice cabin near a large house. We were listening under the window, and could hear the hum of a spinning-wheel. As we stood there a woman opened the shutter and, as the day was just breaking, she saw us. We entered the house and found a yellow man in bed. He said, “Go away from here.” We told him who we were, but he would do nothing for us. We had our clubs, were in good fighting condition and holding them over him made him swear that he would not tell he had seen us. The woman was friendly and gave us directions how to reach the creek, but we dare not take the road, fearing the yellow fellow would forget his promise. This was the first instance where a man with a drop of negro blood in his veins had refused to help us. We turned into the woods, but they were so thin that we were forced to cut down small pine trees and stick them in the ground where we lay down. It was so cold we could not sleep, and as we dare not travel through this open country, we kept alive by rolling over and over on the ground. Besides being cold we suffered for food, as we had eaten nothing since the previous day. We could endure it no longer, and late in the afternoon resumed our tramp. Calling at a cabin, a negro baked the last morsel of meal he had in the house for us, and after we had eaten it, directed us to the creek. Here we found a new trouble. Kilpatrick’s cavalry had burned the bridge, and we had “one wide river to cross.”

We made a raft out of pieces of plank, and went over all right. Frank was on the forward end of the raft; as we reached the opposite bank he caught a grape-vine and swung himself on shore. He left the raft and so did I, the only difference being that he was safe on land while I went into the water and came up under the raft. He fished me out, and with my clothes nearly frozen on me we continued our journey. Arriving at an old mill we called up the miller. He let us in, but was afraid to keep us, as the rebel pickets were very near, and liable to come there at any time, so we must keep in the woods. I was too wet to lie down, so we ran along in the edge of the woods. We saw places where Sherman’s army had camped only the day before, and the fires were still smoking.

As we were running along we saw a negro coming towards us on horseback. Driven by hunger, we hailed him and asked for food. He said he was going to mill, but would return in about an hour and would take us to a place where he could feed us.

We waited until he returned, when he told us to keep him in sight and follow along in the woods; we had gone only a short distance when he began to whoop and put his horse into a gallop. What was up we could not make out until, looking towards a shanty, we saw a rebel soldier walking towards us on crutches. He came near and said, “Come out, boys, and have a talk.” We looked at each other, then at the Johnnie Reb. There were two of us with two clubs, and, so far as we could see, only one rebel, and he a cripple; so we came out. The negro came riding back, and we asked him what it meant. He looked frightened, but said, “I know this man; his father raised me. He fought, but he never wanted to fought.” The rebel said it was not safe to stay there, but designated a place where he could meet us; he mounted the horse behind the negro, and we went through the woods.

Arriving at the place designated, we saw our Johnnie jumping and coming all sorts of gymnastic performances. We demanded an explanation; he said, “I am as sound a man as there is in the Confederacy. I was slightly wounded at Atlanta, and was sent to guard your boys at Andersonville. I saw them starved to death and swore that if ever I could help one get away I would. Now is my chance, and I’ll be dog-goned if I don’t do it.” He was a typical rebel in every respect, a regular Georgia cracker; hair long, high cheek bones, tall and slim, but he talked well and appeared earnest. After the negro had turned out the horse he came to us and he and the rebel talked over the situation. The trouble was what to do with us now we were with them. Johnnie suggested taking us home; the negro said it would not do, as his wife’s sister would betray us; but Enos (his name was Enos Sapp) said the Yankees had her husband a prisoner and he reckoned she would be mighty glad if some one would help him. They talked over all the chances of the rebels finding us. We listened with much interest.

At last Enos said, “Gentlemen, I am going to take you to my house; it may make a row, but I am boss of my own ranch.” Being in his hands, we could do nothing but go with him. The house was only a short distance off. Enos walked on his crutches. He said if the war lasted thirty years he should use them until the end. When we arrived we found two log houses; in one were two women and five children; the other was the servants’ quarters. Poor as our friend was he owned slaves; one, the man we had seen in the woods; the other, the man’s mother, a poor broken-down old woman. He introduced us to the women as two friends of his. They sat in the corner of the fireplace smoking corn-cob pipes, and said very little to us, not because they were displeased but because it would require an effort to talk. We made ourselves at home. One of the women asked me if I would have a smoke. As I had little chance to indulge in my favorite habit I gladly accepted her offer. She took the pipe out of her mouth and handed it to me. That broke the ice; we talked upon various subjects, mostly of war. Enos’s wife said the Yanks used them better than their own men, as the rebels took her best horse and the Yanks left the old one. They didn’t seem to know or care what army we belonged to. Supper was announced and we went outside to the other house. I suppose this was the dining hall. The table was set, but there was not a whole plate on it or two pieces alike. The old colored woman waited on the table, poured the tea and passed the food.

Our host was a religious man and asked a blessing at the table, but he had a hard time carving the pork and remarked that it was tough as h – . After the vesper meal we returned to the mansion. The pipes were the first thing, and as they all wanted to smoke, they fixed up a new one for me. Enos then told them who we were, and we saw indications of fear on their faces. The sister, whose husband was in a Yankee prison, asked if we knew Sam. We could not recall him, but without doubt had met him, and assured her that wherever Sam was, if in a Union prison he had enough to eat, a good bed and all the comforts of life, more than he would have at home. They questioned us about our Yankee women. They said they had heard that they wore good clothes and had jewelry; we told them they had been rightly informed, and they said, “Why, you all have no slaves; where do they get them?” Our answer was that our women worked. We told them of the mills in Lowell and Lawrence, of the shoe shops in Lynn, and other places where women were employed. “Well,” they said, “we would like nice dresses and jewelry, but we could not work; no woman could be a lady and work.” So those poor deluded creatures were happy in thinking they were ladies, while they wore dirty homespun dresses, ate hog and corn-bread, and smoked pipes in the chimney corner.

When it came bedtime Frank and I were puzzled what to do. The rain came down in torrents and we had been so wet and cold, besides being very tired, we thought it best to remain over night, but there were only two beds in the room and eight people for them; where did we come in? One of the women got up and from under one of the beds brought out an old quilt and a blanket; she said we could make a “shake-down” before the fire. We were glad of that, for we had had no chance to skirmish since we started, and there were too many of us for a bed. The women went behind a curtain that was let down in front of the beds, undressed the children, tucked two in one bed and three in the other; the man and wife slept with two, the sister with three.

Both of us could not sleep at once, so we divided the watch; neither slept much. After they thought we were asleep the wife said to Enos, “I don’t like this; I feels sort of jubus. If my uncle knew these men were here they would hang you before morning.” “Don’t care a d – n,” said Enos; “I said that I would help them and I shall do it; what did they all do for you when I was fighting? Not a thing; I tell you this is a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. I have got my eyes open.” After that we felt safe and went to sleep. We turned out the next morning feeling much refreshed, but the rain continued to fall and we could not travel, although every hour was precious to us.

Frank made the women happy. They had some old shoes that were ripped, and being a good cobbler, he repaired them. We said if we had some stock we would make them new ones, and they wanted us to wait until they got the stock. It rained hard when night came, but we must be on the road, and the negro was sent with us. We clasped the hand of Enos, gave him our address, and told him if we could ever be of service to him not to fail to call. I have never heard from him since, but remember him kindly as one of the few rebels who gave me a kind word and treated me like a human being.

We travelled all night. Everything indicated that the army had just passed over the ground, – fences were gone, barns had been burned, there was no crowing of the cock in the morning and the grunting hog was a thing of the past. At daylight, wet to the skin, we halted at a negro cabin. He welcomed us, but, like everything else, had been “cleaned out.” He was old and the only one left on the plantation, all the rest having gone with “Massa Sherman.” Our army had passed the day before, and he was delighted with them; said they had bands just like the circuses and guns that they loaded in the morning and fired all day.

After drying our clothes before the fire and cooking an ash-cake he took us to a barn across the road and covered us with husks. Sherman was but ten miles away, and we felt confident that this was our last day in the rebel lines. We planned to leave the road and travel through the fields. If the pickets halted us, we were to run and let them fire. We believed that they could not hit us in the darkness, and that the firing would alarm our pickets, who would protect us.

CHAPTER XVI

THE CAPTURE AND RETURN TO COLUMBIA

About four in the afternoon we sat up in the husks, ate the last of the corn-bread the negro had given us, then covered ourselves over to wait for darkness. While we were hidden from view we did not entirely cover our haversack. In a short time we heard voices, and a man said, “There is a haversack: I am going to get it.” As he walked over the husks he stepped on me, but I did not squeal. As he picked up the haversack, he saw Frank’s arm and cried, “The barn is full of d – d Yankees.” We heard the click as they cocked their pieces, and thinking it about time to stop further proceedings, we lifted up our heads. “Throw down your arms,” was the next order. We explained that we had performed that sad duty several months before.

After much talk they let us come out. Our captors were Texas rangers, the hardest looking set of men I ever met; dressed more like cowboys than soldiers, armed with sabres, two revolvers each, carbines, besides a lariat hung to the saddle. There were but three of them, and we resolved to make an appeal for one more chance. In the most earnest manner possible we told the story of our long service in the field, our starvation in prison, our long tramp for liberty and our near approach to our lines, and begged them to let us go. I think we made an impression on them, but after conferring they said, “You are loyal to your side and we must be to ours, but we will use you well while we have you in charge.”

The rest of the company came up while we were talking. They had thirty-six prisoners, captured from Sherman’s army. These were known as “Sherman’s bummers.” My experience with the Army of the Potomac had been such that I looked with little favor on the bummers. Had they been with their comrades they would not have been captured, but they were, like a large part of that army, scattered over the country, not foraging for the army but for themselves, and the loyal negro was “cleaned out” the same as the “reb.” It was demoralizing, and had the rebels been in force on this flank or rear, disasters instead of success would have overtaken that grand army before it reached the sea. With the bummers we were turned into the corn and slept in the husks that night.

Bright and early the next morning we were turned out and were soon on our way back to Augusta. The old negro came to see us off; as his eyes fell on Frank and me a look of sadness came over his face. Our guards were well mounted and they made us “hiper.” We marched several miles without a halt, when we came to a brook, where all were given a chance to quench our thirst. As we had no cups we lay down and drank. One by one the boys got up and started on, I alone remaining. I was sure that the guards were gone and was ready to run for the woods, when, looking over my shoulder, I saw one with his revolver pointed at my head. “Thought you had got away, didn’t you?” “Oh, no!” I replied. “I was very thirsty and it took me a long time to drink.” “Well, I am looking after you,” and he made me “double quick” until I caught up with the rest.

We halted at night in a grove near a large mansion. We were hungry and footsore, having eaten nothing that day, and having marched thirty miles. The lieutenant commanding the guard went to the house and demanded supper for seventy men. The old man said he had nothing, that Sherman’s army had stripped him of all he had. “Never mind the story,” said the guard, “bring out the grub.” After declaring over and over again that he had nothing, the officer said, “we will see,” and sent a sergeant and some men into the house. The old man changed his tune a little, said he would try to find something, and after a short time brought out a bag of meal, some sweet potatoes and a side of bacon. All shared alike, the prisoners receiving the same as the guard. The night was as cold as any December night in the north, and the guard drew on the old man for a good supply of wood. Unlike our army, they did not go after it but ordered it brought to them. They built several large fires, and then posted guards for the night.

We were in a small space and there were only seven men on posts. I believed there was a chance to make a break if we could only make the men understand it. Frank and I formed our plans and began to work them. I had lain down by the side of two prisoners and got them interested, then stood up, warmed myself, and was sauntering over to the third, when one of the guards cocked his piece, and said, “Yank, you get up on that stump; I don’t like to see you moving about so much.” I tried to explain that I was so cold that I could not sleep and must move to keep warm, but he replied, “I think I shall feel better to see you on that stump.” So I took the stump and held it until daylight. Another draft was made upon the old man for breakfast, and we continued the march.

The citizens along the route were very bitter, and at times the guards had hard work to protect us. Women came out with revolvers, looking for the Yanks who had broken open their trunks. Although our guards were very kind to us they did not take so kindly to Sherman’s men. While in a ravine they halted us, and proposed to strip us. Frank and I protested. They said, “These men have robbed our people and ought to be punished.” We told them they would get enough when they arrived at the prison, and that it was too cheap business for gentlemen, as they had proved themselves to be. This aroused their pride, and they let the boys march on.

At Waynesboro the citizens were determined to kill us. One old man struck a boy over the head with a hickory cane, breaking the cane in two. It looked as though we should have a hard time, but the guards stood by us, and declared they would shoot the next one who struck us. The women were worse than the men, and could hardly keep from scratching our eyes out. All were going to die in the last ditch, live in the mountains, walk to Europe, or do anything except live in the same country with Yankees. We were called every name that was bad. One woman said the Yankees were so mean that when they went through the town they stole a woman’s false teeth. It was suggested that if she had kept her mouth shut they would not have known she had false teeth. The guards laughed, and the woman jumped up and down, mad way through. She was about as angry with the guards as with us.

We took cars here for Augusta; the Texans said Georgians were mighty mean people, and they reckoned we had better get to Augusta before we had trouble. We arrived at Augusta late in the afternoon. The people expected us and were in line on each side of the street to welcome us. Old men called us “Yankee-doodles;” boys called us “Blue bellies;” the women yelled all sorts of vile words. We marched up the main street into an old stock yard; an officer, dressed in the uniform of a captain of our army, stood at the gate, and the first words we heard were, “Halt, d – n you, halt! Would you go to h – ll in a moment?” Our Texas guards left us here; they shook hands with Frank and me, wished us good luck, but reckoned we would have a right hard time with this fellow. The “imp of darkness” who commanded the place was a Tennesseean, named Moore. He was surrounded by a gang of cut-throats, mostly deserters from our army, who, having jumped all the bounties possible, had joined his gang; nearly all were dressed in uniforms of blue.

We were turned into a mule pen, and while resting there a boy about seventeen years old, dressed in rebel gray, came to me and said, “They are going to search you; if you have anything you want to save, give it to me.” “But you are a rebel,” I said, “and I can’t trust you.” He answered that he was not, only galvanized (had taken the oath); that he had been a prisoner at Andersonville and had not courage to hold out, so he had gone over to the other side, but assured me that if I would trust him he would be true. While I hated the sight of him for his treason, he was better than the rest. All I had was my diary; it was very imperfect and of no real value; but in it I had noted the places where we had stopped while out, and I felt if Moore got it the negroes who had assisted us would suffer, so I gave it to him.

Soon after Moore came in. He swore at us collectively, by detachments and individually. Looking at me he said, “I swear you look like the breaking up of a hard winter.” He drew us into line and the picking began. Frank had a corps badge that he had made while at Charleston; it was cut out of bone, and was the work of days, but it had to go. As the Tennesseean came to me he said, “That cuss isn’t worth picking,” and passed me by. From the men they took everything; pictures of friends at home, and when it was a picture of a lady, coarse remarks would be made. After all the articles had been taken from their pockets, the order was given to take off pants, blouses and shoes, and when we were turned back into the pen they were nearly naked.

The pen was very filthy; the mules had recently vacated, and it had not been cleaned. Moore said, “Make yourselves as miserable as possible, and I hope to God not one of you will be alive in the morning.” Gangs of the roughs came in and tried to trade. One of the boys came to me, saying, “I have a watch that they did not find; one of these men says he will give four blankets for a watch, and I think I had better let him have it, as we shall freeze to death here.” I assured him that he would lose his watch and get no blankets, but he was so cold he could not resist the temptation, and gave the fellow the watch. When he came in again he asked for the blankets. The wretch knocked him down and kicked him; that was all he received for the watch.

My galvanized friend turned up again and said they were coming after my jacket, – that they wanted the buttons. I took it off and laid it under another man. Soon they came in and asked for the officer with the jacket, a friend outside wanted to talk with him. They shook me and asked where he was. I replied, “He lay down over the other side.” They carried pitch-pine torches and looked at every man, but failed to find the jacket. We managed to live through the night, and in the morning my boy returned the diary, and Frank, two other officers who had been recaptured, and myself were taken out to be sent to Columbia. As we passed out I heard one of the gang say, “There is the cuss with the jacket,” but he did not take it, and we marched to the depot.

The rebels must have entertained an idea that Yankees could live without food, for they issued no rations to us either at night or in the morning, and we were hungry enough to eat a raw dog. Our train was one of those southern tri-weeklies which went from Augusta to Columbia one week and tried to get back the next, and stopped at every crossroad. At one place an old negro woman was selling sweet potato pies. I had a Byam’s match paper and bought one with it. She asked, “Is it good, boss?” I replied that it was worth five dollars in Confederate, and she was satisfied. I think she got the best of it, for the thing she sold me for a pie was a worse imitation of that article than the match paper was of Confederate money. At another place I bought a two-quart pail two-thirds full of ham fat, paying for it with one of the five dollar bills Packard gave us.

We spent the entire day on the road, arriving at Columbia at seven o’clock in the evening, and were put in jail. We were not confined in a cell, but in a small room with a fireplace; we found a fire burning on the hearth, and went to work. As we had had no opportunity to examine our clothes since we escaped, their condition can be imagined. We took bricks out of the hearth and spent an hour reducing the inhabitants. It sounded like the discharge of musketry, and the list of killed was larger than in any battle of the war.

In the morning we were ordered out and marched through the city. We learned that Camp Sorghum had been broken up and our officers moved to the lunatic asylum. The gate of the new prison swung open, the crowd gathered, expecting to see “fresh fish,” but instead saw four ragged, dirty, old tramps. We were received with a grand hurrah, and they gathered around to hear our story. We had been out just four weeks, and had travelled more than three hundred miles. While we were much disappointed we were not discouraged. Our trip had done us good; we had gained in flesh, had thrown off the stagnation of prison life and were ready to try again. We found many changes inside. Major Dunn and Captain Hume had received special exchange; others had escaped, and the squads were broken. We were assigned to squad fifteen, composed of men who had escaped, and we were a fine collection of innocents.