A REMINISCENCE OF THE WAR OF THE REBELLION.  
BY WILLIAM E. STEVENS.
The events I am about to describe took place at a critical period of “the war to keep the union whole,” and cover that date in the career of the army of the Potomac beginning with Hooker’s flank movement against Lee, entrenched on the heights of Fredericksburg, and ending with the disastrous repulse which attended that finely planned, yet poorly executed, and ill-starred campaign. Of course, I am not writing history, except in a small way; nor do I essay to describe in detail or with accuracy the events in question. My purpose is to give my own observations and experiences, mainly from memory, reinforced by a few scraps and half-illegible memoranda saved from the accidents by flood and field.
I was a participant in many of the earlier battles fought by the army of the Potomac; but my opportunities for acquiring accurate information touching the general aspects of the field were necessarily limited to that part of it within my own immediate range of vision, and even here—so rigidly did our commanders aim to reduce us to mere automatons—we were often in the dark as to the meaning of this or that movement. I strove hard to master the situation, but not until the war closed and the reports of commanders were given to the public, did I have other than a very indefinite conception of much that transpired about me. Why we made this or that change of front; why we were kept for hours in line of battle beneath a broiling sun with no enemy in sight; why we were rushed from one point to another in an apparently hap-hazard manner, enduring fatigue and hunger and subsisting upon wormy “hardtack;” why we were 213pushed against impregnable positions, when a flank movement seemed to our inexperienced eyes the proper thing to do—now fighting, now building corduroy roads, digging rifle-pits or supporting batteries in our rear, which did more execution upon us, by reason of defective ammunition, than upon the enemy—concerning all these points, and many more we were anxious to be informed, but not one atom of information could we get.
“Ours not to inquire why,
Ours but to do and die.”
Was this reticence in pursuance of the mistaken theory that machine soldiers are best? Or was it because “some one had blundered,” and ignorance or incapacity, or something still worse, could be the more easily concealed? Whatever the reason, the fact remains that to the rank and file much of the campaigning done up to 1863–64 seemed to them worse than needless;—and looking back over that period with the light of history thrown upon it, I am not prepared to say the rank and file were mistaken in their estimate. I was impressed then, and the impression has never been effaced, that the reticence observed toward the men in the ranks touching what was going on about them, was a grievous error on the part of our commanders. It is a question, certainly, whether it would not have been better to have kept the “boys” informed of the real military situation and of what they were expected to achieve. The belief that much of the hardship endured was the result of blundering generals, or, worse, of criminal indifference, did much to unman our soldiers and cause them to lose faith and hope. Our volunteers were not machine soldiers, as some of the West Pointers seemed to presume, but patriotic, thinking and observing men who could fight best when they fought understandingly. I am told that the rebel commanders pursued a different policy, and although their soldiers were mentally inferior to ours, kept them apprized of the general situation and of what they must do to accomplish the end sought. Who shall say how many of the confederate victories may be accredited to this fact, if it is a fact? But our commanders, instead of trusting their men, either kept them in utter ignorance of movements or foolishly deceived them. How well I remember at the battle of Gaines’s Hill, where Jackson thrashed Porter so soundly, and Sykes’s regulars failed to stand their ground, that the story was industriously circulated along the thinned but unbroken ranks of Bartlett’s Brigade, “McClellan’s in Richmond, boys. One more effort and the day is ours!” And Meagher’s Irish Brigade, hastening to our relief on the run, took up the cry and put on so determined a front that Jackson’s veterans halted and reformed, giving our officers time to re-establish their broken lines and hold their ground until night came down and afforded them an opportunity to withdraw to the left bank of the Chickahominy,—not to enter Richmond, but to begin that celebrated “flank movement” which ended at Harrison’s Landing. Again, at second Bull Run, when, after dawdling along all day on the road from Alexandria to Centreville, with the sounds of conflict in our front (making a long two hours’ rest at Annandale, and then marching at full speed in a hot sun), we reached Centreville, we were told that Pope had whipped Jackson, and that Lee with his whole army was in full retreat. But when we reached Bull Run, “Linden saw another sight.” Heavens, what a stampede! McDowell’s and Sigel’s corps in disastrous retreat,—cavalry, artillery, infantry, ammunition and baggage wagons in one confused, struggling mass, intent upon reaching the heights of Centreville. Our corps 214(Franklin’s, 6th) had just halted to rest, as the stragglers came into view. Deploying, we stopped the rout, and ended the retreat. Seizing the infantry stragglers, we placed them in our own ranks until our brigade swelled to twice its usual size. Night closed in, and we were marched to the front across Cub Run, and ordered to hold our position at all hazards. In that march every straggler deserted! Poor fellows, who could blame them? Had they been killed then and there who could have accounted for them? Most of them returned to their own regiments and thereafter did good service no doubt. Panics are liable to seize upon the best of troops. I cite these instances as partial corroboration of my point. What wonder if our troops came to distrust all reports and to depend only upon established facts. But perhaps our commanders were right in concealing information from the army in general, and Moore may have hit the nail on the head when he wrote:
“A captain has been known to think,
Even colonels have been heard to reason;
And reasoners whether clad in pink,
Or red or blue, are on the brink,
Nine cases out of ten—of treason.”
At any rate they conducted the war in harmony with such a belief.
One battle only did I witness from the vantage ground of a non-combatant, the first Fredericksburg fight, and I found it vastly more interesting and conducive to personal ease and safety, if less glorious. But this is not what I started out to tell the readers of this Magazine. I am to relate my experience during that memorable episode referred to in my opening paragraph. I must say at the outset that it was an exceedingly checkered episode, so far as my memory serves me, for within the time outlined I ran the gamut of a soldier’s emotions—anxiety, uncertainty, fear, hope, the thrill of victory succeeded all too quickly by the blackest despair; for success was followed by repulse, and from an elated victor I became almost in a twinkling, a captive in the hands of as ragged and as dirty a lot of Johnny Rebs as ever fought with a courage worthy of a better cause,—a part of Wilcox’s Alabama brigade, McLaw’s division. But I must not anticipate.
During the winter of 1862–63, our brigade lay encamped near White Oak church, a locality about equi-distant, if my memory serves me, between Falmouth on the Rappahannock and Belle Plain on the Potomac. It had had ample time to recuperate from the fatigue of the “mud march,” as Burnside’s second futile attempt to dislodge Lee from his entrenchments about Fredericksburg, was facetiously termed, and as spring opened the routine of life in cantonment was relieved by parades, reviews, inspections, drills, and, occasionally, target practice. Meantime Hooker had superceded Burnside in chief command, and a new and more vigorous life had been infused into all branches of the service. This was particularly true of the cavalry, which had fallen into general disfavor. Under Hooker’s discipline it became very effective. The high-sounding grand divisions had been broken up, and the over-cautious, phlegmatic Franklin, relieved. With other changes, came Sedgwick to the command of our corps—a great improvement in some respects on Franklin. The cool and sagacious Slocum, so long at the head of the red-cross division, had been promoted to the command of a corps, and Gen. Brooks, as brave, perhaps, but a far less skilful soldier, had succeeded him, having been promoted from the Vermont brigade. Gen. Joe Bartlett of New York, commanded our brigade—a fine officer, and a lion in battle. A brave man, too, was our Colonel, but deficient in tactical skill. He might not “set a squadron in the field,” but he could face the enemy’s line of battle without flinching. In action he was the embodiment of pluck, and at such times he looked as if he might be the very
“——Colonel
Who galloped through the white infernal powder cloud.”
in continental days. But he did not appear to advantage on parade, being undersized and awkward gaited, with a shrill, piercing voice, not unlike that of 215the late Isaac O. Barnes, or the irrepressible Mel. Weston, and totally indifferent to all the niceties of drill so pleasing to the holiday soldier. On one occasion he forgot his place at a Brigade dress parade, and was then and there rebuked sharply by the general. Meeting the latter at headquarters the same evening, where a “reception” to the officers of the brigade was in full career and good fellowship, aided by copious draughts of “commissary,” abounded, the Colonel extended his hand and piped out in a high key which attracted the attention of all present: “Gineral, I’m not much at drill I confess, but I’ve got a hell-fired stomach for a fight!”
On the morning of the 28th of April, 1863, our regiment was ordered on picket duty, but scarcely had we relieved the old picket guard when orders came to return to camp, strike tents, and prepare to move at once in heavy marching order. This meant work, but was an agreeable change. I had only joined my regiment the day previous, after a brief leave of absence, and was resplendent in a new uniform, sword, etc. Of course I packed the uniform away, and left it in care of the sutler, while I donned a knit blouse, and with a due regard for sharpshooters of which the Confederacy had, as it always seemed to me when on the skirmish line, more than its share, put myself in condition for serious work, having nothing in the way of wearing apparel save my side-arms to indicate military rank. Meantime a great change had been effected in our winter quarters. The tents had been removed from the log huts to which they had served as roofs and windows, and now the bare interiors, with the debris strewn about, and broken chimneys and blackened walls alone remained. A more dismal or melancholy sight than a deserted cantonment cannot be conceived. “Warm work ahead, boys,” gaily and cheerily remarked our jovial, stout-hearted adjutant, as he rode up to the head of the regiment. It proved to be particularly hot for him, for he received a wound in his head, in the charge on Marye’s Heights, that he will carry to his grave, and which ended his military career, but not his usefulness; for he is now a popular clergyman, a true soldier of the cross, settled in Philadelphia, I believe. Our progress was slow, and darkness intervened just as we reached a ravine leading down to the narrow valley which skirts the river on that side. We bivouacked in our tracks, not being allowed to kindle fires. Back over the route we had come could be heard the rumble of artillery wagons and the tramp, tramp, of marching columns. In front, silence reigned. Orders are issued in a low tone; and that stern composure which soldiers assume when about to encounter the enemy was apparent in the bearing of all. The officers gather around their adjutant, who is a favorite at brigade and division headquarters, to learn his views touching the movement. He thinks we are in for a fight, and gives his opinion as to Hooker’s intentions. He is sanguine of success.—We have hardly closed our eyes in sleep, when some one calls out in a voice seemingly loud enough for the rebel pickets to hear, “Where is Colonel Blank?” “Here, sir,” responds that officer, rubbing his eyes. “What’s wanted?” “Gen. B. directs me to say that you are to march your regiment to the bank of the river, form in line of battle, and await further orders. You are to move expeditiously, with as little noise as possible, following the pontoons.” The order is obeyed; the regiment marching away in almost spectral silence. Debouching from the ravine, the darkness deepens, for a dense fog hangs over the valley of the Rappahannock like a pall. We file past the pontoon train, from which the engineer corps are detaching the boats, silently and with all the celerity possible—and stand upon the river’s brink. In our rear come other regiments, until our whole brigade is closed in line five regiments deep.—It was a critical time. I recall it well. The silence was almost oppressive; orders were given in low tones, and nothing but the rattle of accoutrements 216broke the silence. The fog resembled a mirage. Objects a little way off took on gigantic proportions. I remember that a pontoon boat, borne on stout shoulders to the river’s brink, resembled the immense hulk of a ship as it loomed into view, while at the distance of a few feet men took on colossal dimensions. Meantime we are tolled off in detachments to occupy the pontoons, along with the engineers who are to do the navigation, and our orders are to form instantly on reaching the other shore, dash forward and capture the enemy’s picket line, or whatever force may be there to oppose us. At length there are sounds of commotion on the other side. The Johnnies suspect something. Splash! goes a pontoon into the water, followed by a deep curse from the officer in charge, brave old Gen. Benham, who cannot restrain his rage over the carelessness of his men. Meanwhile the fog has been gradually rising, and the gray of dawn appears. More stir on the other side, a rattling of equipments, hurried commands—then a sharp challenge, (some of our scouts are nearly over), followed by a single musket discharge, then a volley, and the whistle of bullets. Instinctively we do them low obeisance; the lines waver for an instant, then firmness and silence. So heavy a fire was not anticipated. It told of a large reserve which must have been brought up in expectation of an attack. All hope of a surprise was over. “Will the pontoons never be launched?” Yes, Benham has done his duty, and into............