Continental Monthly Volume 1 Issue 3 by Various

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The Colonel, in a rapid way, gave me the character and peculiarities of
nearly every one we met. The titles of some of them amused me greatly.
At every step we encountered individuals whose names have become
household words in every civilized country.[L] Julius Caesar, slightly
stouter than when he swam the Tiber, and somewhat tanned from long
exposure to a Southern sun, was seated on a wood-pile, quietly smoking a
pipe; while near him, Washington, divested of regimentals, and clad in a
modest suit of reddish-gray, his thin locks frosted by time, and his
fleshless visage showing great age, was gazing, in rapt admiration, at a
group of dancers in front of old Lucy's cabin.

In this group about thirty men and women were making the ground quake
and the woods ring with their unrestrained jollity. Marc Antony was
rattling away at the bones, Nero fiddling as if Rome were burning, and
Hannibal clawing at a banjo as if the fate of Carthage hung on its
strings. Napoleon, as young and as lean as when he mounted the bridge of
Lodi, with the battle-smoke still on his face, was moving his legs even
faster than in the Russian retreat; and John Wesley was using his heels
in a way that showed _they_ didn't belong to the Methodist church. But
the central figures of the group were Cato and Victoria. The lady had a
face like a thunder-cloud, and a form that, if whitewashed, would have
outsold the 'Greek Slave.' She was built on springs, and 'floated in
the dance' like a feather in a high wind. Cato's mouth was like an
alligator's, but when it opened, it issued notes that would draw the
specie even in this time of general suspension. As we approached he was
singing a song, but he paused on perceiving us, when the Colonel,
tossing a handful of coin among them, called out, 'Go on, boys; let the
gentleman have some music; and you, Vic, show your heels like a beauty.'

A general scramble followed, in which 'Vic's' sense of decorum forbade
her to join, and she consequently got nothing. Seeing that, I tossed her
a silver piece, which she caught. Grinning her thanks, she shouted,
'Now, clar de track, you nigs; start de music. I'se gwine to gib de
gemman de breakdown.'

And she did; and such a breakdown! 'We w'ite folks,' though it was no
new thing to the Colonel or Tommy, almost burst with laughter.

In a few minutes nearly every negro on the plantation, attracted by the
presence of the Colonel and myself, gathered around the performers; and
a shrill voice at my elbow called out, 'Look har, ye lazy,
good-for-nuffin' niggers, carn't ye fotch a cheer for Massa Davy and de
strange gemman?'

'Is that you, Aunty?' said the Colonel. 'How d'ye do?'

'Sort o' smart, Massa Davy; sort o' smart; how is ye?'

'Pretty well, Aunty; pretty well. Have a seat.' And the Colonel helped
her to one of the chairs that were brought for us, with as much
tenderness as he would have shown to an aged white lady.

The 'exercises,' which had been suspended for a moment, recommenced, and
the old negress entered into them as heartily as the youngest present. A
song from Cato followed the dance, and then about twenty 'gentleman and
lady' darkies joined, two at a time, in a half 'walk-round' half
breakdown, which the Colonel told me was what suggested the well-known
'white-nigger' dance and song of Lucy Long. Other performances
succeeded, and the whole formed a scene impossible to describe. Such
uproarious jollity, such full and perfect enjoyment, I had never seen in
humanity, black or white. The little nigs, only four or five years old,
would rush into the ring and shuffle away at the breakdowns till I
feared their short legs would come off; while all the darkies joined in
the songs, till the branches of the old pines above shook as if they too
had caught the spirit of the music. In the midst of it, the Colonel said
to me, in an exultant tone,--

'Well, my friend, what do you think of slavery _now_?'

'About the same that I thought yesterday. I see nothing to change my
views.'

'Why, are not these people happy? Is not this perfect enjoyment?'

'Yes; just the same enjoyment that aunty's pigs are having; don't you
hear them singing to the music? I'll wager they are the happier of the
two.'

'No; you are wrong. The higher faculties of the darkies are being
brought out here.'

'I don't know that,' I replied. 'Within the sound of their voices, two
of their fellows--victims to the inhumanity of slavery--are lying dead,
and yet they make _Sunday_ 'hideous' with wild jollity, while they do
not know but Sam's fate may be theirs to-morrow.'

Spite of his genuine courtesy and high breeding, a shade of displeasure
passed over the Colonel's face as I made this remark. Rising to go, he
said, a little impatiently, 'Ah, I see how it is; that d---- Garrison's
sentiments have impregnated even you. How can the North and the South
hold together when even moderate men like you and me are so far apart?'

'But you,' I rejoined, good-humoredly, 'are not a moderate man. You and
Garrison are of the same stripe, both extremists. You have mounted one
hobby, _he_ another; that is all the difference.'

'I should be sorry,' he replied, recovering his good-nature, 'to think
myself like Garrison. I consider him the ---- scoundrel unhung.'

'No; I think he means well. But you are both fanatics, both 'bricks' of
the same material; we conservatives, like mortar, will hold you together
and yet keep you apart.'

'I, for one, _won't_ be held. If I can't get out of this cursed Union in
any other way, I'll emigrate to Cuba.'

I laughed, and just then, looking up, caught a glimpse of Jim, who
stood, hat in hand, waiting to speak to the Colonel, but not daring to
interrupt a white conversation.

'Hallo, Jim,' I said; 'have you got back?'

'Yas, sar,' replied Jim, grinning all over as if he had some agreeable
thing to communicate.

'Where is Moye?' asked the Colonel.

'Kotched, massa; I'se got de padlocks on him.'

'Kotched,' echoed half a dozen darkies, who stood near enough to hear;
'Ole Moye is kotched,' ran through the crowd, till the music ceased, and
a shout went up from two hundred black throats that made the old trees
tremble.

'Now gib him de lashes, Massa Davy,' cried the old nurse. 'Gib him what
he gabe pore Sam; but mine dat you keeps widin de law.'

'Never fear, Aunty,' said the Colonel; 'I'll give him ----.'

How the Colonel kept his word will be told in another number.

* * * * *

ACTIVE SERVICE; OR, CAMPAIGNING IN WESTERN VIRGINIA.

I have been to the war; I have seen armed secessionists, and I have seen
them run; but, more than that, I have seen _Active Service_. It was
_active_, and no mistake.

In April last, my country needed my services; I had been playing
soldier, and I felt it my duty to respond to the call of the President.
I did respond. I uncovered my head, raised my right hand, and solemnly
swore to obey the President of the United States for three months. The
three months have expired, and I am once more a free American citizen,
and for the first time in my life I know what it is to be _free_.

ACTIVE SERVICE! That's what the military men call it. I have often read
of it; I have heard men talk about it; but now I have seen it. I meet
people every day who congratulate me on my safe return, and say, 'I
suppose you are going again?' Perhaps I am.

It was a beautiful day when our company left home, and what a crowd of
people assembled to see us off! What a waving of banners and
handkerchiefs; what shouting and cheering; what an endless amount of
hand-shaking; how many 'farewells,' 'good-bys,' and
'take-care-of-yourselves,' were spoken; all of this had to be gone
through with, and our company run the gauntlet and nobody was hurt.

Going to war is no child's play, as many seem to suppose. Once sworn in
as a _private_, you become a tool, a mere thing, to do another's
bidding. I do not say this to discourage enlistments,--far from it. I am
only speaking the truth. 'Forewarned, forearmed.' If there is a hard
life upon earth, it is that of a common soldier; he may be the bravest
man in the army, he may perform an endless amount of daring deeds, but
it is seldom that he gains a tangible reward. He does all the fighting,
he performs all the drudgery, he is plundered by the sutler, he lives
on pork and hard-bread, but he gets none of the honors of a victory. As
Biglow says,--

'Lieutenants are the lowest grade that help pick up the coppers.'

I belonged to an artillery company. I joined this because somebody told
me I could ride. I wish I had that _somebody_ by the throat. The idea of
a man's _riding_ over the mountains of Western Virginia! I won't call it
ridiculous, for that's no name for it.

I will pass over the uninteresting part of the campaign, that of lying
in camp, as everybody now-a-days has ample opportunity to judge of camp
life, in the cities, and take the reader at once into 'active service,'
and show the hardships and trials, together with the fun (for soldiers
_do_ have their good times) of campaigning.

On the 29th day of May, 1861, we arrived at Parkersburgh, Va. It was my
first visit to the Old Dominion. We had been taught when youngsters at
school to regard Virginia as a sort of Holy Land, 'flowing with milk and
honey,' and the mother of all that is great and noble in the United
States, if not in the world. We were 'going South.'

It was at the close of a warm spring day that we landed there; the sun
was just sinking in the west as the boat rounded-to at the wharf. We
jumped ashore, and for the first time in our lives inhaled the 'sacred
atmosphere' of the so-called Southern Confederacy. All was bustle and
confusion; but we soon had our traps, _i.e._, guns, caissons and horses,
unloaded, and a little after dark were on the march. We proceeded a few
miles out of town, and at midnight halted, pitched our tents, stationed
guards, and all who were so fortunate as not to be detailed for duty
were soon sound asleep.

At Grafton, one hundred miles east of Parkersburgh, we were told there
was a party of some two thousand rebels. This then was the object of our
visit to Western Virginia, to drive these men east of the
mountains,--from whence most of them came,--and to protect the honor of
our flag in that portion of Virginia now known by the name of Kanawha.

At sunrise on the 30th, we marched to the depot of the north-western
branch of the Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, and, after a hard half-day's
work in loading our guns, horses and wagons, stowed ourselves away in
cattle cars, and were once more ready for a start. As we rattled along
over the railroad, the scenery for the first few miles was beautiful,
and we began to think that Old Virginny was really the flower of the
Union. But a 'change soon came over the spirit of our dreams.'

After passing a small shanty, called Petroleum,--from the numerous
oil-wells in the vicinity,--we met with the first really hard work we
had seen since we began the life of a soldier. Here the rebels had burnt
one of the railroad bridges, and all hands had to 'fall in' and repair
damages. Never did men work with a better will. Slender youths, who, if
they had been told one month before, that on the 30th day of May, 1861,
they would be laying rails and cutting timber for Uncle Sam, for eleven
dollars a month, would have pitied their informant as insane, were here
working with a will that showed what a man can do if he only sets
himself about it. For two days and a night we toiled and ceased not, and
when, on the evening of the second day, we passed over the 'soldiers'
bridge' in safety, such a shout rent the air as I never heard before.

A few miles beyond the burnt bridge, the scenery began to change. In the
clear starlight, instead of beautiful streams and fine farms, we beheld
hills and mountains covered with an almost impenetrable growth of
underbrush, and large rocks hanging over our heads, ready to be hurled
down upon us by some unseen hand, and to crush our little handful of
men. On we went, at a snail's pace, till about ten o'clock, P.M., when
our joy was again turned to woe, for here too the dogs of Jeff Davis had
been doing their work, and had burnt another bridge. We waited until
morning, and then, after some hard swearing, were once more transformed
into 'greasy mechanics,' and before the sun went down had passed to the
'other side of Jordan' in safety.

Here began our first experience of the hospitality of the sons, or
rather daughters, of Virginia.

A small farm-house stood near the bridge, numerous cows were grazing in
the pasture close by, and everything denoted a home of comfort and
plenty. This, I thought, must be the home of some F.F.V., and I will
take a pail--or rather camp kettle--and 'sarah forth' to buy a few
quarts of milk. Wending my way to the house, I knocked at the door, and
instantly six female heads protruded from the window. Presently one of
them, an elderly woman, opened the door, and inquired what I wanted.

'Have you any milk to spare?' I said.

'I reckon,' replied the woman.

'I would like to get a few quarts,' I said, handing her my kettle. I
took a seat on the door-step, and wondered what these six women were
doing in this lonely spot. They evidently lived alone, for not a man was
to be seen around. The table was spread for dinner, six cups, six
plates, six spoons, and no more. I was about to ask for the man of the
house, when the old woman returned with my kettle of milk.

'How much?' I asked, as I thrust my hand deep into my pocket, and drew
forth one of the few coins it was my fortune to possess.

'Only four bits,' said the ancient female.

I thought milk must have 'riz' lately, but I paid the money and left.

From observations since taken, I infer these six women were 'grass
widows,' whose husbands had enlisted in the rebel army, and left them
behind to plunder the Union troops by selling corn-bread and milk for
ten times its value.

I took a seat on a log, and congratulated myself on the prospect of a
good dinner. By the aid of a stone I managed to crumble 'two shingles'
of hard bread into a cup of the milk, and then, with an appetite such as
I never enjoyed in _America_, sat to work. I took one mouthful, when,
lo! the milk was sour! Hurling cup and contents toward the hospitable
mansion, I fell back upon my regular diet of salt pork.

Leaving the Virginia damsels to plunder the next regiment of Federals
that came along, we were soon once more on our way, and on Saturday, the
1st of June, arrived at Clarksburgh. Here we learned that the rebels had
left Grafton and gone to Phillippi, some twenty miles back in the
country. We remained at Clarksburgh until Sunday morning, when, once
more stowing ourselves 'three deep' on flats and stock cars, we
proceeded as far as Webster. Here we left the railroad, and pursued the
rebels afoot.

Webster is a big name, and there we flattered ourselves we could get
some of the comforts of life. But once again we were doomed to
disappointment. Two stores, a dozen or so of shanties, and a secession
pole, make up this mighty town. Parkersburgh is a 'right smart place;'
Clarksburgh 'isn't much to speak of;' the only thing of interest about
it is the home of Senator Carlisle; but Webster is a little the worst
place I have ever seen. I am sorry to say, in the language of the great
man whose name it bears, 'It still lives.'

Observing a shanty on the summit of a small hill, with the words, 'Meals
at all hours,' over the door, I wended my way over sundry cow-paths and
through by-lanes towards it, until at last, fatigued, and with hands
torn and bleeding from catching hold of roots and bushes to keep myself
from falling, I arrived at the summit of the hill. A young woman stood
in the door-way of the shanty, and I asked her if I could obtain a
dinner.

'Yes,' she said. 'Walk in and take a cheer.' She shoved a three-legged
stool towards me, and I took it.

She was about eighteen years of age, and had a very pretty
face,--though it was thickly covered with a coating of the sacred
soil,--a musical voice, and a small hand. Her eyes sparkled like
fire-flies on a June night, and her hair hung in wavy ringlets over what
would have been an 'alabaster brow,' had it not been for the
superabundance of _dirt_ above mentioned. She was the only good-looking
woman I saw in Western Virginia.

I took a seat at the table, and from a broken cup drank a few swallows
of tolerable coffee. As for the edibles, 'twas the same old story,--corn
bread and maple molasses, fried pork and onions. I staid there perhaps
fifteen minutes, and learned from my hostess that Webster was, previous
to the war 'a right smart village,' but that the male inhabitants had
mostly joined the rebel army, then at Phillippi. She, different from
most women I met in Virginia, expressed sympathy for the Union cause. It
seemed so strange to find a _Union_ woman in that part of the country, I
was induced to ask if Webster had the honor of being her birth-place.

'Oh no,' she said; 'I was born in 'Hio.'

That solved the whole mystery. I willingly paid the 'four bits' for my
dinner; and, as a storm was coming on, made all haste back to the
railroad, where we were getting ready to march on Phillippi, distance
thirteen Virginian, or about twenty _American_, miles.

'Fall in, Company Q!' shouted the orderly. 'Numbers one, two, three, and
four, do so and so; five, six, seven, and eight, do this, that, and the
other!' So at it we went; and never in my life did I perform a harder
afternoon's work than on Sunday, the 2d of June, 1861. It was a warm,
sultry day, and our morning's ride in the cars had been dusty and
fatiguing; and when, about dusk, a heavy rain-storm set in and drenched
us to the skin, we were sorry-looking objects indeed.

Although we had been in service six weeks, we had but just received our
uniforms that morning. My pants, when I put them on, were about six
inches too long, and the sleeves of my blouse ditto. After marching all
night in the rain, my trowsers only came down as far as my knees; they
shrank two feet in twelve hours. Many of the men threw away their shoddy
uniforms after wearing them one day, as they were totally unfit for use.
They tore as easily as so much paper, and were no protection whatever
from the weather. Somebody, I don't pretend to say who, made a good
thing when he furnished them to the government. No doubt they were
supplied by some _loyal_ and _respectable_ citizen, who would not
knowingly cheat his country out of a penny! We have reaped a bountiful
harvest of such patriots during the past year. May the Lord love them!

At eleven o'clock on the night of the 2d of June we started for
Phillippi. It commenced raining about seven o'clock in the evening, and
we were all wet to the skin. The night was very dark, and the road,
though they called it a 'pike,' was one of the worst imaginable; it
wound 'round and round,'--

'It turned in and turned out,
Leaving beholders still in doubt
Whether the wretched muddy track
Were going South or coming back,'--

and seemed to run in every direction but the right one. It was a road
such as can be found only in Virginia. The mud was almost up to the hubs
of the wagon-wheels; the horses pulled, the drivers laid on the lash and
a string of oaths at the same time; the wind blew, and the rain came
down in torrents. More than once on that awful march did we lend a
helping hand to get the horses out of some 'slough of Despond.' Over the
mountains and through the woods we went, at the rate of about two miles
an hour. Many gave out and lay down by the wayside; and when at last
morning dawned, a more pitiable set of beings never were seen upon
earth. The men looked haggard and wan, the horses could hardly stand,
and we were in anything but a good condition for invading an enemy's
country.

At daylight we were within two miles of Phillippi. Col. (now General)
Lander was with the advance, and had discovered that the enemy were
ready for a retreat. Their baggage was loaded, and if we did not make
the last two miles at 'double-quick,' he was fearful we would be too
late to accomplish the object of the expedition. So the order was given,
'Double-quick!' and jaded horses and almost lifeless men rushed forward,
buoyed up with the prospect of having a brush with the rascals who had
given us so much trouble.

We had gone about a mile and a half, when, at a turn in the road, an old
woman rushed out from a log cabin, and, in a loud and commanding voice,
exclaimed,--

'Halt, artillery, or I'll shoot every one of you!'

Not obeying the order, she fired three shots at us, none of which took
effect. At the same time three men rushed from the back of the house
toward the rebel camp at the foot of the hill, shouting at the top of
their voices to give warning of our approach. A squad of our fellows
took after them, and soon overtook them in a corn-field, when they
denied coming from the house, and said they were out planting corn! A
likely story, as it was hardly daylight, and the rain was falling in
torrents. However, during the forenoon they took _oath_, and were set
free!

Past the log house we went at 'double-quick,' and in less time than it
takes to tell it, the artillery took position in a small piece of wood
on the summit of a hill overlooking the town. At once the order was
given, 'Action front!' and the first the rebels knew of our approach was
the rattling of canister among their tents. Out they swarmed, like bees
from a molested hive. This way and that the chivalry flew, and yet
scarcely knew which way to run. 'Bould sojer boys,' with nothing but
their underclothes on, mounted their nags bareback, and fled 'over the
hills and far away' towards Beverley, firing as they ran a few random
shots. Before the infantry reached the town most of them had made good
their escape, leaving behind, however, nearly all their baggage, a large
number of horses, wagons, tents, and about eight hundred stand of arms,
together with a nicely-cooked breakfast, which they had no idea they
were preparing for 'Lincoln's hirelings.'

We took about fifty prisoners, among them the man who wounded Col. (now
General) Kelley. They were retained until the next day, when the oath
was administered, and they were let loose to rejoin their companions in
arms. About four weeks after this, we had the pleasure of retaking,
several of these fellows; some of them, in fact, were taken three or
four times, each time taking the oath, and being set at liberty, and
each time, true to their nature--and Jeff Davis--immediately taking up
arms again against the government.

Phillippi, from any of the neighboring hills, or rather mountains,
presents a rather picturesque appearance. It was, previous to the war, a
place of about one thousand inhabitants. It boasts a good court-house, a
bank, and two hotels, and was by far the most civilized-looking town we
had then seen in Virginia. But, alas! what a change had come over its
once happy populace. When we entered it, not a dozen inhabitants were
left. We were told that Phillippi was the head-quarters of rebellion in
Western Virginia. Here was published the Barbour County _Jeffersonian_,
a rabid secession newspaper, now no more, for the press was demolished,
and the types thrown into a well. The editor had joined the rebel army a
few days before our arrival, and was among the loudest denunciators of
our government. He boasted he would shed the last drop of his blood (he
was very careful as to shedding the first) before he would retreat one
inch before the _Abolitionists_. We afterwards learned from some of his
men that he was among the first to mount his horse and run to the
mountains; the last that was seen of him he was going at lightning speed
toward Richmond, and in all probability _il court encore_,--he is
running yet.

We had taken possession of the town and most of the enemy's baggage and
equipments; still our commanding officer was not satisfied, neither were
the men. We had intended to completely surround the enemy and to cut off
every possible chance of his retreat. The attack was to have been made
at five o'clock, A.M.; but one column, that which marched from Grafton,
was about twenty minutes too late, and when at last it did make its
appearance, it entered town by the wrong road, having been misled by the
guide. The consequence was, the enemy retreated on the Beverley road,
where they met with little or no resistance. Our men were too much
fatigued to follow the fast-fleeing traitors, and most of them made good
their escape.

After the excitement of the attack, the men dropped down wherever they
stood, in the streets, in the fields, or in the woods, and slept soundly
until noon, the rain continuing to fall in torrents. But what was that
to men worn out with marching? I never slept better than when lying in a
newly-plowed corn-field, with the mud over my ankles, the rain pelting
me in the face, and not a blanket to cover me.

_Bang! bang! bang!_ and up I jumped from my bed of mud, thinking the
fight had again commenced. Somewhat bewildered, I rubbed the 'sacred
soil' from my eyes and looked about me. It was noon; the rain had
ceased, and from the constant sound of musketry, I supposed a battle was
then raging. But instead of fighting the 'secesh,' I soon found the
Indiana boys were making havoc among the fowls of the chivalry. They
fired too much at random to suit my taste, and I made tracks for a safer
abode. Beating a hasty retreat to the hill where my company was
stationed, I found a large crowd gathered around some of the captured
wagons, overhauling the plunder. And what a mixed-up mess! Old guns,
sabres, bowie-knives, pistols made in Richmond in 1808, old uniforms
that looked like the property of some strolling actor, and love-letters
which the bold chivalry had received from fair damsels, who all
expressed the desire that, their 'lovyers' would bring home, Old Abe's
scalp. These letters afforded great amusement to our boys, though it was
hard to read many of them, and were they put into print, Artemus Ward
would have to look to his 'lorrels.'

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