It is recorded as an act of extraordinary bravery, that when Napoleon was making his disastrous retreat from Moscow, one day, when closely beset, Marshal Ney, who commanded the rear, ordered a captain to remain with his company and to protect the rear of the rear-guard. "How long will I remain?" inquired the captain, realizing the utter hopelessness of the position. "Until you are killed!" was the answer. "Very well, sir." The captain never was heard of after. He was not a whit braver than the young Confederate color-sergeant.
Well, there I lay, concealed in the grass, congratulating myself upon my lucky escape and wondering how it happened. Although slighted by Mars, the god of war, I had been greatly favored by Mercury, the speedy one. It looked as if he had a wing over me.
I fully expected our cavalry to advance in force, and I thought that if I could manage to conceal myself for a little while I would soon be among my friends. But in this I was doomed to disappointment, for instead of the main body of our force putting in an appearance, a troop of Confederate cavalry crossed the river to bait their horses about where I lay, and to prepare their supper. A horse shied and snorted, and I was discovered and made a prisoner by a squad of the Fifth Virginia Cavalry.
"Why didn't you keep a-runnin'?" laughingly inquired a corporal in gray. He had seen me while I was sprinting riverward.
I had parched corn for supper. It was the best that my captors had, there was that consolation in it. While the rations were meager, our captors fared no better. I was kept under guard and treated with the utmost consideration. With the exception of that pleasant laughing "Why didn't you keep a-runnin'?" I didn't hear an insulting remark from those men.
Next morning I received an extra ear of parched corn, and was taken to the headquarters of Gen. A. P. Hill, guarded by four men in gray. The General asked me a number of questions, and his manner was so mild and genial that I began to think that it wasn't such a dreadful thing to be a prisoner.
I was then turned over to the provost marshal, and I learned that Colonel Sawyer had, in sending twenty-four of us in advance, actually attacked Gen. A. P. Hill's corps of 10,000 men. The great Southern general was very much amused over the incident, but for my humble part I could absolutely see nothing funny about it. I didn't enjoy it a particle.
I found myself in a camp of sixty-five or seventy men under a strong guard. They were nearly all Confederate soldiers under arrest for desertion, and were waiting for their turn to be court-martialed. From twelve to fifteen were tried each week, and those found guilty were shot on Saturdays. There were nine poor fellows who had been tried and found guilty. These men were confined in an adjacent camp. I do not think there was a time from Tuesday, the day I reached there, until Saturday, when I was sent to Richmond, that some of them were not praying and singing, in view of their fate.
I looked about me, and am ashamed now to confess that it was then with a feeling of regret that I could not discover the doughty staff-officer among us. He took care to make good his escape.
One afternoon a young fellow of about twenty-one years of age was brought back to the camp under guard after being sentenced to death. That same evening he sang "The Bonnie Blue Flag." His tenor voice was pitched at a high key and I never heard a sweeter voice, nor, I might add, a sadder one. Next day he was shot by his own comrades-in-arms. I am naturally sympathetic, and the sentence and death of this young fellow affected me greatly. Afterward I saw men by the hundreds dying about me at Belle Isle and Andersonville, affecting and harrowing sights; but as there was no help for it, and as I had perhaps become accustomed to misery, it didn't touch me so keenly. But there was such an air of abandonment and recklessness about the young fellow, and I don't believe that from the time he was sentenced until he faced death he thought of uttering a prayer. I can never forget his last words to us, "Good-by, fellows; I am bound for the happy land of Jordan," and he turned toward us and smiled.
I did not learn what induced him to desert, but it certainly was not cowardice. It was said he was caught making his way to the Union lines.
Our camp, under guard, was situated in a beautiful grove of chestnut timber, and the first night I slept soundly, having had little rest for several preceding nights. Notwithstanding my weariness, I was awakened during the night by some one pushing me as if trying to turn me over. I sat up, and found one of the soldiers wearing the Federal uniform sitting close beside me. I had taken note of him the previous evening. "Am I in your way?" I inquired. "Oh, no," was the answer, "you are not in my way," and I laid down and fell asleep again. When I awoke in the morning I found that the pockets of my blouse and trousers were cut across and the contents, consisting of $20 in money, my watch, pocketknife, sundry papers, tobacco, and pipe were gone. I knew at once that it was the young fellow in blue that robbed me.
There were a number of North Carolina boys in camp, very decent fellows, who were very indignant upon seeing my clothing so badly cut. The corporal of the guard asked me whom I suspected, and I told him. He brought the fellow to me, and when I accused him of the theft he denied it with a great show of indignation, and made all manner of threats of what he would do to me if I did not at once withdraw the charge. I realized that I was—to borrow an expression of to-day—"up against it," and I was about to drop the matter, when I caught a very broad wink from the corporal who was standing behind the fellow, and I saw that I had a friend "at court." "You have every reason to believe," said the corporal, "that this man stole your property?" "Yes, sir," I replied.
About this time the officer of the day appeared on the scene. The corporal spoke to him in an undertone, whereupon the officer had the young fellow searched, but nothing was found on him. "I'll give you twenty minutes," said the officer, "to get those articles and restore them to the prisoner." Then, instead of further denial, he became sullen and refused to move. The officer had his men "buck and gag him," and he was left in that condition for at least two hours. The officer returned and released him, and again ordered him to restore to me my property. "I'd see him and you in hell first!" was the reply. The officer ordered his men to get a rope and the sergeant secured one. "I'll give you five minutes to get the articles," was the order. But the fellow neither moved nor uttered a word. "Sergeant, have a couple of your men string him up," was the next command. They put the rope around his neck and threw the end of it around an overhanging limb. "Haul away!" and he went up six or seven feet. "Lower away!" and he came down and landed on his feet gasping. "Now will you get the property?" said the officer, but he received no reply. I interposed, and begged that the matter be dropped, saying that my loss was nothing compared to taking the fellow's life. The officer said he didn't know about that, that unless he was very much mistaken his life was hardly worth saving. "Pull away!" he ordered, and up went the culprit once more. The young fellow must have been suspended, dangling, eight or ten seconds before the lieutenant ordered the men to lower him. I became frightened, thinking that the lieutenant was really in earnest. He struck the ground as limp as a sack, and when he recovered his speech he said that he would get the articles, and, staggering away, he soon returned with them. He had dug a hole in the ground under where he slept, and after burying the articles had covered the place over with leaves. I thanked the officer for the interest he had taken in the matter.
I relate the incident here to show how fair and honest these men were. I have read much about our prisoners being robbed of money, watches, jewelry, and clothing upon entering Libby, Belle Isle, Andersonville, Salisbury, and other prisons in the South, but as far as I personally was concerned, I can truthfully testify that neither at Libby, Belle Isle, Andersonville, nor Millen, where I was confined, were any articles taken from me. I had $20 when I entered Libby and Belle Isle, and $30 or $40 of Confederate money when I entered Andersonville, and not one penny was taken from me. The Confederate officers and men at Libby and Belle Isle also knew that I had a watch with me, for I made no secret of it. They did not demand it of me, though it was a valuable timepiece.
A Prisoner at Belle Isle
On the 25th day of September I was sent to Richmond, arriving there at night, and was soon in Libby Prison