Drum Taps in Dixie Part 1

Drum Taps in Dixie.

by Delavan S. Miller.

Preface

A chance meeting with a comrade who was instrumental in saving from capture a piece of artillery at the second battle of Bull Run suggested one of the several sketches grouped together in this volume.

Memory awakened furnished material for those that followed, each article recalling faces, forms, scenes and incidents from out of the misty past.

"Awake but one, and lo!

What myriads rise!"

The writer has enjoyed his reminiscing. It has been a labor of love, so to speak, enabling him in a measure to live the old days over again.

The articles have been written at odd times after business hours, and should not be scrutenized too closely from a literary standpoint.

The writing of the memories of a drummer boy has been a source of pleasure and rest to the writer, who sincerely hopes that the reading of them may not weary those who, in _their_ hours of rest, may scan these pages.

DELAVAN S. MILLER.

Prelude--The Drum's Story

Yes, I am a drum, and a very old drum at that. My leather ears are twisted and brown. My shiny sides are scratched and marred. My once beautiful white head is patched and blood-stained. Yet, I am loved and tenderly cared for; have my own cosy corner in the attic and am better provided for than many of the brave men who fought for the Union. So I am content. I have lived my life. Was ever ready for duty. Made lots of noise. Have led men on the march and in battle. Now I am laid aside, growing old like all the boys of '61.

Drum Taps in Dixie.

CHAPTER I.

OFF FOR THE WAR.

When the news was flashed across the country that Fort Sumter had been fired upon the writer was a 12-year-old boy residing in West Carthage. The events of those days stand forth in his memory like the hillcrests of a landscape.

The shot electrified the north, and the martial current that went from man to man was imparted to the boys. Favorite sports and pastimes lost their zest. Juvenile military companies paraded the streets every evening and mimic battles were fought every Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

The flag lowered over Fort Sumter was unfurled everywhere. Flags cost money in those days, too, but they were flung to the breeze from the tops of churches, school houses, business places and the homes of the rich and the poor. I used to go up on the roof of my home nearly every day to count the new banners.

The rendezvous for the boys of our neighborhood was Jim Corey's blacksmith shop. Jim was a typical "village blacksmith" with a hearty greeting for every one, old and young. The boys could always count on Jim's sympathy if they had a stone bruise, got a licking at home or lacked ten cents of the price of a circus ticket.

Corey's shop was also a favorite meeting place for the men. Here they would a.s.semble after supper and discuss the all-absorbing topic, the war.

One of the most regular in attendance was "Wash" Hopkins, as he was familiarly called. A particular nail keg with a piece of buffalo skin thrown over the end was the seat always reserved for him. He usually allowed the others to do the talking, but when he had anything to say it was right to the point.

Almost everybody was of the opinion that the South was putting up a big game of bluff and that the affair would blow over quickly.

On one occasion those gathered in the blacksmith shop had been discussing the situation and were pretty unanimous that the rebellion would be crushed out in sixty days. "Wash" roused himself and quietly remarked: "Guess you'd better make it ninety, boys."

At another time a young man was telling those a.s.sembled that he had enlisted in a company of sharpshooters; that they were going to pick off the rebel officers and artillerymen as fast as they showed themselves, which would demoralize the troops and send them flying from the field.

"That's all right," says "Wash," "but what do you suppose the other fellows are going to do while you're shooting at them? Perhaps they may have sharpshooters, too."

How little I thought in those early days of the war that Corey and I would be soldiering in the same company and regiment a few months later.

I recall the thrilling war meetings that were held in the churches and school houses. There was scarcely a place in the county where there was a store and postoffice that did not have its war meeting each week. It is worthy of mention that the most enthusiastic speakers on such occasions were eager to enlist--others. There comes to my mind the names of several who were always urging others to enlist, but who stayed at home and coined money while others fought, and after the war labored to have refunded to them by the taxpayers the money that they had expended for a subst.i.tute.

Carthage sent volunteers promptly in response to Lincoln's call, and a few days after the fall of Sumter about two dozen young men left to join the old 35th New York infantry.

There was no railroad to Carthage in those days, and they rode away in wagons drawn by four horses. The scene comes before me as I write. The sad partings, the waving banners, the cheers of the mult.i.tude who had gathered to see them off to the war. Those were anxious, exciting days that the present generation know but little about.

Among that party of first volunteers was a favorite cousin of the writer who was scarcely seventeen years old. The one thing above all others that I wished as I saw him ride away was that I was old enough to go, too.

Patriotism ran high in Carthage, and the town sent more than its share of volunteers in the early days of the war before there were any big bounties and when the pay was $11 per month.

One bright morning in the fall of 1861 a motherless lad of less than thirteen saw his father go away with a company of men that had been recruited for the Morgan Flying Artillery, then being organized at Staten Island, in New York harbor. He wanted to go with his father, but the suggestion was not listened to.

After the regiment was sent to Virginia Capt. Smith of the Carthage company returned home after more men. He brought a letter to the little lad from his father and, patting the boy on his head, asked him in a joking way how he would like to be a soldier. This gave the boy an opportunity that he was wanting, and he pleaded with the officer to take him back with him. The mother was dead, the home was broken up; the little fellow argued that he would be better off with his father.

The tender hearted captain sympathized with the boy, but said he did not know what he could do with such a little fellow. The boy would not be put off, however. He had inherited persistency from his Scottish ancestors, and after much importuning the captain said that he did not know how it could be managed, but he would try to take the boy back with him.

In March, 1862, when two months past thirteen years old, the one of whom I write started for the war with a squad of recruits in charge of Sergt.

Wesley Powell. Strange to relate, this same Powell, two years and a half later, had charge of a detachment of soldiers carrying rations to their comrades on the firing line in front of Petersburg, when a sh.e.l.l burst so close to them that several were stunned, although not seriously injured, and among them was the boy who went to the war with the sergeant so long before.

A THIRTEEN-YEAR-OLD SOLDIER.

Forty-two years and over have not dimmed the recollections of the day when the start was made for the war. The boy got up bright and early and went all around among his neighboring playmates and bade them good-bye. Didn't he feel important, though?

The party rode to Watertown in wagons, and after a supper at the old American hotel, boarded a train for New York. It was the first ride on the cars for our young volunteer.

The boy might live to be one thousand years old, but he could scarcely forget Broadway as it appeared to him that spring day in 1862.

He remembers that the next day when they were on a train pa.s.sing through New Jersey, a party of boys from a military school boarded the car. They were dressed in natty new uniforms, of which they were evidently very proud. Sergt. Powell wore the regulation artillery uniform of that period, which was quite stunning with the red facings and bra.s.s epaulets, and a hat of black felt caught up at the side and ornamented with a black plume.

Powell got into conversation with the school boys and finally brought them over to where his party was seated and said: "I want to have you meet a little boy who, although he is not in uniform, is going to be a real soldier."

If there are any old veterans reading this, they will have most pleasant recollections and ever feel grateful to the good people of Philadelphia for the treatment they received whenever they pa.s.sed through the city going to or from the war. No boy in blue was ever allowed to pa.s.s through the city without being well fed and comfortably cared for, if he remained there over night. Our party pa.s.sed the night there and took an early train for Washington.

Baltimore had earned an unenviable reputation by its hostility to the northern soldiers and there was always apprehension that a train bearing any soldiers might be stoned or fired upon. Sergt. Powell was quite a joker and he had worked upon the fears of the party in his charge so much that two or three were badly frightened when the train pulled into the city. The reception was in marked contrast with that in Philadelphia, but the pa.s.sage through Baltimore was without incident.