Drum Taps in Dixie Part 27

"No."

"Were you in command of a certain fort in Virginia in 1862?"

"I was."

"Do you remember of a man being injured on one of the heavy guns in the fort?"

"No."

"Do you remember a soldier by the name of Jarvis Jenkins?"

"No."

"Now, colonel, look at this paper and tell me if that is your signature."

"Well, I should say it was."

"Now, colonel, will you oblige me by reading the statement you signed many years ago and then tell me how you reconcile that statement with the one you just made to me?"

The colonel was something of a rough diamond but the soul of honor. He was st.u.r.dy, honest and blunt. A man who called a spade a spade. He disliked subterfuge or deceit. A fighter from way back, and I can imagine something of the indignation he felt when he got up out of his chair to make reply.

"Say, young man, I'm no highwayman or perjurer. I was fighting my country's battles when you was nursing a bottle. The lapse of time, and my infirmities, the result of wounds and hardships, do not permit me to remember the names, the color of hair and eyes of several thousand men who were on the rolls of my regiment nearly 40 years ago, but I will have you to understand, sir, that I am no less a gentleman than a soldier and whatever I have put my name to you can bet your bottom dollar is G.o.d's truth, every word of it, and if you dare to stand up before me and intimate otherwise, d.a.m.n me if I won't knock you down in a jiffy and walk all over you."

The government special laughed as he read the interview and rolling the papers up put them in his grip as he remarked: "Say, I rather liked the old veteran after all."

THE COMPANY COOK.

One of the most important personages of a company was the cook. Even the officers stood in awe of him. What if he did boil his shirts and greasy trousers in the kettle in which he cooked our food, made soup, tea and coffee.

As a result the flavor was somewhat mixed at times, but no one dared to remonstrate with the "son of a sea cook," for the one that provoked his displeasure was sure to suffer in some way. If they punished those whom they disliked they bestowed many favors upon those whom they happened to take a liking to. The writer always stood in well with "Uncle" Hawley, our first cook, who was taken prisoner at Bull Run, and "Lige" Moyer, who succeeded him. Hawley was an elocutionist of no mean ability. "Lige" used to while away his spare moments with a fiddle.

STORY OF THE MUSTER ROLL.

Spread out before me is a copy of the muster-out roll of Co. H, 2d New York heavy artillery, organized at Carthage, N. Y., Oct. 14, 1861, mustered into United States service at Staten Island, Oct. 18, 1861, and disbanded at Hart's Island, New York harbor, Oct. 10, 1865.

When a regiment was mustered out of service each company was required to hand in a muster-out roll bearing the names of every man who had served in the organization and the particulars of his service were written opposite the name.

The names were grouped under various headings of: "Present at Muster-out,"

"Previously Discharged," "Transferred," "Deserted," "Killed in Action,"

"Died of Wounds," "Died of Disease," etc., etc.

Almost anybody would be interested in looking over an old muster-out roll, but to the man who was a part of the organization, who knew its history from beginning to end and can read between the lines, so to speak, the story told is doubly interesting and in many respects a sad one. Such a reader is carried back to the war and is enabled to vividly recall its thrilling scenes.

He knows who were the best soldiers, who stood in the front rank, who led in the a.s.saults. Likewise he knows who were the skulkers and cowards, for it was an impossibility for a soldier to hide his weaknesses from his comrades.

In scanning the remarks opposite of the names one is brought face to face with the past as in no other way. For instance: "Lieut. William H. Roff, wounded in a charge at Cold Harbor, June 6, 1864, leg amputated, died."

"Lieut. John Clapsaddle, disabled by wounds at Petersburg and discharged."

Another reminder of the desperate fighting at Cold Harbor is the name of an old schoolmate, "Henry C. Potter," "wounded June 6," "died Aug. 2, 1864." Under the group of "killed in action," I read "Roscoe Williamson, killed at Cold Harbor, June 6," and I recall a bright, rosy cheeked young fellow that was a great favorite.

"George H. Ormiston, taken prisoner at Reams Station, Aug. 25, 1864; died en route north April 9, 1865." And one shudders as he thinks of the thousands that were literally starved to death in Andersonville and other southern prison pens.

"Second Lieut. O. T. Bliss promoted to first lieutenant and transferred to Co. F," recalls one of the bravest of the brave who enlisted as a bugler, exchanged his trumpet for a gun at Bull Run, was captured and later pa.s.sed through all the various grades of rank from corporal to brevet major.

"Sergt. Franklin B. Farr, mortally wounded at Round Fort, Va., April 7, 1865," only two days before the surrender of Lee, and one thinks how sad to fall in the last battle of the war with victory and home in sight.

"John Satterly, wounded at Cold Harbor, June 3, 1864," and I see long John with his peculiar hook-shaped nose which caused one of the boys who was waggishly inclined to suggest that he could make big money picking cherries as he could hang to a limb with his nose and gather the fruit in with both hands. Ever after that John was called "Cherry Picker."

I pause at the name of "Edwin Smith, mortally wounded at Petersburg, June 16, 1864," and I recall what he said when being carried to the rear. "Hold on, boys, don't carry me off without my grub." Our regiment was lying behind a stone wall supporting a battery that was firing over our heads.

Rations had been brought up to us that morning and "Ed" was eating when wounded, and the stretcher bearers were carrying him off without his haversack. He never made a murmur about his wound but did not want to lose his rations. He was a son of a Watertown tailor and was one of the youngest and smallest boys of our company that carried a musket. There were a number under 18 years of age in the company and they were called the "ponies," but they could outmarch most of the large heavy men. The "ponies" made up in grit and enthusiasm what they lacked in size.

"Patrick Devereaux, veteran" and I hear the rollicking laugh of as gallant an Irish soldier as ever carried a gun, whose ready wit and cheery disposition made him to Co. H what d.i.c.kens' "Mark Tapley" was to "Martin Chuzzlewit."

It was Patsy who made Major "Quicker nor that" mark time for him, and Pat who, when our regiment, with fixed bayonets was lying behind the stone wall at Spottsylvania waiting for Ewell's charge, broke the awful stillness of those few minutes, that seemed like hours, by remarking: "Boys, wouldn't a little 'commissary' taste good about now?"

He was the "Mulvany" of our company and a prime favorite with everybody.

"Halt who goes there!" was never spoken by a better soldier than Patrick Devereaux of the 2nd Heavy.

The following letter from my old comrade is characteristic of the man:

PAT'S LETTER.

Troy, N. Y., April 6, 1904.

"Me Little Boy in Blue:"

I see by the papers which somebody has been sendin' me that our little 'Sheepskin beater' of company H has trun down his drum sticks an tuk up a pen an' is riting' war stories. I've hearn tell that the 'pen is mightier than the sword' which was probably true of the 'toad-stabbers' carried by the drummer boys durin' the war. But say, youse lads were great wid the drum sticks, and would make a divil of a racket in the mornin' whin a fellah wanted to slape.

Many's the time whin lyin' so comfortable wid me rubber poncho betwix me an' the sod, an' dreamin' of me darlin' an' dear ould Ireland, hev you disturbed me slumbers wid your batin' of the reveille, and I've bin that mad I cud have kicked you an' your drum into the middle of nex' week. But whin youse kids led us out on a p'rade to the chune of 'Rory O'More' it was like goin' to a Donnybrook fair so aisy was the marchin' behind the drum corps of the Second Heavy. If ould Pat does say it you were a foine lot of youngsters, and whin it came to drummin' youse cud give odds to any drum corps in the 1st division. Say me boy, them were great days, weren't they? You were but a small kid but I suppose are growin' grey wid the rest of the ould boys.

Your riferince to me tilt wid Major Roach, who was forever yellin' out 'Quicker nor that,' brings those days back to me mind, an' it does not seem 40 years ago. Roach an' some of the other officers we had on the go-in were a quare gang. But that Colonel Whistler from the regulars was all right. Wasn't he? Jermiah N. G. was a peach an' he made a good regiment out of us, an' the Second Heavy made a brigadier out of him by the way they wint for them Jonnies the 16th of June at Petersburg. Say, me blood runs hot whin I think of the mornin' in the peach orchard whin Whistler led us in that charge.

Dan, me oldest son, wint to the Spanish war and it makes me laf to hear him tell about the hardships at Tampa and the charge of San Wan. One evenin' he was entertainin' some of his friends wid riminescences and one of the young ladies said she thought it an outrage for the government to send them home from the war in common every-day coaches. 'Palace cars were none too good for the soldier boys.' I agreed with her, but said I remember thet our regiment who saw four years' service were sint home in box cars with divil a seat or whisp of straw to lie on. I tell Dan that if he had followed Gen. Hanc.o.c.k's old battle flag with the ace of clubs on it, from Bull Run to Appomattox, stopping occasionally to take a hand in skirmishes like Antietam, Gettysburg, Cold Harbor, Spottsylvania, Petersburg, Reams Station, Five Forks and a few other small affairs, he would know more about war.

The boys were all right though. The trouble in the last war, was, that there was not enough of it to go around.

By the way I think you galloped over the Appomattox campaign a little too lively. It was short and none too sweet, but there was a good bit doin' in them ten days, and it seems to me you could have given a few more particulars without wearying your readers.

The prisint generation who are wadin' knee deep in clover won't be hurt by being reminded of what the old vets suffered for them.

I remember onct that our liftenant Tom Waters said that whin I got to talking I did not know whin to stop and I guess you'll think it's the same wid me letter rittin', so here's to you and yours. Keep a stiff upper lip.

Never show the white flag.

Yours for the Union.

P. DEVEREAUX.