Read Ebook: The Life of Buddha and Its Lessons by Olcott Henry Steel

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 81 lines and 5473 words, and 2 pages

A BOY'S IMPRESSIONS OF THE CIVIL WAR

BY WILLIAM J. HENDERSON

THE CAPTAIN OF COMPANY Q

BY ROBERT SHACKLETON

MIDSHIPMAN JACK, U.S.N.

BY WILLIAM DRYSDALE

CAPTAIN BILLY

BY LUCY LILLIE

THE BLOCKADE-RUNNER

TWO DAYS WITH MOSBY

THE FIRST TIME UNDER FIRE

HOW CUSHING DESTROYED THE "ALBEMARLE"

CAPTAIN HOWARD PATTERSON, U. S. N.

PRESIDENT LINCOLN AND THE SLEEPING SENTINEL

BY L. E. CHITTENDEN

THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE "MONITOR" AND "MERRIMAC"

BY L. E. CHITTENDEN

SHERIDAN'S RIDE

BY GENERAL G. A. FORSYTH, U. S. N.

LEE'S SURRENDER AT APPOMATTOX

BY GENERAL G. A. FORSYTH, U. S. N.

"COULD THEY COME TO ATTACK US WHEN THEY KNOW WHAT TROUBLE WE ARE IN?" " 40

MEAN AS WERE THE SURROUNDINGS IT MADE A TRAGIC SCENE " 56

CHASING A BLOCKADE-RUNNER " 62

THE BATTLE BETWEEN THE "MONITOR" AND "MERRIMAC" " 158

"SHERIDAN! SHERIDAN!" " 178

DEPARTURE OF GENERAL LEE AFTER THE SURRENDER " 216

INTRODUCTION

To the younger readers of the twentieth century the great war of 1861-65, fought to maintain the authority of the national government and to preserve the union of the States, may sometimes seem remote and impersonal. The passage of time has healed the bitterness and animosity which an older generation can remember, and if proof were needed of the real union of our country it was shown when South and North marched side by side under the old flag in the war with Spain. It is well that the passions of war should be laid aside, but the examples of heroism on both sides and the lessons of patriotism are something always to be kept in mind. Grant and Lee, Sherman, Sheridan, "Stonewall" Jackson--figures like these are not to be forgotten--and personal views of some of these leaders will be found in this book.

Of the great campaigns of those terrible four years, when vast armies marched and countermarched and wrestled in battles of giants, there are many accounts, and yet the necessarily limited space allotted in short histories may well be supplemented by narratives alive with human interest. That is the purpose of this book. Mr. Henderson's recollections, which serve as a prologue, will take the boy of to-day back to these eventful years and make him realize what it was to live in the days when North and South were summoning their sons to arms. Mr. Shackleton's dramatic story is the first of some imaginative tales of the war which aim to preserve the atmosphere of those thrilling days in the guise of fiction. The stories which follow--"The Blockade Runner" and "Two Days with Mosby," are believed to be essentially relations of actual experiences; and the balance of the book, including the tales of Lincoln, Worden and the Monitor, Sheridan's Ride, and Lee's surrender, is vivid, first-hand history. One feature of this book is that the latter stories are told by those who took an actual part. This is a book of adventure and of heroic deeds, which are not only of absorbing interest, but they also bring a closer realization of the one country which was welded together in the furnace of the Civil War.

STRANGE STORIES OF THE CIVIL WAR

STRANGE STORIES OF THE CIVIL WAR

A BOY'S IMPRESSIONS OF THE CIVIL WAR

Every time I see the citizen soldiers of the National Guard march down the avenue I have a choking sensation in my throat, and sometimes tears come to my eyes. A young man who stood beside me one day when I could not help making an exhibition of myself, said, "What's the matter with you?" And my answer was, "They make me think of the men I saw going to the front in war-times." Then the young man laughed, and said, "What can you remember of the war?" He was about twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, and the Civil War was to him something to be read of in a dusty book. I was five years old when the war began. I could read and write, and was going to school. Many of the things which I saw then made impressions on my mind never to be effaced this side of the grave.

I was living in the city of Pittsburg, at the junction of the Alleghany and Monongahela rivers, whose waters, joined in the Ohio, flowed past many a field that will live in history. Pittsburg was not in the midst of the war, but it was close enough to some scenes of action, especially Gettysburg, and important enough as a point of departure and source of supplies to keep it filled with soldiers, and warmly in touch with all that was going on. What I wish to tell you is something about the way it all appeared to a boy.

My first recollection is of my father reading from a newspaper the announcement that Major Anderson and his garrison at Fort Sumter had been fired upon. That was in April, 1861, and I was in my sixth year; but I remember that I was greatly excited, and wondered what it all meant. It must have been later than that when my father gave me an explanation, which I remember to this day. He said: "My little boy, there is war between the people of the North and those of the South. The people in the South want to have slaves, and the people in the North say they must not have them. So the people of the South say they will not belong to the United States any more, and the people of the North say they must. And so they are fighting, and the fighting will go on till one or the other is beaten."

All at once Pittsburg became alive with military preparations. Drums were beating in the streets all day and far into the night. Every hour a detachment of soldiers would march along Smithfield Street, and as I lived just above the corner of it on Second Street, now called Second Avenue, I would run to see every squad go by, till it became tiresome, and nothing short of a regiment could interrupt my play. Those must have been the seventy-five thousand volunteers called for by Abraham Lincoln to serve three months and crush the rebellion. Some of those men came back at the end of their three months, but of that I remember little or nothing. The only thing that made a strong impression on me in the early days of the war, after the attack on Sumter, was the killing of Ellsworth. I suppose every boy knows now how the gallant young Colonel of the New York Fire Zouaves took down the Confederate flag that was flying over an inn in Alexandria, and was shot dead by the proprietor of the house, who was immediately killed by Private Brownell.

That incident fired the hearts of all the boys in Pittsburg. We could not understand much of what we heard about the movements of troops, and I have forgotten everything which may have reached my ears at the time. But we could understand the murder of Ellsworth, and to this day I remember how we little fellows burned with indignation, and how we all wished we had been Brownell to shoot down the innkeeper. Somehow the untimely fate of the brave young Zouave commander appealed to us very forcibly, and I think some of us cried about it. It appealed to our mothers too, and suddenly the little boys in Pittsburg began to blossom out in Zouave suits. My mother had one made for me--a light-blue jacket with brass buttons, a red cap, and red trousers. She bought me a little flag, and had my picture taken in my uniform, and she has that picture yet. Next she got me a little tin sword; and then two older boys procured blue army overcoats and caps, and borrowed two muskets from the property-man at the theatre, and I used to drill those boys, and march them proudly all over Pittsburg, to the intense delight of the grown-up people, who cheered us wherever we went.

The next thing which remains indelibly fixed in my memory is the surprise and terror which flashed across the whole North when we heard the news from Bull Run. Of course I do not remember the date of the battle, and I am obliged to refer to my history to find that it took place in July, 1861. But we boys in Pittsburg had been indulging in much loud talk, as boys will, of the way in which our soldiers were going to blow out the rebellion, as one would blow out a candle; and here came the news that these miserable rebels, whom we despised, had thrashed our glorious army terribly, and were thinking about walking into Washington. My impressions at the time were that a lot of Southern slave-drivers, armed with snake whips and wearing slouch-hats, would soon arrive in Pittsburg and make us all stand around and obey orders. My father about this time used to pace the floor in deep thought after reading the newspaper, and used to set off for business with a bowed head. Later in life I learned that in those days he drew his last twenty-five dollars out of the bank, and did not know where more was to come from. But I thought he expected to be killed or made a slave. The boys used to discuss what steps they would take if the rebels came, and it was pretty generally agreed that we would all have to run across the Monongahela River bridge, climb Coal Hill, and hide in the mines.

From the time of Bull Run to the assassination of Abraham Lincoln my boyhood memories, as they come back to me now, present no orderly sequence of events. In a dim way I remember the distress and consternation caused by the dread event at Ball's Bluff, and in an equally uncertain way I remember how we cheered and danced when the news of a victory arrived. Just across the street from my father's house stood the Homoeopathic Hospital, and next to it was a vacant lot in which pig-iron was stored. There we boys were wont to resort. We sat on the piles of pig metal and gravely discussed the progress of the war, and I well remember that one of my earliest combats arose from my proclaiming my belief that General Burnside was a greater man than George B. McClellan. That was rank treason; but I think Burnside's whiskers made a conquest of me. I will add that the dispute ended in a triumphant victory for the defender of McClellan's fame. Thereupon I went home to my mother and "told on" the defender. I got little consolation, for my mother said: "Don't come to me. If a boy hits you, you must hit back; but don't come in crying to me." We were a warlike race in those days.

Gettysburg is a word that conjures up memories for me. We thought we had seen soldiers in Pittsburg before that, but we had simply seen samples. When the Confederates invaded Pennsylvania, we found ourselves in a most unpleasant place; but we had plenty of excitement. From early dawn till late at night drums were beating in the streets and the walls of the houses echoed the tread of many feet. For three weeks I never set my foot inside the Second Ward School in Ross Street, where I was supposed to be, but every morning I stole quietly across the bridge and ascended Coal Hill. Do you know what was going on up there? Soldiers were working like beavers, throwing up earthworks. Similar operations were in progress on every hill around the city, and many an hour I spent carrying water for the boys in the hot sun.

But when the man came with the Great Diorama of the War we learned something new. A diorama is, to be Hibernian, just like a panorama, only it is different. In a panorama you see pictures; in a diorama you see moving figures cut out in profile. After each scene the curtain must be lowered and the stage reset. I remember that this man began his entertainment with an ordinary series of panoramic views, after which the curtain fell, and we prepared ourselves for the new revelation. When the curtain rose again, we saw a miniature stage set with scenic waters. In the background were two large ships, cut out in profile, and in the distance were two or three more. The next moment we were startled by seeing a flash shoot out from the side of one, followed by a dull boom. Then the other big ship fired, and next the forts, which were at the sides, opened up. We began to tingle with excitement, and could hardly remain in our seats.

But to return to Gettysburg. When troops were being hurried forward to that point from every direction, thousands of soldiers passed through Pittsburg. Many of them were sent out by the Pittsburg and Connellsville Railroad to Uniontown, and thence to the front. Every afternoon I used to go to the Connellsville station, at the foot of Ross Street, and ride out on the four-o'clock train as far as the historic Braddock's Field, where, you remember, the British commander Braddock refused to take Washington's advice in the matter of Indian-fighting, and paid the penalty. This station was just ten miles out, and I could get back in time for supper. Attached to every train out in those days were several flat-cars with planks laid across from side to side for seats, and these cars were loaded with soldiers. I always rode in one of those cars, and listened in breathless awe to the conversation of those real live soldiers who were going out to fight. As I remember them now, they were hearty, good-natured fellows, very kind to the little boy who took so much interest in them. And when I returned to Pittsburg I used to dream about them at night, and wake up very early in the morning to listen for the sound of the guns of the approaching invaders. I was no worse than older people. Many a good woman in Pittsburg went on the roof very often to listen for those same guns.

Another thing which I remember very distinctly is the work we used to do in the public schools in those days. Every afternoon we devoted a part of our time to picking lint. We were told by our teachers that it was to be sent to the front, where it would be used in dressing the wounds of the soldiers. None of us dreamed of the real horrors of war, but I think our hearts were in that work just the same. And we used to get our mothers to make housewives, which we filled with combs, brushes, and soap; and these, too, were sent to the front. We saw soldiers going to war every day with no other baggage than their knapsacks, and we well understood, children as we were, that the housewife would be welcome in every tent.

And finally came the news of Appomattox. Guns were fired, and people cheered, and we boys simply danced war-dances all over the city. Soon the troops began to come home, and then we had our eyes opened a bit. The boys of to-day see the old fellows of the Grand Army of the Republic turn out in their sober blue uniforms, carrying the old battle-flags carefully wrapped up, and the boys think them a monotonous lot, and take little interest in them. But I saw them come back with their bare feet sticking out of their ragged shoes, with the legs of their trousers and the arms of their coats hanging in tatters, with the army blue faded by the sun and washed by the rain to a sickly greenish-gray, with their faces baked and frozen and blown till they looked like sheets of sole-leather, saving the happy smiles they bore. And I saw those old battle-flags come back with their rent and shivered stripes streaming in the wind, while strong men stood looking on with tears in their eyes. And I saw one of my uncles, who had been a prisoner in Andersonville, come to Pittsburg with a gangrened foot, which my mother dressed every day. I shall never forget his condition, nor that of the heroes who marched through Pittsburg day after day when the war was over. I am sorry there had to be a war; but I am unspeakably grateful that I was old enough to get those impressions, which will live as long as I do. They spring to life again whenever I see troops on the march, and they give the old flag a meaning for me which I think it cannot have for those without my memories.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet