Harold
THE DEATH MARCH
One more scene I can remember. Kind friends – you that know nothing of a soldiers life – I ask you in all candor to doubt the following lines in this sketch. You have no doubt read of the old Roman soldier found amid the ruins of Pompeii, who had stood there for sixteen hundred years, and when he was excavated was found at his post with his gun clasped in his skeleton hands. You believe this because it is written in history. I have heard politicians tell it. I have heard it told from the sacred desk. It is true; no one doubts it.
Now, were I to tell something that happened in this nineteenth century exactly similar, you would hardly believe it, But whether you believe it or not, it is for you to say. At a little village called Hampshire Crossing, our regiment was ordered to go to a little stream called St. John’s Run, to relieve the 14th Georgia Regiment and the 3rd Arkansas. I cannot tell the facts as I desire. In fact, my hand trembles so, and my feelings are so overcome, that it is hard for me to write at all. But we went to the place that we were ordered to go to, and when we arrived there we found the guard sure enough. If I remember correctly, there were just eleven of them. Some were sitting down and some were lying down; but each and every one was as cold and as hard frozen as the icicles that hung from their hands and faces and clothing – dead! They had died at their post of duty. Two of them, a little in advance of the others, were standing with their guns in their hands, as cold and as hard frozen as a monument of marble – standing sentinel with loaded guns in their frozen! The tale is told. Were they true men? Does He who noteth the sparrow’s fall, and numbers the hairs of our heads, have any interest in one like ourselves? Yes; He doeth all things well. Not a sparrow falls to the ground without His consent.
Private Sam R. Watkins
(Co. Aytch, A Side Show of the Big Show)
My Friends
Reader mine, in writing these rapid and imperfect recollections, I find that should I attempt to write up all the details that I would not only weary you, but that these memoirs would soon become monotonous and uninteresting. I have written only of what I saw. Many little acts of kindness shown me by ladies and old citizens, I have omitted. I remember going to an old citizen’s house, and he and the old lady were making clay pipes. I recollect how they would mold the pipes and put them in a red-hot stove to burn hard. Their kindness to me will never be forgotten. The first time that I went there they seemed very glad to see me, and told me that I looked exactly like their son who was in the army. I asked them what regiment he belonged to. After a moment’s silence the old lady, her voice trembling as she spoke said the Fourteenth Georgia, and then began to cry. Then the old man said, “Yes we have a son in the army. He went to Virginia the first year of the war, and we have never heard of him since. These wars are terrible, sir. The last time that we heard of him, he went with Stonewall Jackson away up in the mountains of West Virginia, toward Romney, and I did hear that while standing picket at a little place called Hampshire Crossing, on a little stream called St. John’s Run, he and eleven others froze to death. We have never heard of him since.” He got up and began walking up and down the room, his hands crossed behind his back. I buckled on my knapsack to go back to camp, and I shook hands with the two good old people, and they told me good-bye, and both said, “God bless you, God bless you.” I said the same to them, and said, “I pray God to reward you, and bring your son safe home again.” When I got back to camp I found cannon and caissons moving, and I knew and felt that General Hood was going to strike the enemy again. Preparations were going on, but everything seemed to be out of order and system. Men were cursing, and seemed to be dissatisfied and unhappy, but the army was moving.
War Correspondence
Warm Springs, Va.,
Sept. 22d, 1861
Dear Col. – I have just landed in a road wagon (the only conveyance to be had) of this place from two miles this side of Big Springs, some sixty miles from here where I caved in having owing to the roads being so bad to walk upon my broken leg and ankle some eight miles over mountains rocks and mud. I am now in my room resting, having a very badly swollen leg with a very pretty abcess upon it. I pressed in some waggoners and removed the sick of my company from Huntersville, the filthiest hole on God’s earth, to this place. This is the last part of the world. Never wish a man in Hell, but in Northwestern Virginia a soldier paddling through this mud ankle deep, and he is in a mile of Hell. Empty wagons with four horses can scarcely get through. The soldiers only get half ration a day. We are obliged to fall back to or near the railroad. The army is awfully reduced by sickness, some 800 down with typhoid fever at Big Spring – 240 here, and all along the road sick men by the score. The 14th Georgia has some 200 men fit for duty at this time.
In my company the sickness is severe. I have had the misfortune to lose several gallant soldiers. Lieut. R. J. Weeks, a gentleman and soldier, eager to meet the enemy, has met a worse enemy than Yankee bullets, viz; typhoid fever, and a few days ago breathed his last calmly and serenely. He died with one regret, and that was he could not fall upon the battle field. His name will be embalmed upon memory’s record. Requiescat in pace. I have also the painful duty to record the deaths of privates William Gunter, Manning McCraney, Pearson Brown, Fletcher Harden, of the Yancey Independents. One of my best soldiers, James Bass, shot his left off a few days since with a Mississippi rifle, by an unforeseen accident. He is doing pretty well. Many others of my company are quite sick. I am doing all in my power to remove them to these springs or to the Bath Alum Springs. Send your paper to me. I have no idea yet what will be done by Gen. Lee. He has got to act quickly, as winter will soon be upon us here, which blocks up everything here.
I will write you again if I hear anything of interest. I am yours truly,
WM. A. HARRIS