Chapter 7 A MUD-MARCH AND A SHAM BATTLE.

We had been quietly lying in our winter quarters there at Belle Plains some two months and more, without having yet had much to vary the dull monotony of a soldier's everyday life. There was, of course, plenty of work in the way of picket duty and endless drilling, and no lack of fun in the camp of one kind or other; but of all this we gradually wearied, and began to long for something new.

Not that we were especially anxious for the fatigues of the march and the stirring scenes of the battle-field (of all which we were so far blissfully ignorant): we simply felt that we were tired of the monotony of camp life, and, knowing that great things were before us, with all the ardor of young men for strange experiences and new adventures, we gradually became more and more anxious for the campaign to open. Alas! we knew not what it was we wished for; for when this celebrated campaign of '63 was ended, the few of us who remained to build our second winter quarters had seen quite enough of marching and fighting to last us the rest of our natural days.

However, it was with feelings of relief that we suddenly received orders for the march early in the afternoon of Monday, April 20. As good luck would have it, Andy and I had just finished a hearty meal consisting in the main of apple-fritters; for by this time we had repaired our chimney, which had been destroyed by the fire, and had several times already prepared our fritters without burning our house down over our heads in the operation. Having finished our meal, we were lying lazily back against our knapsacks, disputing as to whose turn it was to wash the dishes, when Andy, hearing some outcry which I had not noticed, suddenly leaped out of the little door in the side of our cabin into the company street, exclaiming as he did so,-

"What's that, sergeant? What's up?"

"Orders to move, that's all, my boy," said the sergeant. "Orders to move. Pack up immediately."

"Where are we going?" queried a dozen voices in chorus; for the news spread like fire in a clearing, and the boys came tumbling out of their cabins pell-mell and gathered about the sergeant in a group.

"You tell me, and I'll tell you," answered the sergeant, with a shrug of his shoulders, as he shouted,-

"Pack up immediately, men! We go in light marching order. No knapsacks; only a shelter or a gum-blanket, and three days' rations in your haversacks; and be lively now!"

It was not long before we were all ready, with our thirty hard-tack, a piece of pork, and a little coffee and sugar in our haversacks, and our gum-blankets or shelters rolled and twisted into a shape somewhat resembling an immense horse-collar, slung over the shoulder diagonally across the body, as was universally the custom with the troops when knapsacks were to be dispensed with in winter, or had been thrown away in summer. We drummer-boys, tightening our drums and tuning them up with a tap-tap-tap of the drumstick, took station on the parade-ground up on the hill, awaiting the adjutant's signal to beat the assembly. At the first tap of our drums the whole regiment, in full view below us, poured out of quarters, like ants tumbling out of their hill when disturbed by the thrust of a stick. As the men fell into line and marched by companies up the hill to the parade-ground where the regiment was ordinarily formed, cheer upon cheer went up; for the monotony of camp life was now plainly at an end, and we were at last to be up and doing, though where, or how, or what, no one could tell.

When a drum-head is wet, it at once loses all its peculiar charm and power. On the present occasion our drum-heads were soon soaked, for it was raining hard. So, unloosening the ropes, we slung our useless sheepskins over our shoulders, as the order was given, "Forward-route-step-march!" The order "route-step" was always a welcome and merciful command, and the reader must bear in mind that troops on the march always go by the "route-step." They march usually four abreast, indeed, but make no effort to keep step; for marching in that way, though good enough for a mile or two on parade, would soon become intolerable if kept up for any great distance. In "route-step" each man picks his way, selecting his steps at his pleasure, and carrying or shifting his arms at his convenience. Even then, marching is no easy matter, especially when it is raining, and you are marching over a clay soil,-and it did seem to us that the soil about Belle Plains was the toughest and most slippery clay in the world, at least in the roads that wound, serpent-like, around the hills amongst which we were marching, where, as we well knew, many a poor mule during the winter had stuck fast, and had to be literally pulled out or left to die in his tracks after the harness had been ripped off his back.

At first, however, we had tolerable marching, for we took across the fields, and kept well upon the high ground as long as we could. We passed some good farms and comfortable looking houses, where we should have liked to stop and buy bread and butter, or get "hoecake" and milk; but there was no time for that, for we made no halt longer than was necessary to allow the rear to "close up," and then were up and away again at a swift pace.

The afternoon wore on. Night set in, and we began to wonder, in all the simplicity of new troops, whether Uncle Sam expected us to march all night as well as all day? To make matters still worse, as night fell dark and drizzling, we left the high ground and came out on the main road of those regions; and if we never before knew what Virginia mud was like, we knew it then. It was not only knee-deep, but also so sticky, that when you set one foot down, you could scarcely pull the other out. As for myself, I found my side-arms (if indeed they merited the name) a provoking incumbrance. Drummer-boys carried no arms except a straight thin sword fastened to a broad leathern belt about the waist. Of this we had been in the outstart quite proud, and had kept it polished with great care. However, this "toad-sticker," as we were pleased to call it, on this mud-march caused each of us drummer-boys a world of trouble, and well illustrated the saying that "pride goeth before a fall." For as we groped about in the darkness and slid and plunged about in the mud, this miserable sword was forever getting tangled up with the wearer's legs, so that before he was aware of it, down he went on his face in the mud. My own weapon gave me so many falls that night, that I was quite out of conceit with it. When we reached camp after this march was done, I handed it to the quartermaster, agreeing to pay the price of it thrice over rather than carry it any more. The rest of the drummer-boys, I believe, carried theirs as far as Chancellorsville, and there solemnly hung them up on an oak-tree, where they are unto this day, if nobody has found them and carried them off as trophies of war.

We had a little darky along with us on this march who had an experience which was quite as provoking to him as it was amusing to us. The darky's name was Bill. Other name he had none, except "Shorty," which had been given him by the boys because of his remarkably short stature. For although he was as strong as a man, and quite as old-featured, he was nevertheless so dwarfed in size that the name Shorty seemed to become him better than his original name of Bill. Well, Shorty had been employed by one of our captains as cook, or, as seemed more likely on the present occasion, as a sort of sumpter-mule. For the captain, having an eye to comfort on the march, had loaded the poor darky with a pack of blankets, tents, pans, kettles, and general camp equipage, so large and bulky, that it is no exaggeration to say that Shorty's pack was quite as large as himself. All along it had been a wonder to us how he had managed to pull through so far with all that immense bundle on his back; but, with strength far beyond his size, he had trudged doggedly on at the captain's heels, over hill and through field, until we came at nightfall to the main road. There, like many another sumpter-mule, he stuck fast in the mud, so that, puff and pull as he might, he could not pull either foot out, and had to be dragged out by two men, to the great merriment of all who in the growing darkness were aware of Shorty's misfortune.

At length it became so dark that no one was able to see an inch before his face, and we lost the road. Torches were then lighted, in order to find it. Then we forded a creek, and then on and on we went, till at length we were allowed to halt and fall out on either side of the road into a last year's cornfield, to "make fires and cook coffee."

To make a fire was a comparatively easy matter, notwithstanding the rain; for some one or other always had matches, and there were plenty of rails at hand, and these were dry enough when split open with a hatchet or an axe. In a few moments the fence around the cornfield was carried off rail by rail, and everywhere was heard the sound of axes and hatchets, the premonitory symptoms of roaring camp-fires, which were soon everywhere blazing along the road.

"Harry," said Lieutenant Dougal, "I haven't any tin cup, and when you get your coffee cooked, I believe I'll share it with you; may I?"

"Certainly, lieutenant. But where shall I get water to make the coffee with? It's so dark, that nobody can see how the land lies so as to find a spring."

Without telling the lieutenant what I did, I scooped up a tin cup full of water (whether clear or muddy I could not tell; it was too dark to see) out of a corn-furrow. I had the less hesitation in doing so, because I found all the rest were doing the same, and I argued that if they could stand it, why I could too-and so could the lieutenant. Tired and wet and sleepy as I was, I could not help but be sensible of the strange, weird appearance the troops presented, as, coming out of the surrounding darkness, I faced the brilliant fires with groups of busy men about them. There they sat, squatting about the fires, each man with his quart tin cup suspended on one end of his iron ramrod or on some convenient stick, and each eager and impatient to be the first to bring his cup to the boiling-point. Thrusting my cup in amongst the dozen others already smoking amid the crackling flames, I soon had the pleasure of seeing the foam rise to the surface,-a sure indication that my coffee was nearly done. When the lieutenant and I had finished drinking it, I called his attention to the half inch of mud in the bottom of the cup, and asked him how he liked coffee made out of water taken from a last year's corn-furrow? "First rate," he replied, as he took out his tobacco pouch and pipe for a smoke, "first rate; gives it the real old 'Virginny' flavor, you see."

We were not permitted, however, to enjoy the broad glare of our fires very long after our coffee was disposed of, for we soon heard the command to "fall in" coming down the line. It was now half-past eleven o'clock, and away we went again slap-dash in the thick darkness and bottomless mud. At three o'clock in the morning, during a brief halt, I fell asleep while sitting on my drum, and tumbled over into the road from sheer exhaustion. Partly aroused by my fall, I spread out my shelter on the road where the mud seemed the shallowest, and lay down to sleep, chilled to the bone and shivering like an aspen.

At six o'clock we were roused up, and a pretty appearance we presented too, for every man was covered with mud from neck to heel. However, daylight having now come to our assistance, we marched on in merrier mood in the direction of Port Royal, a place or village on the Rappahannock some thirty miles below Fredericksburg, and reached our destination about ten o'clock that forenoon.

As we emerged from the woods and came out into the open fields, with the river in full view about a fourth of a mile in front, we fully believed that now, at last, we were to go at once into battle. And so, indeed, it seemed, as the long column halted in a cornfield a short distance from the river, and the pontoon trains came up, and the pioneers were sent forward to help lay the bridge, and signal-flags began flying, and officers and orderlies began to gallop gayly over the field-of course we were now about to go into our first battle.

"I guess we'll have to cross the river, Harry," said Andy, as we stood together beside a corn shock and watched the men putting down the pontoons, "and then we'll have to go in on 'em and gobble 'em up."

"Yes; gobbling up is all right. But suppose that over in the woods yonder, on the other side the river, there might happen to be a lot of Johnnies watching us, and all ready to sweep down on us and gobble us up, while we are crossing the river-eh? That wouldn't be nearly so nice, would it?"

"Hah!" exclaimed Andy, "I'd just like to see 'em do it once! Look there! There come the boys that'll take the Johnnies through the brush!"

Looking in the direction in which Andy was pointing, that is, away to the skirt of the woods in our rear, I beheld a battery of artillery coming up at full gallop towards us and making straight for the river.

"Just you wait, now," said Andy, with a triumphant snap of his fingers, "till you hear those old bull-dogs begin to bark, and you'll see the Johnnies get up and dust!"

As the battery came near the spot where we were standing, and could be plainly seen, I exclaimed:

"Why, Andy, I don't believe those dogs can bark at all! Don't you see? They are wooden logs covered over with black gum-blankets and mounted on the front-wheels of wagons, and-as sure as you're alive-it's our quartermaster on his gray horse in command of the battery!"

"Well, I declare!" said Andy, with a look of mingled surprise and disappointment.

There was no disputing the fact. Dummies they were, those cannon which Andy had so exultingly declared were to take the Johnnies through the brush; and we began at once to suspect that this whole mud-march was only a miserable ruse, or feint of war, got up expressly for the purpose of deceiving the enemy and making him believe that the whole Union army was there in full force, when such was by no means the case. So there was not going to be any battle after all, then? Such indeed, as we learned a little later in the day, was the true state of things. Nevertheless the pioneers went on with their work of putting down the pontoon-boats for a bridge, and our gallant quartermaster, on his bobtail gray, with drawn sword, and shouting out his commands like a veritable major-general, swept by us with his battery of wooden guns, and then away out into the field like a whirlwind, apparently bent on the most bloody work imaginable. Now the battery would dash up and unlimber and get into position here; then away on a gallop across the field and go into position there; while the quartermaster would meanwhile swing his sword and shout himself hoarse, as if in the very crisis of a battle.

It was, then, all, alas! a ruse, and there wouldn't be any battle after all! I think the general feeling among the men was one of disappointment, when about nine o'clock that night we were all withdrawn from the riverside under cover of darkness, and bivouacked in the woods to our rear, where we were ordered to make as many and as large fires as we could, so as to attract the enemy's attention, and make him believe that the whole Army of the Potomac was concentrating at that point; whereas the truth was that, instead of making any movement thirty miles below Fredericksburg, the Union army, ten days later, crossed the river thirty miles above Fredericksburg, and met the enemy at Chancellorsville.

The Quartermaster's Triumph.

But I have never forgotten our gallant quartermaster, and what a fine appearance he made as the commanding officer of a battery of artillery. It was an amusing sight; for the reader must remember that a quartermaster, having to do only with army supplies, was a non-combatant, that is to say, he did no fighting, and in most cases "stayed by the stuff" among his army wagons, which were usually far enough to the rear in time of battle. Thinking of this little episode on our first mud-march, there comes to my mind a conversation I recently had with a gentleman, my neighbor, who was also a quartermaster in the Union army.

"I was down in Virginia on business last spring," said the ex-quartermaster, "in the neighborhood of Warrenton. (You remember Warrenton? Fine country down there.) And I found the people very kind and friendly, and inclined to forget the late unpleasantness. Well, one man came up to me, and says he:

"'Major, you were in the war, weren't you?'

"'Yes,' said I, 'I was; but (I might as well admit it) I was on the other side of the fence. I was in the Union army.'

"'You were? Well, Major, did you ever kill anybody?'

"'Oh yes,' said I; 'lots of 'em,-lots of 'em, sir.'

"'You don't tell me!' said the Virginian. 'And if I might be so bold as to ask-how did you generally kill them?'

"'Well,' said I, 'I never like to tell, because bragging is not in my line; but I'll tell you. You see, I never liked this thing of shooting people. It seemed to me a barbarous business, and besides, I was a kind of Quaker, and had conscientious scruples about bearing arms. And so, when the war broke out and I found I'd have to enter the army, maybe, whether I wanted to or not, I enlisted and got in as a quartermaster, thinking that in that position I wouldn't have to kill anybody with a gun, anyhow. But war is a dreadful thing, a dreadful thing, sir. And I found that even a quartermaster had to take a hand at killing people; and the way I took for it was this: I always managed to have a good swift horse, and as soon as things would begin to look a little like fighting, and the big guns would begin to boom, why I'd clap spurs to my horse and make for the rear as fast as ever I could. And then when your people would come after me, they never could catch me; they'd always get out of breath trying to come up to me. And in that way I've killed dozens of your people, sir, dozens of them, and all without powder or ball. They couldn't catch me, and always died for want of breath trying to get hold of me!'"

We slept in the woods that night under the dark pines and beside our great camp-fires; and early the next morning took up the line of march for home. We marched all day over the hills, and as the sun was setting, came at last to a certain hilltop whence we could look down upon the odd-looking group of cabins and wigwams which we recognized as our camp, and which we hailed with cheers as our home.