CHAPTER XIII. FROM THE LETTERS OF MAJOR STEPHEN BRICE
Of the Staff of General Sherman on the March to the Sea, and on theMarch from Savannah Northward.
HEADQUARTERS MILITARY DIVISION OF THE MISSISSIPPI GOLDSBORO, N.C. MARCH24, 1865
DEAR MOTHER: The South Carolina Campaign is a thing of the past. I pauseas I write these words--they seem so incredible to me. We have marchedthe four hundred and twenty-five miles in fifty days, and the Generalhimself has said that it is the longest and most important march evermade by an organized army in a civilized country. I know that you willnot be misled by the words "civilized country." Not until the history ofthis campaign is written will the public realize the wide rivers andall but impassable swamps we have crossed with our baggage trains andartillery. The roads (by courtesy so called) were a sea of molasses andevery mile of them has had to be corduroyed. For fear of worrying you Idid not write you from Savannah how they laughed at us for starting atthat season of the year. They said we would not go ten miles, and I mostsolemnly believe that no one but "Uncle Billy" and an army organized andequipped by him could have gone ten miles. Nothing seems to stop him.You have probably remarked in the tone of my letters ever since we leftKingston for the sea, a growing admiration for "my General."
It seems very strange that this wonderful tactician can be the same manI met that day going to the Arsenal in the streetcar, and again at CampJackson. I am sure that history will give him a high place among thecommanders of the world. Certainly none was ever more tireless thanhe. He never fights a battle when it can be avoided, and his march intoColumbia while threatening Charleston and Augusta was certainly a masterstroke of strategy.
I think his simplicity his most remarkable trait. You should see him ashe rides through the army, an erect figure, with his clothes all angularand awry, and an expanse of white sock showing above his low shoes.You can hear his name running from file to file; and some times thenew regiments can't resist cheering. He generally says to theColonel:--"Stop that noise, sir. Don't like it."
On our march to the sea, if the orders were ever given to turnnorthward, "the boys" would get very much depressed. One moonlight nightI was walking my horse close to the General's over the pine needles,when we overheard this conversation between two soldiers:-- "Say, John,"said one, "I guess Uncle Billy don't know our corps is goin' north."
"I wonder if he does,'" said John. "If I could only get a sight of themwhite socks, I'd know it was all right."
The General rode past without a word, but I heard him telling the storyto Mower the next day.
I can find little if any change in his manner since I knew him first.He is brusque, but kindly, and he has the same comradeship with officersand men--and even the negroes who flock to our army. But few dare totake advantage of it, and they never do so twice. I have been very nearto him, and have tried not to worry him or ask many foolish questions.Sometimes on the march he will beckon me to close up to him, and we havea conversation something on this order:-- "There's Kenesaw, Brice."
"Yes, sir."
Pointing with his arm.
"Went beyond lines there with small party. Rebel battery on summit. Hadto git. Fired on. Next day I thought Rebels would leave in the night.Got up before daylight, fixed telescope on stand, and waited. Watchedtop of Kenesaw. No Rebel. Saw one blue man creep up, very cautious,looked around, waved his hat. Rebels gone. Thought so."
This gives you but a faint idea of the vividness of his talk. When wemake a halt for any time, the general officers and their staffs flockto headquarters to listen to his stories. When anything goes wrong, hisperception of it is like a lightning flash,--and he acts as quickly.
By the way, I have just found the letter he wrote me, offering thisstaff position. Please keep it carefully, as it is something I shallvalue all my life.
GAYLESVILLE, ALABAMA, October 25, 1864.
MAJOR STEPHEN A. BRICE:
Dear Sir,--The world goes on, and wicked men sound asleep. Davis has sworn to destroy my army, and Beauregard has come to do the work,--so if you expect to share in our calamity, come down. I offer you this last chance for staff duty, and hope you have had enough in the field. I do not wish to hurry you, but you can't get aboard a ship at sea. So if you want to make the trip, come to Chattanooga and take your chances of meeting me.
Yours truly,
W. T. SHERMAN, Major General.
One night--at Cheraw, I think it was--he sent for me to talk to him. Ifound him lying on a bed of Spanish moss they had made for him. He askedme a great many questions about St. Louis, and praised Mr. Brinsmade,especially his management of the Sanitary Commission.
"Brice," he said, after a while, "you remember when Grant sent me tobeat off Joe Johnston's army from Vicksburg. You were wounded then, bythe way, in that dash Lauman made. Grant thought he ought to warn meagainst Johnston.
"'He's wily, Sherman,' said he. 'He's a dangerous man.'
"'Grant,' said I, 'you give me men enough and time enough to look overthe ground, and I'm not afraid of the devil.'"
Nothing could sum up the man better than that. And now what a trick offate it is that he has Johnston before him again, in what we hope willprove the last gasp of the war! He likes Johnston, by the way, and hasthe greatest respect for him.
I wish you could have peeped into our camp once in a while. In the rarebursts of sunshine on this march our premises have been decorated withgay red blankets, and sombre gray ones brought from the quartermasters,and white Hudson's Bay blankets (not so white now), all being betweenforked sticks. It is wonderful how the pitching of a few tents, and thebusy crackle of a few fires, and the sound of voices--sometimes merry,sometimes sad, depending on the weather, will change the look of alonely pine knoll. You ask me how we fare. I should be heartily ashamedif a word of complaint ever fell from my lips. But the men! Whenever Iwake up at night with my feet in a puddle between the blankets, I thinkof the men. The corduroy roads which our horses stumble over through themud, they make as well as march on. Our flies are carried in wagons,and our utensils and provisions. They must often bear on their backs thelittle dog-tents, under which, put up by their own labor, they crawlto sleep, wrapped in a blanket they have carried all day, perhaps waistdeep in water. The food they eat has been in their haversacks for many aweary mile, and is cooked in the little skillet and pot which havealso been a part of their burden. Then they have their musket andaccoutrements, and the "forty rounds" at their backs. Patiently,cheerily tramping along, going they know not where, nor care mucheither, so it be not in retreat. Ready to make roads, throw up works,tear up railroads, or hew out and build wooden bridges; or, best of all,to go for the Johnnies under hot sun or heavy rain, through swamp andmire and quicksand. They marched ten miles to storm Fort McAllister. Andhow the cheers broke from them when the pop pop pop of the skirmish linebegan after we came in sight of Savannah! No man who has seen but notshared their life may talk of personal hardship.
We arrived at this pretty little town yesterday, so effecting a junctionwith Schofield, who got in with the 3d Corps the day before. I amwriting at General Schofield's headquarters. There was a bit of a battleon Tuesday at Bentonville, and we have come hither in smoke, as usual.But this time we thank Heaven that it is not the smoke of burninghomes,--only some resin the "Johnnies" set on fire before they left.
I must close. General Sherman has just sent for me.
ON BOARD DESPATCH BOAT "MARTIN." AT SEA, March 25, 1865.
DEAR MOTHER: A most curious thing has happened. But I may as well beginat the beginning. When I stopped writing last evening at the summonsof the General, I was about to tell you something of the battle ofBentonville on Tuesday last. Mower charged through as bad a pieceof wood and swamp as I ever saw, and got within one hundred yards ofJohnston himself, who was at the bridge across Mill Creek. Of course wedid not know this at the time, and learned it from prisoners.
As I have written
you, I have been under fire very little since comingto the staff. When the battle opened, however, I saw that if I stayedwith the General (who was then behind the reserves) I would see littleor nothing; I went ahead "to get information" beyond the line of battleinto the woods. I did not find these favorable to landscape views, andjust as I was turning my horse back again I caught sight of a commotionsome distance to my right. The Rebel skirmish line had fallen back justthat instant, two of our skirmishers were grappling with a third man,who was fighting desperately. It struck me as singular that the fellowwas not in gray, but had on some sort of dark clothes.
I could not reach them in the swamp on horseback, and was in the act ofdismounting when the man fell, and then they set out to carry him to therear, still farther to my right, beyond the swamp. I shouted, and one ofthe skirmishers came up. I asked him what the matter was.
"We've got a spy, sir," he said excitedly.
"A spy! Here?"
"Yes, Major. He was hid in the thicket yonder, lying flat on his face.He reckoned that our boys would run right over him and that he'd getinto our lines that way. Tim Foley stumbled on him, and he put up asgood a fight with his fists as any man I ever saw."
Just then a regiment swept past us. That night I told the General, whosent over to the headquarters of the 17th Corps to inquire. The wordcame back that the man's name was Addison, and he claimed to be a Unionsympathizer who owned a plantation near by. He declared that he had beenconscripted by the Rebels, wounded, sent back home, and was now about tobe pressed in again. He had taken this method of escaping to our lines.It was a common story enough, but General Mower added in his messagethat he thought the story fishy. This was because the man's appearancewas very striking, and he seemed the type of Confederate fighter whowould do and dare anything. He had a wound, which had been a bad one,evidently got from a piece of shell. But they had been able to findnothing on him. Sherman sent back word to keep the man until he couldsee him in person. It was about nine o'clock last night when I reachedthe house the General has taken. A prisoner's guard was resting outside,and the hall was full of officers. They said that the General wasawaiting me, and pointed to the closed door of a room that had been thedining room. I opened it.
Two candles were burning in pewter sticks on the bare mahogany table.There was the General sitting beside them, with his legs crossed,holding some crumpled tissue paper very near his eyes, and reading. Hedid not look up when I entered. I was aware of a man standing, tall andstraight, just out of range of the candles' rays. He wore the easy dressof a Southern planter, with the broad felt hat. The head was flung backso that there was just a patch of light on the chin, and the lids of theeyes in the shadow were half closed.
My sensations are worth noting. For the moment I felt precisely as Ihad when I was hit by that bullet in Lauman's charge. I was aware ofsomething very like pain, yet I could not place the cause of it. Butthis is what since has made me feel queer: you doubtless rememberstaying at Hollingdean, when I was a boy, and hearing the story of LordNorthwell's daredevil Royalist ancestor,--the one with the lace collarover the dull-gold velvet, and the pointed chin, and the lazy scorn inthe eyes. Those eyes are painted with drooping lids. The first time Isaw Clarence Colfax I thought of that picture--and now I thought of thepicture first.
The General's voice startled me.
"Major Brice, do you know this gentleman?" he asked.
"Yes, General."
"Who is he?"
"His name is Colfax, sir--Colonel Colfax, I think"
"Thought so," said the General.
I have thought much of that scene since, as I am steaming northward overgreen seas and under cloudless skies, and it has seemed very unreal. Ishould almost say supernatural when I reflect how I have run across thisman again and again, and always opposing him. I can recall just how helooked at the slave auction, which seem, so long ago: very handsome,very boyish, and yet with the air of one to be deferred to. It wassufficiently remarkable that I should have found him in Vicksburg. Butnow--to be brought face to face with him in this old dining room inGoldsboro! And he a prisoner. He had not moved. I did not know how hewould act, but I went up to him and held out my hand, and said.--"How doyou do, Colonel Colfax?"
I am sure that my voice was not very steady, for I cannot help likinghim And then his face lighted up and he gave me his hand. And he smiledat me and again at the General, as much as to say that it was all over.He has a wonderful smile.
"We seem to run into each other, Major Brice," said he.
The pluck of the man was superb. I could see that the General, too,was moved, from the way he looked at him. And he speaks a little moreabruptly at such times.
"Guess that settles it, Colonel," he said.
"I reckon it does, General," said Clarence, still smiling. The Generalturned from him to the table with a kind of jerk and clapped his hand onthe tissue paper.
"These speak for themselves, sir," he said. "It is very plain that theywould have reached the prominent citizens for whom they were intended ifyou had succeeded in your enterprise. You were captured out of uniformYou know enough of war to appreciate the risk you ran. Any statement tomake?"
"No, sir."
"Call Captain Vaughan, Brice, and ask him to conduct the prisoner back."
"May I speak to him, General?" I asked. The General nodded.
I asked him if I could write home for him or do anything else. Thatseemed to touch him. Some day I shall tell you what he said.
Then Vaughan took him out, and I heard the guard shoulder arms and trampaway in the night. The General and I were left alone with the mahoganytable between us, and a family portrait of somebody looking down onus from the shadow on the wall. A moist spring air came in at the openwindows, and the candles flickered. After a silence, I ventured to say:
"I hope he won't be shot, General."
"Don't know, Brice," he answered. "Can't tell now. Hate to shoot him,but war is war. Magnificent class he belongs to--pity we should have tofight those fellows."
He paused, and drummed on the table. "Brice," said he, "I'm going tosend you to General Grant at City Point with despatches. I'm sorry Dunnwent back yesterday, but it can't be helped. Can you start in half anhour?"
"Yes, sir."
"You'll have to ride to Kinston. The railroad won't be through untilto-morrow: I'll telegraph there, and to General Easton at Morehead City.He'll have a boat for you. Tell Grant I expect to run up there in aday or two myself, when things are arranged here. You may wait until Icome."
"Yes, sir."
I turned to go, but Clarence Colfax was on my mind "General?"
"Eh! what?"
"General, could you hold Colonel Colfax until I see you again?"
It was a bold thing to say, and I quaked. And he looked at me in hiskeen way, through and through "You saved his life once before, didn'tyou?"
"You allowed me to have him sent home from Vicksburg, sir."
He answered with one of his jokes--apropos of something he said on theCourt House steps at Vicksburg. Perhaps I shall tell it to you sometime.
"Well, well," he said, "I'll see, I'll see. Thank God this war is prettynear over. I'll let you know, Brice, before I shoot him."
I rode the thirty odd miles to Kinston in--little more than three hours.A locomotive was waiting for me, and I jumped into a cab with a friendlyengineer. Soon we were roaring seaward through the vast pine forests.It was a lonely journey, and you were much in my mind. My greatestapprehension was that we might be derailed and the despatches captured;for as fast as our army had advanced, the track of it had closed again,like the wake of a ship at sea. Guerillas were roving about, tearing upties and destroying bridges.
There was one five-minute interval of excitement when, far down thetunnel through the forest, we saw a light gleaming. The engineer saidthere was no house there, that it must be a fire. But we did not slackenour speed, and gradually the leaping flames grew larger and redder untilwe were upon them.
Not one gaunt figur
e stood between them and us. Not one shot broke thestillness of the night. As dawn broke I beheld the flat, gray waters ofthe Sound stretching away to the eastward, and there was the boat at thedesolate wharf beside the warehouse, her steam rising white in the chillmorning air.
The Crisis — Complete Page 49