The Gates of Light: Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

 

A Terrible Gale

Chancellorsville, 1863

 

“And, Behold, there came a great

wind from the wilderness . . . .”

Job 1:19

 

It was a cold, blustery evening in February, 1863, normal for Washington at this time of year.  The President, wearing his shoddy bedroom slippers, was in his office chatting with the Vice-President.   Both men, although the President particularly, showed the strain occasioned by the recent disaster to the Union forces at Fredericksburg.

 

“At last,” Lincoln said, “I’ve managed to settle the quarrel between Burnside and Hooker.  Hooker has said that Burnside is inept and should be removed from command.  I hear,” the President continued with a laugh, “that according to Hooker I’m an imbecile for keeping Burnside on, and, what is more, an imbecile in my own right.”

 

“Well, by now, you’re used to this sort of thing, anyway,” Hamlin said, with a chuckle.  “It seems to go with the office.”

 

“So Burnside came to see me and presented me with his ultimatum to shuck Hooker.”

 

The Vice-President had difficulty concealing a smile at this typical way of Lincoln’s expressing himself.  This, too, Lincoln noticed, replying with a pleasant smile.

 

“Burnside told me to make the choice, either relieve Hooker, along with some others, or accept Burnside’s resignation.  I had no choice: I had to relieve him of command and appoint Hooker in his stead.  He can fight, and that is what we need at this critical time.”

“Our soldiers in the Army of the Potomac,” Hamlin offered, “are discouraged and downhearted.  They’re saying such things as ‘I don’t care whether school keeps or not,’ and ‘I believe that there is a destructive fate hovering over the army.’  I hope that now the morale of the army will improve.”

 

 

“The ordinary soldier, the volunteer, has an uncanny way of assessing both the military and political situation,” Lincoln said.  “I’ve thought for some time now that I would like to have such a one with me in the White House, as an unofficial aide, someone to give me the soldier’s point of view.  But I’m not sure where to look for someone who might help me.”

 

“I think I can recommend someone,” Hamlin responded.  “My old friend, John Prescott, has a son, Asa, in the service.  Asa is in the 1st Massachusetts, the Webster Regiment, and was wounded at Antietam.  He is at the Judiciary Square Hospital, and is quite well recovered by now, although his wound will not permit him to get back into the ranks.  He’s a very intelligent, perceptive lad.”

 

“A Massachusetts soldier,” Lincoln said.  “I’ve a special place for the Massachusetts men; they were the first to come to my aid, and the aid of the country, just after Sumpter.  Can you bring him to me?  I would like to meet him and talk the matter over.”

 

One afternoon, a few days after his conversation with the President, Mr. Hamlin brought Asa to the White House and introduced him to Lincoln.  Asa saw before him a tall, lanky man, whose deeply-furrowed face and melancholy gaze showed the burden and anxiety of war.

 

“This, Mr. President, is the man of whom we talked the other evening.  I’m happy to recommend him to you without any reserve.”

 

“I’m so glad to meet you, Asa.  I’m sorry that you were wounded at the great fight at Antietam, but glad that you are mending.  You have my appreciation, as well as that of the country, for your sacrifice.  We look forward to the day when all of the sacrifice will be translated into a paean of victory.”

 

“The privilege of this meeting is wholly mine, Mr. President,” Asa said.  “I have watched you, as it were, from afar, and now it is such a pleasure to meet you.”

 

“I’m sure that the Vice-President, who tells me that he is a long-standing friend of your family, has mentioned to you what I have in mind.  I would like to have a soldier such as you, who knows the army from the ranks, with me so as to give me a point of view that I can’t get from either command officers or politicians.  You can also be of assistance to my secretaries, John Hay and John Nicolay.  There’s plenty of room in this old mansion, so we will find a room for you here.  You will continue as a member of your regiment and will continue to receive your army pay.  You will have but little expense; you can take your meals here, for example.”

 

“This is most satisfactory, and I hope that my work will meet with your approval.”

 

“I’m sure that it will.  If this were my most pressing concern, I would count myself fortunate indeed.”

With this the busy President excused himself, and the Vice-President and Asa left the White House, each to pursue his task for the remainder of the day.

 

 

 

On a chilly, late afternoon in March, William stood sentry duty on the northern bank of the Rappahannock River, not far from where his regiment camped near Falmouth.  The river had become the boundary-line between the North and South.  After the disastrous defeat of the Union army at Fredericksburg in December of 1862, the two armies, like two angry lions, sat down and stared at each other across the stream, located midway between Washington and Richmond.  There were times, however, when soldiers from both sides of the river met and talked with each other.  William looked across and saw a “butternut” coming to the bank of the river on his side.  When the Southerner reached the bank, he stooped and launched a toy boat toward the northern shore.

 

A soldier in blue, who was crouched a small distance from William, lifted a little packet of Virginia tobacco from the frail craft, placed in it another packet wrapped in a copy of the New York Tribune, and sent the boat on its return trip.  When it reached the point of its origin, the Reb lifted the packet, smelled it, and gave a sigh of satisfaction.  It was real coffee.

“Thanks, Yank,” he said, as he waved a goodby and scampered back to his little hut he called home.

 

As he watched this strange form of commercial transaction, William smiled.  He knew that this kind of exchange would soon stop, as the Union army was almost ready to move against the southern forces across the river.

 

The days of despair were over.  Since “Fighting Joe” Hooker had assumed command of the Army of the Potomac, discipline and morale had improved greatly.  This afternoon, with little activity in either army, William’s sentry-watch required minimum effort, and there was time to reflect on the changes in the army over the last few weeks.  Hooker had established a furlough system, and many of the men had returned to their homes for a short visit.  The army was better fed.  Burnside’s cumbersome organization of the army into Grand Divisions had been discarded and replaced by a system in which all army corps commanders were directly subordinate to the commanding general.  For the first time in the war, the Union cavalry was made into a single corps under the command of Brigadier-General George Stoneman.  Each army corps had a distinctive insignia.  William’s insignia on his cap was diamond, the insignia of the Third Corps.  It was white, for the Second Division.  William, as did all the men, wore his badge proudly, as if it were a badge of honor.

 

From his position, William saw the city of Fredericksburg, its great old mansions standing in ruins as a result of the heavy Federal artillery bombardment during the battle of last December.  He gazed upon that formidable sunken road and stone wall just beyond the city, and experienced again something of the horror when the Union forces attempted to take the heights overlooking the road and wall, only to be enveloped in the destructive “jaws of death.”

A short while before sunset, another soldier came up to relieve William.  After a few minutes of conversation, William turned away from the river and proceeded toward his regimental camp.  His chum, Joe Murphy, was at the side of a little picket house in which the two lived, busy preparing supper for the two.

 

“You’ll never guess what we’re having for supper,” Joe said.

 

“No, I’ll not even try to guess, considering what I know about your cooking.”

 

“Uncle Sam has brought in a load of onions this afternoon, and we’re having onion soup, with some potatoes thrown in for good measure.  How does that sound?”

 

“I don’t know how it sounds, although it smells good.  At home we had potato soup with onions.  It seems to me that you have inverted the appropriate ratio,” rejoined William.

 

“Well, I’m the cook for tonight, so you’ll have to eat it.  We have some more items that Uncle Sam also brought: hard bread, pork and beans, and coffee, so we should make out alright.”

 

The men enjoyed a tasteful supper, after which several other men joined them for some conversation, consisting mainly in conjecture as to the next move of the army.  Rumors were rife that the army would soon be marching, to what destination they didn’t know.  The prevailing guess was that the army would move up the Rappahannock along the route of Burnside’s ill-fated “mud march,” as it was now called, cross the river and take Lee on his left flank.  If it didn’t rain, as it had when Burnside attempted the maneuver, maybe it would work this time, the men thought.

 

The evening wore on and the darkness settled in.  Joe and William crawled into their little hut, which they had built in late December of the previous year.  It was a small shed built of poles and open on one side.  There were glowing embers, from a dying fire, in front of it.  The rain began falling gently, and the two men fastened their rubber blankets beneath the slope of the roof to ward off the rain.  They then lay down on their bed of cedar twigs and were soon asleep, ensconced in their forest castle.

Late in the afternoon of Sunday, April 12, William heard the staccato of horses’ hooves.  He looked up and saw that it was his brother, Lewis, riding in to pay him a visit.  The magnificent, coal-black horse drew up, was brought to a halt, and then stood quietly while Lewis quickly threw himself to the ground.

 

Lewis, the third son of John and Rhoda, was, at age 31, at the peak of his physical and mental powers.  He was of medium stature.  He had a sturdy, muscular frame.  His face was round.  He wore his black hair parted on the right side and with shortly trimmed sideburns.  His eyes were brown, always sparkling with exuberant vivacity.  He was exceptionally witty and always saw the humor in things.  When he laughed, which was often, the sound rang out with a musical spontaneity that revealed his glad enthusiasm for life.

 

“Hello, hello, William, how’s our little brother these days?” Lewis shouted out as he grasped William’s hand.

 

“Well, hello, yourself.  What have I done to merit a visit from the most important member of the 1st regiment of Maine cavalry?”

 

The two laughed heartily, each embracing the other in their glad reunion.

 

“I can tell you that the rumors are true,” Lewis said.  “We have orders to be ready to move out tomorrow, and I have everything in order, so I thought that I’d snatch some free time to get in touch with you.  The cavalry is to ride south, and this means that you will be in battle soon.”

 

“You get to ride, while I have to march on foot.  I’ve often wondered just why I didn’t have sense enough to join the cavalry.  How do you like things now that the cavalry has been united as a single corps?”

 

“It’s much better, now that we are under a unified command.  For the first time in this war, there is promise that the cavalry can be an effective arm in battle.  The days of our being here, there, somewhere, doing virtually nothing, are over, at least I hope so.  And I hope that General Hooker will be unable to say in the future, what he said earlier, ‘Who ever saw a dead cavalry-man?’, although I hope that I’m not that cavalry-man.”

 

“With a horse like that, you shouldn’t be,” William assured his brother.

 

“Our regiment is commanded by Colonel Calvin S. Douty, and we have been assigned to the First Brigade, under Colonel Judson Kilpatrick, the Third Division, Brigadier-General David Gregg.  If in the future you hear news about these units, you’ll know that they are mine.  We all need to know just where all of us are serving.”

 

“Now we’re in the third year of the war, and we’re all in it except George,” William observed, with a touch of sadness.  “Horace is in the 9th Massachusetts artillery; Asa is with the President, out of the war because of his wound; and even Amanda is in the war, as a nurse.  One of these days George will come in‑-of that I’m sure.”

 

“Such changes for our family, in just a few short months.  And what the future holds, we don’t know,” Lewis mused.

 

“You might as well have a bite of supper with Joe and me,” William said.

“Sounds good, then I’ll have to get back.  Tomorrow we’re off.”

 

The soldiers enjoyed a hearty supper.  Loath to leave, Lewis lingered with his brother, sipping coffee and continuing their conversation.  The light was waning, and the time came for the brothers to bid each other goodby.  They embraced and wished each other well.  Lewis sprang on his horse, and, with a gauntleted hand, waved farewell.  William stood in silence, watching the rider fade in the twilight distance.

 

 

Early the next morning, General Stoneman’s troopers, each carrying three day’s rations and 60 rounds of ammunition, left camp near Falmouth and headed for the upper waters of the Rappahannock.  Lewis rode beside his fellow cavalry-man, his close friend and companion of many months, Ray Molenaar, also an avid lover of horses and a superb rider.

 

“At last, we’re on the move,” Ray remarked to Lewis.

 

“So far, we’re doing better than the infantry did last January, when they went on the famous mud march.  William has told me about that ordeal.”

 

“We’ve now got pack mules carrying provisions, instead of wagons.  We’ll see how well this works out,” Ray commented.

 

“Look over there at that mule, and I think you’ll see just how well Hooker’s idea was.”

 

The men saw a cantankerous member of the hybrid tribe rubbing himself against a large tree in the effort to rid himself of his heavy load.  To his disgust his effort was to no avail.  So he lay down and rolled over, his feet flaying the air.  This innovation worked: soon oats, corn, bread, and pots and pans were strewn all about, and the mule got up and calmly walked away into the woods.

 

“Another deserter,” Lewis said, roaring with laughter.

 

The cavalry made 24 miles that day and went into camp in the forest along the north bank of the river.  It began to rain heavily the next day.

 

“It doesn’t seem to make any difference,” Ray observed.  “Whether it’s the infantry or the cavalry moving up the Rappahannock, the result is the same: we’re stopped by the rain, flooded roads, and flooded creeks.  It appears that Mother Nature doesn’t want this army to go northwest so as to get around Lee’s left flank.”

 

The cavalry could only remain in its position upstream, watched by the enemy across the river.

 

On Sunday morning, April 27, three army corps, those of George C. Meade (the Fifth), Oliver O. Howard (the Eleventh), and Henry W. Slocum (the Twelfth), left camp for Kelly’s Ford, fifteen miles above the junction of the Rappahannock and the Rapidan rivers.  On the evening of the 28th a detachment crossed by boats to the south bank of the Rappahannock and dispersed the southern pickets.  By the next morning the entire force was across, heading south and east toward the Rapidan.  The Fifth Corps moved in the direction of Ely’s Ford, and the Eleventh and Twelfth Corps, in the direction of Germanna Ford.

 

Sunday morning, April 27, found Lewis and the 1st Maine cavalry, in company with the remainder of General Stoneman’s Cavalry Corps, camped at Warrenton Junction, beside the Orange and Alexander Railroad.

 

The following day, Monday, the 28th, General Stoneman and his commanders met with General Hooker and his staff at Morrisville, the headquarters of the Army of the Potomac.  At this meeting Stoneman learned that his entire corps was to join the army in its crossing at Kelly’s Ford.

 

Late that afternoon, Lewis and Ray were riding with a scouting expedition south and west of the railroad, when a courier arrived with the news that all pickets and scouting parties were being called in preparatory to a movement.

 

“This is it, Ray,” exclaimed Lewis joyously, “this means that the entire army is going into action, and going soon.”

 

“I’m sure of it, and I hope that this time we whip the Rebels once and for all.  If we’re going to go upstream, cross the Rappahannock and flank Lee’s army, we ought to be able to bring him to terms.”

 

“This seems to be Hooker’s plan; he has been following Burnside’s strategy.”

 

 

The two cavalry-men, fast friends, rode side by side, continuing their conversation and speculating as to the immediate future, as they proceeded toward their rendezvous with the corps.  To their left, the distant mountains of the Blue Ridge received in their westering heights the flaming disk of earth’s light.  Through the deepening shadows the troopers guided, with gentle rein, their faithful mounts, until late that night they joined their comrades.  The entire corps then worked its way over the rain-sodden country roads, through the darkness of the night made more obscure by the heavy ground-clinging fog, until it reached the river, at Kelly’s Ford, early the next morning, Tuesday, the 29th of April.  Lewis and Ray watched the Fifth Corps file across the bridge, and at noon their division, the Second, began its crossing.  The division proceeded south on the Ford road and at sunset made camp with the rest of the corps at the crossroad beyond a small run, called Mountain Run.

 

The Sixth Corps, under Major-General John Sedgwick, and the First Corps, under John F. Reynolds, moved down the Rappahannock a few miles below Fredericksburg.  They camped there that night in a pouring rain.  On the following day, Tuesday, the 29th, they crossed over and established their bridgeheads.  General Sickles’ Third Corps was posted as a reserve, in the event that the two corps at Fredericksburg were attacked.

 

Chancellorsville, eleven miles west of Fredericksburg, was, rather than a village, but a two-and-a-half-story brick farmhouse, the home of the Chancellor family.  Located a short distance south of the Rapidan River, it

was the point at which five roads intersected.  A road, the Old Turnpike, ran east from Orange Court House to Fredericksburg.  It was a dirt road, covered with gravel, and corduroyed with poles in the numerous creek-bottoms that it crossed.  A second road, the Orange Plank Road, also ran east from Orange Court House to Fredericksburg, paralleling the Turnpike on the south, then merging with it, and finally looping south east of Chancellorsville.  The road was covered with two-inch thick planks.  A third road, the River Road, ran near the river and came out at Banks’ Ford on the Rappahannock, a short distance west of Fredericksburg.  The area west of Chancellorsville, the Wilderness, was a second-growth forest, densely filled with thickets of new- growth trees.

 

On the morning of Wednesday, April 30, William and Joe stood on the north bank of the Rappahannock, on guard duty with their regiment at the bridge near Deep Run, over which General William Brooks’ First Division of General Sedgwick’s Sixth Corps had just crossed, some distance south of Fredericksburg.  The morning fog was rising in ascending mists, tinted with the golden sun, and the day promised to be fair and warm.  There was comparative quiet, and the two whiled away the time in conversation.  Since it appeared that the Confederates were in no mood to attack the invading Union forces, General Hooker ordered the Third Corps to be detached and move west to Chancellorsville.

 

At 1 o’clock that afternoon the corps was put in three parallel lines and moved out.  William, with others of his regiment, made his way laboriously, carrying his heavy baggage of sixty pounds, through the many ravines and over the dusty byroads that concealed the soldiers from the enemy.  There were only bits of hushed conversation during the long afternoon.  The only thing the soldiers knew was that they were heading northwest, paralleling the north bank of the Rappahannock.  At midnight the corps reached a little

 

place, Hamet’s, at the intersection of the Warrenton Road and the U.S. Ford Road.  There they made a “cold” camp for the remainder of the night.

 

“I think I know where we’re going, Joe,” William said as they settled down in the open under the stars.

 

“So do I.  We’re headed for the U.S. Ford and Chancellorsville, where Hooker is bringing his army together.  We’re in for a battle, perhaps tomorrow.”

 

They slept the untroubled sleep of the brave, and were awakened the following morning well before sunrise.  After a breakfast of hardtack, the entire corps turned south, and by 7 o’clock the men were tramping over the bridge at the ford.  Two hours later the troops were at the front, massed in the forest near the junction of the roads leading to U.S. Ford and Ely’s Ford, just north of Chancellorsville.

 

 

By the evening of Wednesday, April 30, Hooker had reunited his army.  Howard’s Eleventh Corps took up defensive positions on the Federal’s extreme right, at the Wilderness Church, which was on the Turnpike.  The Twelfth Corps, Slocum’s, formed an arc extending south and east to the Orange Plank Road just below Chancellorsville.  The Fifth Corps, Meade’s, moved on the Turnpike to a position just east of Chancellorsville.  The Second Division, under Darius N. Couch, having just crossed the Rappahannock at U.S. Ford, was in position north of Chancellorsville.  The Third Corps, William’s, was held in reserve, posted at the back of the Chancellor mansion.  The great juggernaut was in position to hammer Lee’s army into submission and end the rebellion.  Hooker’s forces outnumbered Lee’s almost two to one.

 

Faced with such a threat to his army, Lee divided his forces.  He left Jubal Early’s division of the Second Corps, under Jackson, at Fredericksburg.  The remainder of the army concentrated at Chancellorsville.  Richard Anderson’s division, James Longstreet’s First Corps, dug in on the Turnpike at Zoan’s Church, some distance east of Meade.  Jackson was positioned farther to the right, south of Fredericksburg.

 

At 11 o’clock on the morning of Friday, May 1, the Union army moved out to attack the Confederate army.  Slocum, supported by Howard, advanced along the Orange Plank Road.  Meade, supported by Couch, moved out on the Turnpike.  The going was slow and difficult, due to the dense jungle of trees and brush through which the troops had to advance.  It was not long until General George Sykes, of Meade’s corps, made contact with the main body of the Confederate army and was repulsed.  The Battle of Chancellorsville had begun.

 

General Couch arrived with General Winfield S. Hancock’s division to reinforce Meade and continue the offensive.  There was every indication that the Union counter-attack would be successful.  Then a strange, inexplicable thing happened.  It was as if the ancient goddess, Athena, had bestirred herself from her long slumber on Mount Olympus and, with Zeus’ permission, had once again flown to the field of battle to send a numbing fear into the heart of the soldier.  Hooker ordered both divisions to fall back to Chancellorsville:

 

General Sykes will retire to his position of last night, and take up a line connecting his right with General Slocum, making his line as strong as he can by felling trees, etc.  General Couch will then retire to his position of last night.

 

The corps commanders were furious, at first disbelieving the orders.  When they learned that indeed these were Hooker’s orders, they tried unsuccessfully to get him to withdraw the order and resume the offensive.  But the remonstrance of the battle-tested corps commanders was to no avail, and they could do nothing but obey their superior.  There were, however, some reports that filtered through the troops concerning the use, on the part of the commanders, of extremely sulphurous language.

 

The Federal army drew back into a six-mile line, in the form of a double-handled dipper.  Howard’s Eleventh Division, along the Turnpike near the Wilderness Church, formed the western handle.  The Twelfth and Second divisions, Slocum’s and Couch’s, faced south and west at Chancellorsville, and formed the cup of the dipper.  Meade’s Fifth Division, extending northeast from Chancellorsville along the Mineral Spring Road to a bend of the Rappahannock, formed the eastern handle of the dipper.  Two of Sickles’ divisions were still held in reserve behind Chancellorsville.  William’s regiment, the 1st Massachusetts, Hiram G. Berry’s Second Division, was located here.  The First Division, under David B. Birney, occupied the ground between Howard and Slocum.

 

General Lee realized that he could not successfully attack the massive center of Hooker’s army.  He also realized that he was in danger from the Union forces at Fredericksburg.  He knew that whatever he did, he must do it quickly, or his situation would become untenable.

 

In earlier times, there had been an iron-works in the Chancellorsville area.  Over the years the forest had been cut to supply fuel for the furnaces. Where once the primeval forest reigned, now there were but stunted trees and underbrush.  This was the Wilderness.  A short distance southeast of

Chancellorsville a little road, the Furnace Road, ran from the Plank Road south and east to a furnace called Katherine Furnace.

 

 

On the evening of that fateful May Day, just before darkness, Lee and Jackson met at the junction of the two roads.  They stepped into the woods and, sitting together on a log, discussed what they should do.  Both men knew that they had limited options.  While they were sitting in the gathering darkness, bending over a small fire that someone had built for them, the southern cavalry-leader, Jeb Stuart, came galloping up.  He brought welcome news.  Howard’s Eleventh Corps, on the extreme right of the Union army, was “in the air,” that is, it was unprotected by any natural obstacle and was therefore a target of attack.  Tilting a rough map toward the fire, Lee glanced at Jackson and asked, “How can we get at those people?”  Then he traced a line west and tapped the point on the map that represented Howard’s exposed position.  Jackson merely nodded.  Both men had found their answer.  Lee, whose name was “Audacity,” would divide his small army once again, and Jackson would lead his troops west to outflank the enemy flanker.  “My troops will move at four o’clock,” Jackson said.  That was less than four hours away.

 

At dawn the following morning, Saturday, May 2, Lee and Jackson sat on two cracker boxes, looking at a map lying between them on another cracker box.  Jackson’s cartographer, Jedediah Hotchkiss, traced with his finger the route he had chosen.  It led west to the furnace, then south, away from the Union forces, along a rough wagon trail that finally entered the Brock Road, which ran north to the Plank Road and the Turnpike.  The route was sheltered by the Wilderness, which would facilitate a surprise attack on the Federal right flank, Howard’s corps.

 

“General Jackson, what do you propose to do?” Lee asked.  “Go around here,” he replied, tracing the route with his finger.  “What do you propose to make this movement with?”  “With my whole corps,” Jackson responded quickly.  Lee paused for a moment, fully knowing what it all meant.  “What will you leave me?” he asked.  “The divisions of Anderson and McLaws.”  It would leave Lee with less than 15,000 soldiers to face the Union hosts, while Jackson’s 30,000 soldiers were off to the rear and on the Union flank.  “Well, go on, then,” Lee said.  With that the younger general mounted his horse, Little Sorrel, and, with a wave of his arm to the west, rode off into the forest.  It would be the last time that the two would meet.

 

General Birney’s men saw and reported the column of Confederates moving west across the Union front.  Birney then brought the matter to Hooker’s attention.  Hooker thought that the Confederates were retreating, but, thinking that Lee might be pulling something out of his bag of strategic tricks, warned Howard to protect his flank.  Throughout the day there were other sightings of the Confederate move and warnings of an impending attack on the Union right flank.  But Hooker continued to believe that Lee was retreating and busied himself with plans for an orderly pursuit.

 

At 5:30 on that Saturday afternoon, the sun hung low in a clear sky.  General Howard was relaxed at his headquarters at Dowdall’s Tavern.  His men had stacked their guns behind their firing pits along the Turnpike.  Groups of infantrymen were around their fires cooking their supper.  Field officers, seated in chairs, dined at a table.

 

“A deer,” someone shouted.  This often happened, and the soldiers would attempt to corral the animal.  But the deer was running in panic.  Then came another frightened deer, hurtling itself east out of the thickets.  A flock of turkeys ran out of the woods.  Birds and rabbits followed.  A shell came flying down the Turnpike toward the astonished officers and men.  Then came the unearthly screech of the Rebel Yell, “Yyyeee-ooohhh! Yyyeee-ooohhh!”  The Confederates burst out of the woods, over-ran the pickets, and swept over the astonished Union soldiers like a terrible gale.  The soldiers of the Eleventh Corps, after several vain attempts to withstand the onslaught, fell back in an irrepressible rout.

 

 

General Hooker reacted swiftly.  He rode to Berry’s First Brigade, a unit of his old corps when he was a corps commander, and which he believed that he could rely on in this crucial time of emergency.  When he saw Berry, he yelled, “General, throw your men into the breach!  Receive the enemy on your bayonets!  Don’t fire a shot, they can’t see you!”

 

Berry’s 1st and 2nd brigades quickly moved to a position perpendicular to the Plank Road.  The 1st Massachusetts, General Joseph B. Carr’s brigade, was placed at the north side of the road.  William was on the first line of defense, others of the brigade forming a second line.

 

William and Joe were hugging the ground on a crest just west of the plateau on which the Chancellor House stood.  They were behind a clump of thickets, firing into the on-coming Rebels, with their unearthly, other-worldly scream.  Wave after wave of gray-clad soldiers pressed forward, only to be repulsed with great loss.  Between attacks, William and Joe further secured their position by throwing up a protective breastwork of brush and earth.  Darkness fell, and the boys could see the enemy line only by the firing of their muskets.  The battle raged on, now illuminated by a brilliant moon.

 

By 9:30 that evening, the moon threw its light over the forest, filtering through the dense trees and casting its eerie glow over the ground-hugging smoke of battle.  The noise of battle had diminished, and, for a change, it was quiet.  The two comrades were lying close to the Plank Road, resting.  Through the stillness, William heard the sound of horses hooves.  He roused Joe, who was catching a wink of sleep.  “Joe, listen, hear that.  There’s a party of cavalry, or something, coming this way on the road.  From the sound, it is a quite large group.”

 

The sounds, now located as coming toward them on their right, grew louder.  The two left their position and, hunched down with their rifles ready, cautiously crept to the side of a little mountain road that paralleled the Plank Road for a short distance.  Soon they saw a small group of the enemy, sitting on their mounts and talking among themselves.  The dim light, the haze of battle smoke, and the smoke now beginning to rise from the burning wilderness, made it difficult to see.  But William saw clearly enough to know that one member of the party was a Confederate officer of high rank.  It was the figure of a tall man of splendid figure, riding a rather small reddish brown horse.  His uniform appeared dust-laden, as did his full beard.  Pulled low over his brow, was an old army cap.

 

William raised his rifle, realizing that if he were to kill an enemy officer of the rank he supposed this one to be, he would greatly help the Union cause.  A moment before he fired, someone in the party caught a glimpse of William and Joe.  He grabbed the bridle, quickly turned the horse, and slapped it on the flank with the flat of his sword.  Before the bullet could find its target, the intended victim had made his escape.

 

As the party of Confederates made its way west, angling to gain the Plank Road, William and Joe heard gunfire, which they knew came from the enemy.

 

“Cease firing, cease firing.  You are firing into your own men!” they heard someone yell.

 

“Who gave that order?” someone else shouted.  “It’s a lie.  Pour it into them, boys!”

 

This was followed by a loud volley of shots, the muzzle blasts sending sheets of flame visible through the night-draped trees.

 

“Someone else, even one of his own, may have done the job that you intended, William,” Joe said.

 

The young general of Manassas and Shenandoah fame, Stonewall Jackson, who was reconnoitering beyond his pickets to find the best way to close off a Federal retreat across U.S. Ford, had been mortally wounded by his own men.  He would die a few days later, shortly after 3 o’clock on Sunday, May 10, with the words, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”

 

At midnight the guns of both armies grew silent.  With the moon sailing high in the bright, star-studded heavens, the men of blue and gray slept, their arms at their sides.  Before their turn came to enjoy the oblivion of slumber, William and Joe looked out in the distance and saw the Wilderness‑-ahead to the west and aside to the north and to the south‑-ablaze from point to point.  Wounded men from both sides were crawling away from the fires near which they had fallen, and those who could not move cried out in agony as they perished in the flames.  Then all was silent, save the whippoorwills, emitting their weird, plaintive notes as they sang their requiem for the dying and the dead.  And Mars, the old God of War, was that night well-pleased with the human havoc that he had wreaked.

 

As dawn approached on that warm, clear Sunday morning of May 3, Jeb Stuart, now commanding in Jackson’s place, had his troops on a three-mile line astride the Turnpike, about a mile west of Chancellorsville.  Lee’s troops were southeast of Chancellorsville along a line extending from the Orange Plank Road west to Katherine Furnace.  Lee’s intention was to have Stuart move southeast to unite the two wings of his army.

 

Hazel Grove was an open plateau a short distance southwest of Chancellorsville.  It was occupied by the First and Second divisions of Sickles’ Third Corps, along with cavalry and artillery.  It was an important position, for it stood in the way of the juncture of the two wings of Lee’s army.  It would also be invaluable in the event of a Union offensive.  Just before sunup, Hooker rode down to talk with Sickles, who urged that Hazel Grove be held and wrapped into the main lines of the army.  But Hooker was now thinking defensively, and ordered Sickles to abandon the position.  It was not long until it was occupied by the Confederates.  It became a place from which the Federal troops were to receive murderous enfilading fire.

 

General Berry’s Second Division, which included William’s regiment, was in its position of the previous evening, on the north edge of the Turnpike.  William and Joe were awake at daybreak.  While chasing some hardtack down with a swig of cold coffee, William peered over a breastwork of logs and abatis of sharp tree tops pointing westward.  From their position merely 250 yards west of the Union lines, the brigades of Jeb Stuart were in position to begin their advance.

 

“We’ve received an order to withdraw, William,” Joe said.  “There’s the staff officer over there, talking to Colonel McLaughlen.”

 

 

The men of the 1st Massachusetts began their withdrawal east toward Chancellorsville.  They had moved but a few paces when General Berry, who believed in conducting war first-hand, stopped them and asked them why they were retreating.

 

“Your staff officer, the one there, gave the order, sir,” William answered.

 

“Bring him over here,” Berry said, tartly.  The General ripped the officer’s shoulder straps off and pulled his coat open.  The man wore a gray uniform.  Berry immediately arrested him and sent him to the rear.  In a few moments the 1^st Massachusetts was again in its defense line.

 

William and Joe were hugging the ground on a crest just west of the plateau on which the Chancellor House stood.  They were behind a clump of thickets, firing into the on-coming Rebels, with their unearthly, other-worldly scream.  Wave after wave of gray-clad soldiers pressed forward, only to be repulsed with great loss.  Between attacks, William and Joe further secured their position by throwing up a protective breastwork of brush and earth.  Darkness fell, and the boys could see the enemy line only by the firing of their muskets.  The battle raged on, now illuminated by a brilliant moon.

 

By 9:30 that evening, the moon threw its light over the forest, filtering through the dense trees and casting its eerie glow over the ground‑hugging smoke of battle.  The noise of battle had diminished, and, for a change, it was quiet.  The two comrades were lying close to the Plank Road, resting.  Through the stillness, William heard the sound of horses’ hooves.  He roused Joe, who was catching a wink of sleep.  “Joe, listen, hear that. There’s a party of cavalry, or something, coming this way on the road.  From the sound, it is a quite large group.”

 

The sounds, now located as coming toward them on their right, grew louder.  The two left their position and, hunched down with their rifles ready, cautiously crept to the side of a little mountain road that paralleled the Plank Road for a short distance.  Soon they saw a small group of the enemy, sitting on their mounts and talking among themselves.  The dim light, the haze of battle smoke, and the smoke now beginning to rise from the burning wilderness, made it difficult to see.  But William saw clearly enough to know that one member of the party was a Confederate officer of high rank.  It was the figure of a tall man of splendid figure, riding a rather small reddish brown horse.  His uniform appeared dust‑laden, as did his full beard.  Pulled low over his brow, was an old army cap.

 

William raised his rifle, realizing that if he were to kill an enemy officer of the rank he supposed this one to be, he would greatly help the Union cause.  A moment before he fired, someone in the party caught a glimpse ofWilliam and Joe.  He grabbed the bridle, quickly turned the horse, and slapped it on the flank with the flat of his sword.  Before the bullet could find its target, the intended victim had made his escape.

 

 

As the party of Confederates made its way west, angling to gain the Plank Road, William and Joe heard gunfire, which they knew came from the enemy.

 

 

“Cease firing, cease firing. You are firing into your own men!” they heard someone yell.

 

“Who gave that order?” someone else shouted.  “It’s a lie. Pour it into them, boys!”

 

This was followed by a loud volley of shots, the muzzle blasts sending sheets of flame visible through the night‑draped trees.

 

“Someone else, even one of his own, may have done the job that you intended, William,” Joe said.

 

The young general of Manassas and Shenandoah fame, Stonewall Jackson, who was reconnoitering beyond his pickets to find the best way to close off a Federal retreat across U .S. Ford, had been mortally wounded by his own men.  He would die a few days later, shortly after 3 o’clock on Sunday, May 10, with the words, “Let us cross over the river and rest under the shade of the trees.”

 

At midnight the guns of both armies grew silent.  With the moon sailing high in the bright, star‑studded heavens, the men of blue and gray slept, their arms at their sides.  Before their turn came to enjoy the oblivion of slumber, William and Joe looked out in the distance and saw the Wilderness‑‑ahead to the west and aside to the north and to the south‑‑ablaze from point to point.  Wounded men from both sides were crawling away from the fires near which they had fallen, and those who could not move cried out in agony as they perished in the flames.  Then all was silent, save the whippoorwills, emitting their weird, plaintive notes as they sang their requiem for the dying and the dead.  And Mars, the old God of War, was that night well‑pleased with the human havoc that he had wreaked.

 

As dawn approached on that warm, clear Sunday morning of May 3, Jeb Stuart, now commanding in Jackson’s place, had his troops on a three mile line astride the Turnpike, about a mile west of Chancellorsville.  Lee’s troops were southeast of Chancellorsville along a line extending from the Orange Plank Road west to Katherine Furnace.  Lee’s intention was to have Stuart move southeast to unite the two wings of his army.

 

Hazel Grove was an open plateau a short distance southwest of Chancellorsville.  It was occupied by the First and Second divisions of Sickles’ Third Corps, along with cavalry and artillery.  It was an important position, for it stood in the way of the juncture of the two wings of Lee’s army.  It would also be invaluable in the event of a Union offensive.  Just before sunup, Hooker rode down to talk with Sickles, who urged that Hazel Grove be held and wrapped into the main lines of the army.  But Hooker was now thinking defensively, and ordered Sickles to abandon the position.  It was not long until it was occupied by the Confederates.  It became a place from which the Federal troops were to receive murderous enfilading fire.

 

 

General Berry’s Second Division, which included William’s regiment, was in its position of the previous evening, on the north edge of the Turnpike.  William and Joe were awake at daybreak.  While chasing some hardtack down with the with a swig of cold coffee, William peered over a breastwork of logs and abatis of sharp tree tops pointing westward.  From their position merely 250 yards west of the Union lines, the brigades of Jeb Stuart were in position to begin their advance.

 

“We’ve received an order to withdraw, William,” Joe said.  “There’s the staff officer over there, talking to Colonel McLaughlen.”

 

The men of the lst Massachusetts began their withdrawal east toward Chancellorsville.  They had moved but a few paces when General Berry, who believed in conducting war first‑hand, stopped them and asked them why they were retreating.

 

“Your staff officer, the one there, gave the order, sir,” William answered.

 

“Bring him over here,” Berry said, tartly.  The General ripped the officer’s shoulder straps off and pulled his coat open.  The man wore a gray uniform.  Berry immediately arrested him and sent him to the rear.  In a few moments the lst Massachusetts was again in its defense line.

 

The Rebels soon launched their attack.  They worked their way through a thick woods, where Jackson was shot the previous evening, and stepped into a clearing about 100 yards wide.

 

William heard, yet again, the fierce yell, accompanied this time with the, words, “Remember Jackson!”  William and Joe were side by side, behind their breastworks of logs, watching the enemy lines approaching in close column, coming up close to the Union entrenchments.  Then the order to fire was given.  From one end of the line to the other, the men poured heavy fire into the approaching lines.  Men fell like blades of grass before the scythe, and as they fell others took their place.  Artillery horses fell by the score. Wounded men and riderless horses turned from the attack and streamed to the rear.  The Confederates came on, wave after wave.  The 1st Massachusetts stood firm.  The two comrades, crouching behind their protection, fired again and again into the oncoming hordes.

 

General Berry, all the while, was with his troops.  He saw that the Rebels were about to envelop both sides of his line.  He started to cross the Turnpike to speak to the commander of his Third Brigade, General Gershom Mott. His staff officers, realizing the danger, protested, but he brushed them aside and crossed the road.  He made it over without difficulty, but on the way back a Confederate bullet struck him down.  He was carried beyond the line of fire and died within a few minutes.  While his grieving officers gathered around him, General Hooker came up.  Inquiring as to the identity of the dead officer, he was told that it was Berry.

 

With tears in his eyes, Hooker leaped from his horse, kissed the dead man’s forehead.  “My God, Berry, why did this have to happen?  Why does the man I relied on so have to be taken away in this manner?”  Brigadier‑General Carr, of William’s brigade, assumed the divisional command.

 

With their flanks turned, the Second Division, on the north of the Turnpike and the First Division of General Slocum’s Twelfth Corps on the south of the road, were forced to retreat to their second line of defense, along the edge of the woods some distant to the rear.  By this time the men had been fighting for an hour.

 

 

William and Joe were together, turning toward the advancing enemy and firing, but all the while moving to the rear.  The woods were becoming more dense, and William and Joe became separated.  Alone now, yet still fighting as

he worked his way rearward, William came upon a fallen man lying on the ground.  It was clear to him that the man was seriously wounded, even to the point of death.  He bent over the stricken soldier and with a shock realized that it was his company commander, Captain Charles Rand.  The Captain recognized William and attempted to speak, but before he could do so he drew a final breath and expired.  William knelt over the body so as to retrieve any

personal effects that he might send to the family.  It took but a few minutes to complete this sad task.

 

As he rose to his feet, it was with disbelief that he saw that he was surrounded by a detachment of Confederate soldiers, their rifles leveled at him.  It took only that short interval of time, and William was made a prisoner of war.  For him, the great Battle of Chancellorsville was falling into the irretrievable past.

 

For Hooker, too, and his great army, the battle was fast closing.  While

Stuart’s forces attacked the Federals from the west, Anderson came up from the south.  His attack upon Brigadier‑General John W. Geary’s division of Slocum’s Corps, which had held the ground south of the Turnpike, resulted in the capture of Chancellorsville.  At 10:30 that Sunday morning of May 3, the two wings of Lee’s army reunited in the large clearing surrounding the Chancellor mansion.  As they met, the soldiers, their faces black with dust and powder, gave a mighty cheer.  General Lee, now at the height of his military genius, sat on his horse, Traveller, and accepted with gratitude the accolades of his men.  “I thought,” a staff officer later wrote, “that it must have been from such a scene that men in ancient times rose to the dignity of gods.”

 

Faced with the united southern army, Hooker retreated north of Turnpike and went into entrenchment.  He formed a line in the form of a V, the flanks anchored to the Rapidan and Rappahannock rivers.  Sickles’ Corps was situated at the southern apex.

 

Earlier that morning, Sedgwick’s forces had occupied Fredericksburg.  His Sixth Corps was brought to a halt at Salem Church, on the Orange Plank Road, and was unable to unite with Hooker’s forces.  During the night of May 4, the corps crossed the Rappahannock to safety.  Hooker withdrew his forces the next day and night.  By May 6, the entire army was on the north of the Rappahannock, and the Battle of Chancellorsville was over.

 

William had been captured by a squad of solders of the 13th North Carolina of Brigadier‑General Dorsey Pender’s brigade, against whom the 1st Massachusetts had just fought the severe battle on the Turnpike.  He was taken to the rear, near Dowdall’s Tavern, where his captors searched him took his rifle.

 

A young Rebel, no more than a boy, examined his gun, and, with amazement, exclaimed, “If we had these, we’d have you beat a long time ago. William’s “Henry Rifle,” a new design which was breech‑loaded and fired l6 rounds, was a great improvement over the “Springfield,” a single‑shot, muzzle- loading weapon, which the Confederate infantry used.

 

 

“You’ll take it, no doubt, but it won’t do you much good, because you don’t have the proper ammunition to fit it,” William replied.  “And, too, don’t be so boastful.  Look at this rifle and compare it with yours.  This is but one example of our superiority, given our industrial works all throughout the North.  You’ve had your day, and it won’t be long until the tide really turns against you in our favor.  You ought to give it up; you’re licked and don’t know it yet.”

 

“Well, you may be right,” the lad said, with a rueful countenance.  “This war need not have happened.  I’m from a slave state, but I don’t believe in slavery.  I guess the only reason I’m fighting is that you Northerners are down here.  But, anyway, you’re licked now, at least.  You’re our prisoner.”

 

“For the time being. But we’ll see about that,” the prisoner rejoined, his determined intention to remedy his situation quite evident to his captors.  His spirit had not been broken.

 

As he rested from the rigors of his recent fight and capture, William heard, some distance to the east, the great shout as the two wings of Lee’s army re-united at Chancellorsville.  He was well‑treated by the Confederates who held him.  William looked on in horror as a group of Negro Federal soldiers were lined up a short distance from him and summarily shot.  There came to him the vivid realization that, for the Southerners, the Negro was less than human and did not deserve the consideration due to white prisoners. He knew then, as he had never known before, that the North was fighting to exorcize a radical evil that had too‑long plagued the nation.

 

William was brought to a group of other Union prisoners, many of whom he knew, and spent his first night in captivity in a clearing near the tavern.  The next morning, Monday the 4th of May, the prisoners were marched south on the Brock Road, past Todd’s Tavern and then Spottsylvania Court House, to the railroad at Guiney’s Station.  On the way they overtook a two‑horse ambulance. “That’ll be Jackson, who was wounded last night,” William’s Confederate acquaintance said.  “He was shot, by his own men. His left arm has been amputated.”

 

Forgetful of his circumstances, William murmured, as if speaking but to

himself, “So that’s who it was.”  His thoughts flashed back to the previous night, when he had aimed his rifle at a Confederate officer.

 

“What do you mean by that?” asked the lad guarding him.  “Nothing; I was just thinking,” William replied.  “How strange, he said to himself, are the fortunes of war.”

 

That evening, after a seventeen mile march, the group reached the soggy

bottom‑lands near Fairfield, the home of Thomas Chandler, near Guiney’s Station.  There they made camp for the night.

 

The next day, Tuesday, May 5, it began to rain.  There was no letup, and the rain developed into a savage cold storm.  The men sloshed through ankle‑deep mud, then huddled into close‑packed groups, in their effort to get some warmth.  Just after noon William was placed on a foul‑smelling car of a cattle train, which began its journey south to Richmond.  But it soon reversed its course, finally coming to a stop at its point of earlier departure.

 

“What’s the matter?” William asked.

 

“Stoneman’s cavalry has cut the line,” someone replied.

 

William’s heart jumped a beat, for now he knew where Lewis was, somewhere south along the railroad.

 

Later the men were again loaded on the cars.  Wet and cold, nearly famished, they were glad to be on the move, although they knew that only the

infamous Richmond prisons awaited them.

It was a slow and agonizing trip, because of the many times the train had to stop and wait for repairs to the track.  It was not until mid‑morning of the following day that the train reached the Richmond station.  There was still a chill in the air; the gray, rain‑laden clouds cast a gloomy shadow over the city and the surrounding landscape.

 

The men were marched to the Libby Prison.  It had been a vacant tobacco house and had been taken over as a prison.  It was a large, two story building.  Union officers were placed here. Privates were housed on an island in the James River, Belle Isle.  William, and others of his military rank, were brought here.

 

The prison area was an open stockade.  The walls were made of pine logs fifteen feet high and placed close together.  Sentry boxes were located on the walls at intervals of eighty feet.  About eighteen feet from the walls, there was a line of stakes, called the “Deadline,” beyond which any prisoner who came too close to the stockade walls was shot.

 

William looked upon a piteous host of men, wearing either tattered rags or nothing at all, their matted hair infested with lice, their sunken eyes showing little or no expression, and their faces blackened with the smoke from their little campfires.  Across the stockade were small tents and improvised brush huts, affording but little shelter from the sun and the storms.  Many of the men lived out in the open, sheltered by only their coats and blankets.  Some men had dug little caves in which to eke out their meager existence.

 

When evening came on, William received his ration.  Since this was his first prison meal, it was, under the circumstances, a lavish one.  It consisted of fat bacon, “sowbelly,” cornmeal, and a serving of rice.  He grimaced as he tried to eat, but somehow managed to get the food down. Glancing aside, he saw a veteran of the prison watching him.  “You’re a ‘fresh fish,’” the man said, using the name given to the new arrivals.  “See what I’m eating; this is the usual diet.”  It was nothing but a bowl of coarse cornmeal mixed with swamp water.

 

That night, William slept in his blanket under the sky.  He thought longingly of his home with its cheer and comfort.  He saw with remarkable vividness the old places, the old scenes, as he had once, in the long‑ago, lived in the pale of their blessings.  Even the comradeship of battle‑field companionship became something extremely desirable.  He knew that there was no chance of his parole.  Since the Confederate government had refused to parole northern Negroes, all prisoner exchange had been cancelled.  William, as was the case with the vast majority of Union prisoners, backed Lincoln in this decision.  It was but another element in the price that had to be paid to secure and preserve liberty.

 

 

It had rained during the night, and William woke up wet and hungry.  A foul‑smelling stench pervaded the atmosphere.  It came from the latrines, or

“sinks,” which were sources of pollution and infection, causing the death of

countless prisoners.  There was no breakfast for the men this morning.  At noon they were given their ration of raw cornbread.

 

To keep from going insane—although many did just that—the men devised various means of occupation.  They passed the time by reading, playing cards, chess, checkers, and other games.  There was a gambling tent, where many of the men went to make and lose money.  William, who never gambled, kept his distance from it.  At times, groups of men were allowed outside the stockade to play, under the eyes of the guard, a game of cricket.  Men with an artistic bent carved figures from wood and bone.  They were often works ofbeauty, kept by a family for generations to come as mementoes of the war.

 

The presence of regimental chaplains alleviated much sorrow and suffering.  These ministers of the Master cared for the men, counselling them to be patient and strong throughout their ordeal.  On Sundays there were church services, in which all the men gladly participated.  There were some excellent singers, who frequently entertained the men with the songs of the day.  One song that touched a tender chord in every prisoner’s heart, and which was requested even by the rebels, was often sung.

 

In the prison pen I sit, thinking mother most of you,

And the bright and happy home so far away,

While the tears they fill my eyes, spite of all that I can do,

Though I try to cheer my comrades and be gay.

Cheer up comrades, they will come,

 

And beneath the starry flag, we shall breathe the air again,

Of the freeland, in our beloved home.

In the battle front we stood, when the fiercest charge was made,

And they swept us off, a hundred men or more,

But before we reached their lines, they were driven back dismayed,

And we heard the shout of victory o’er and o’er.

 

Chorus.‑‑ Tramp, tramp, etc.

So within the prison pen, we are waiting for the day,

That shall come and open wide the door, 1

And the hollow eye grows bright, and the poor heart almost gay,

And we think of seeing friends and home once more.

 

One morning, after two weeks, a prisoner came up to William.  The boy‑‑for he was in his late teens‑‑was weak and emaciated.  He motioned William to come with him some distance from those with whom William was standing.  When they were by themselves and out of hearing distance, he spoke softly, “There are four of us who live in that shed you see there.  We are digging an escape tunnel.  But we are so weak that we can hardly keep up the work.  We would like you to come and live with us and help us complete the tunnel we have started.  Will you do this?”

 

“Yes,” William replied.  He knew, as he had from the first, that escape was the only means of deliverance.

 

 

Over the next several nights, the men kept at their task of digging.  The tunnel was dug down six feet, then extended toward the stockade wall.  The fresh dirt was placed on a haversack and one of the men, under the pretense of going to the latrines, would carry the dirt out and spread it on the ground where it would not be noticed.  When a night’s work was finished, a board was placed over the hole and the old dirt carefully placed over the board to give the surface the same appearance as the rest of the ground.  Secrecy was necessary, so as not to attract the attention of the guards.  In ignorance of any plot, one would sing out, “Post number fo, twelve o’clock, and a‑l‑l’s w‑e‑l‑l!”  Often there would be a response from some wakeful prisoner, “Post number fo, twelve o’clock, and the Confederacy has gone to h‑e‑l‑l!” Eventually, the tunnel extended beyond the stockade wall, on the north, fronting the river.  The tunnel was then extended upward a foot or so, to permit quick exit when the men reached its end.  The five men packed their meager belongings and were prepared to make their escape that night, the night promising to be dark with overcast clouds.

 

Late in the afternoon the men saw a large hole where their tunnel came near the surface of the ground.  A cow, which had roamed in the area, had fallen through and was bellowing.  Excited prison guards were trying to extricate the bewildered animal.  When they finally succeeded, they had little difficulty in following the tunnel to its source.

 

William and his four companions were placed in confinement for a couple of day, but beyond this they were not punished.  They were, of course, discouraged because their attempt to escape had been so unconsciously foiled by a member of the bovine tribe.  William had to take a great deal of joshing from the entire camp.  The prisoners, by this time, knew that he had grown up on a farm in Maine and, being familiar with cows, should have known how much earth it requires to carry the weight of a cow.  Humor, even in prison, became a much‑needed palliative.

 

Despite the recent setback, William persisted in his resolve to escape and join his regiment.  He vowed to avail himself of any and every opportunity to realize his goal.

 

Late one afternoon, about a week after his failed attempt, William was exercising in the yard outside the stockade.  A pleasant young guard, whom William had observed with curiosity many times, came up to him.  He was an intelligent youth, some years younger than William, and seemed to be a cut above the other guards.  William had often wondered about him, his background, and the explanation of his presence as a guard, most of whom were uncouth and surly.

 

The young man motioned William to come over, which was acceptable here, since there was no deadline.  They were far enough from others to talk without being overheard.

 

“You’re in a Massachusetts regiment, I hear,” the youth said.

 

“Yes, the Ist Massachusetts.  I was captured at the Battle of Chancellorsville.”

 

“My name is David Rose.  I’ve watched you looking at me, appearing to

wonder about me.  And I’ve wondered about you.”

 

“Yes, we seem to have a mutual curiosity about each other,” William said.

 

 

“I come from a divided family.  My father was born and lived his early life in your state of Maine.  He came to Richmond twenty years ago and met and married my mother, who comes from an old southern plantation family.  They have always been divided over the slavery question.  Their differences affected us children.  My brother, Earl, seemed to side in with my father. When the war came, he joined the 1st Maine cavalry.  I haven’t heard from him since the war began, and I don’t know whether he is even alive.  When the time came for me to enter the Confederate forces, I could not do so.  I’m against slavery, and could not fight for it.  And I could not fight against my brother.  So I joined the me guard, and wound up as a guard here, in this despicable place.  Since the escape attempt, I’ve known that you are from Maine.  I have wanted to talk th you.”

 

“How curious,” William replied, “I too have a brother in the 1st Maine cavalry.  His name is Lewis Prescott.  I haven’t heard Lewis speak of your brother, I don’t have any information for you.  I don’t know whether or not he is still alive.  But I trust that he is, for your sake.”

 

The two continued conversing for several minutes, until it was time for the group to enter the stockade.

 

A couple of days later, as the sun was setting in the west, its rays touching the great James River with flashes of gold, William cautiously approached the sentry box in which his new‑found friend, David, was on sentry duty.  William had written a short note, which read, “I have some money; I’ll pay you if you’ll help me escape.”  He had bound the note in a handkerchief, filled with a stone, and when no one was noticing he tossed it into the sentry box.

 

William knew that what he had just done was extremely dangerous.  If he were reported, it would mean death for him.  And, if the sentry were to enter into the conspiracy and get caught, it would likewise mean death for him.  But he felt compelled to take the chance.

 

He watched the sentry take the note out of the cloth and read it.  On the back of the note, David wrote his reply.  Then when it was possible to do so, he threw the missive at William’s feet.  With great expectation, he opened the note and read its contents.  To his joy, it read: “I don’t want your money, but I’ll help you.  Tomorrow night I’ll leave the gate open and walk to the adjoining sentry box to talk with the sentry posted there.  Watch your chance.  You can walk out.  From then on, you’re on your own.”  The two waved their hands in acknowledgment, and William returned to his place, for what he hoped would be his last night in prison.

 

There was more good fortune to follow.  Sometime during the afternoon of the following day, William and David again met.  They had but a few minutes in which to converse, so they talked swiftly together.  David gave William the address of a Methodist minister in Richmond who held strong Union sentiments and would, David said, help him escape.

 

“If you find my brother, or learn anything of him, write me here,” David asked.  This was the only recompense asked for his help.  “When you get to the river, you must head upstream as you swim across.  That is the only way you can avoid being detected.”

 

 

“If I make it, I’ll write, be assured of that.  Good‑bye, and I’m extremely grateful.”

 

The two, the enemy sons of North and South, shook hands, not knowing whether they would ever meet again.  The darkness of night covered sky and land.  It promised to be a moonless and starless night, favorable for an undetected escape.  His heart beating furiously under the excitement of the moment, William, with his little bundle of belongings strapped to his back, crept under the sentry box.  He watched as his friend walked the walkway to the next box and engaged in conversation with his fellow.  At the judicious moment, he swiftly and quietly slipped through the partially open gate.  He was out!  He knew that he would make it.

 

He entered a grove of nearby trees and waited a few minutes to be sure that he was still undetected.  There was no sound, nothing to indicate that his escape had been noticed.  He walked stealthily on, and in a few minutes stood on the south bank of the James.  Slipping his clothes off and wrapping them in his bundle, he stepped into the river.  He tied his bundle over his head and began to swim across and upstream.  He was a powerful swimmer, and made good headway.  Memories from former evenings went through his mind. He thought of the evening swims in the Sandy River with his brothers, in that so

long ago time.  Now he was swimming in another river, so distant from his home, in his attempt to reach the North.

 

There were times, when his head was turned in that direction, when William saw sentinels on both sides of the river farther south.  The advice given him was well‑taken.  He was swimming in the only direction that promised safety.

 

It was a long, cold swim, but William swam on, gathering strength as he saw the approaching north bank.  Finally his feet touched the river’s bottom, and he walked out on dry land.  He waited until he was dry, and then put on his clothes.  He wore his regulation uniform, which, if seen, would give him away.  However, his overcoat, which fortunately he had not thrown away in the excitement of battle, covered his uniform and afforded him some protection.

 

David’s instructions remained indelibly in his mind, and William soon found the home of the Methodist minister.  He had managed to move through the Richmond streets, which were quite vacant, without difficulty.  He knocked at the door.  It was soon opened and the light from the room illumined the features of the waiting soldier.  The minister, knowing full‑well what was transpiring, greeted his uninvited guest with kind words, “Come in, my son.” He stepped across the threshold into the safety of his new‑found haven.

 

“You know that I’m an escaped Union prisoner, don’t you?” William said.

 

“Yes, I know, but you are among friends.  We’ll help you.  We want to see this horrid war over, and we want the Union restored.”

 

The minister’s wife came into the room.  “My name is Wesley Moore, and this is my wife, Helen,” he said, as he introduced himself and his wife.

 

“I’m William Prescott.  I’ve just escaped from the prison on Belle Isle. I swam the river.  One of the sentries, who helped me escape, gave me your address.”

 

 

“Yes, that would be David Rose, a member of my church.  He’s a fine, caring lad.”

 

“You must be starved,” Helen said.  “But first come upstairs and get a bath.  I’ll lay out some of my husband’s clothes.  Then you must come down and eat something.”

 

William pulled off his dirty, grimy clothes and threw them quickly out the window.  He couldn’t help it; he had to laugh boisterously.  He was following Helen’s no uncertain instructions to get the lice‑infected garments out of the house as quickly as possible.  They would, she promised, be put in a boiling pot the next morning. She would, she said, allow a Union prisoner in her home, but not his clothes!  How so like his mother, he thought.

 

For the first time in years, William took a bath in the manner befitting a human being.  Afer dressing, he went downstairs and was treated to a substantial meal.  It was not the kind of meal he had at home, since the war was taking its toll on the southern people.  But it was, for him, a bountiful feast.

 

“You’ll stay with us a couple of days,” Reverend Moore said.  “You need to rest.  Your trip north will be an arduous one, and you’ll need all your strength.  I can give you some instructions as to the way you should take, so as to avoid capture and get into the Union lines as quickly as possible.  But now you must get some sleep.”

 

By this time, it was late in the evening, time for all to retire for the night.  The minister reached for his Bible, and as the group sat before the fireplace in the study, he read from Matthew, words spoken by Jesus and now certainly appropriate for the occasion:

 

Then shall the King say unto them on his right hand,

Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom

prepared for you from the foundation of the world:

For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat:

I was thirsty and ye gave me drink:

I was a stranger and ye took me in:

Naked and ye clothed me; I was sick and ye visited me:

I was in prison, and ye came unto me.

Then shall the righteous answer him, saying,

Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, and fed thee?

or thirsty, and gave thee drink?

When saw we thee a stranger, and took thee in?

or naked, and clot~ed the?

Or when saw we thee sick, or ill prison,

and came unto thee?

And the King shall answer and say unto them,

Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as he have

done it. unto one of the least of these my brethren,

ye have done it unto me.

 

As was the custom in those days, the group had knelt while praying. William rose from his knees, and, rugged battle‑hardened soldier that he was, his eyes were filled with tears.  He thanked his host and hostess profusely, then retired to the room that had been prepared for him.  It did not seem possible, but he sank in the deep folds of a featherbed.  He was soon asleep. That night he dreamed that he was home in Maine.

 

It was the evening of two days hence.  William had finished his meal.  He was dressed in his uniform, now bright and clean.  It was almost time for him to depart.  The date was June 3, exactly a month since his capture.

 

“Now, William,” Reverend Moore said, “look at this map.  Let me show you the route you will take.  You should head northwest.  There is a man with a wagon waiting for you outside the door.  He will take you north to the Mountain Road.  You can take it, for it leads in the right direction, toward  Louisa Court House.  But you must be careful, for it is frequently patrolled by Confederate troops.  You will want to move along its sides, mainly.  Exercise great caution as you move around Louisa Court House.  Take the back country as you proceed north in the direction of Culpeper Court House.  You may be able, from time to time, to walk by the railroad tracks, but always be on the lookout for the Confederates.  If you make it beyond Culpeper, you’ll be safer.  Federal forces are roaming the area in that vicinity.”

 

When it was dark, William bade his new friends good‑bye and crawled into the waiting wagon.  The wagon bed was lined with a thick cushion of straw.  The driver placed several burlap sacks over him, climbed on the seat, and, with a gentle slap of the reins, started north to the Mountain Road. Two hours later, after an uneventful journey, the driver stopped his wagon at the intersection of the two roads.  After glancing about to assure himself that he was not being observed, he came to the back of the wagon and helped William out.  The two men shook hands warmly, and William began his solitary trek toward the Union lines.  He soon left the road and walked a few paces to its south, then resumed his general direction.  He believed, and rightly so, that by doing so he would be less likely to run into Confederate troops, more watchful to their north than to their south.

 

William continued walking throughout the dark night.  He came upon nothing to hinder his progress.  An hour before daylight, while it was still dark, he stopped in a thick grove of pine trees, near a clear brook, and ate a breakfast of two cold biscuits.  He thought of building a small fire, so as to make a tin of hot coffee, but decided against it.  He spent the day resting, and when night came again resumed his tramp.

 

Mrs. Moore had given William sandwiches, meat, and vegetables, to supply food for his journey.  But this source of nourishment was soon exhausted, and William then had to find other ways to satisfy his hunger.  His route took him

over little country roads and across the fields of small farms.  He found persimmons and gathered them to eat.  From the fields he dug sweet potatoes, picked beans, and gathered ears of corn. He often stopped in a remote place, by a spring of water, and cooked his scanty meal.  He worked out a systematic procedure.  He snapped the beans and placed them on a tin plate.  It rested on three stones and over a small fire of twigs.  By frequently pouring in water from his tin cup, he managed to keep the beans from burning until they were soft enough to eat.  He roasted sweet potatoes and ears of corn in the fire’s coals.  For dessert, he gathered wild blackberries.

 

 

The days and nights passed swiftly.  With each daybreak, when he paused to rest, William was that much nearer to his destination.  His travels were lonely excursions in the night.  There were nights when it rained, when the cloud‑scudded night sky gave no light, and when he could only painfully grope his way northward over swampy ground, fallen trees, and through thick briers. Sometimes he walked along the railroad.  This was difficult, however, since the ties were not placed across the road bed at an equal distance.  Every third or forth tie was placed on a bias.  If in the future he ever had anything to do with the railroads, William thought, he would correct the matter and make it easier for track‑walkers.  He never became discouraged, but kept up his resolve and courage, somehow knowing that he would succeed in his effort to reach the Union lines.

 

 

When the Battle of Chancellorsville commenced, General Hooker ordered the greater portion of the cavalry to raid the area between Chancellorsville and Richmond, in order to cut Lee’s connections with Richmond and scare him into retreat.  The series of raids did little, however, except to scare Richmond.  Lee paid no attention to the cavalry lark; instead he attacked Hooker.

 

On the morning of Friday, May 1, 1862, the day the Battle of Chancellorsville began, the Third Cavalry Division, commanded by Brigadier‑General David McM. Gregg, was riding south from the Plank Road to Orange Court House.  Lewis was one of the cavalrymen in the expedition, for his regiment, the 1st Maine, was a unit in the division.  The division reached Orange Spring, about five miles south of the Plank Road.  The cavalry‑men surprised and captured some enemy pickets and a transportation wagon filled with supplies.

 

At six 0′ clock that evening the division left Orange Spring and headed southeast for Louisa Court House, on the Virginia Central Railroad, reaching it at 3 a.m. on the following morning.  The 1st Maine spent the greater part of that day, May 2, tearing up the railroad track and telegraph lines.  The division then followed the South Anna River to Thompson’s Cross Roads, where it went into camp at 10 o’clock that evening.  By 3 a.m. the following morning, the 1^st Maine was again on the move, and, proceeding down the south bank of the river, destroyed several bridges.  By now it was Monday, the 4th, and the division, having finished its assignment, headed back north in the direction of the Union lines.  It crossed the Rappahannock at Kelly’s Ford on the 8^th.

 

 

“I think,” Lewis said to Ray, on a clear, sunny morning in early June, “that we could have served the country better if we had been used to reconnoiter and gather intelligence, and also actually engage the enemy, at Chancellorsville.  We may have been able to avert Howard’s collapse.”

 

“You’re in the wrong spot, Lewis.  You’d make a good General.  You’re right.  Hooker didn’t use us as he should have.”

 

“For the first time in the war, we have finally got a good cavalry arm. I just wish we could do something really effective and important, for once.”

 

“Well, be patient. We may get our chance yet.”

 

On the evening of June 8, the cavalry made a cold bivouac in the vicinity of Kelly’s and Beverly’s fords.  Gregg’s First Division, Lewis’ division, was near Kelly’s Ford.

 

 

Stuart’s cavalry had been located at Brandy Station on the Orange and Alexandria Railroad.  It was poised to cross the Rappahannock the next day

and take up position to guard the right flank of Lee’s army as it moved north.

 

When Colonel Kilpatrick, commander of the First Brigade, Lewis’ brigade, got his regiments in position for the night, he asked his officers to join him at his tent.  When they got there, they noticed that there was something in front of the headquarters, covered with a poncho, a rubber‑coated sheet.  The Colonel had the cover removed, and there stood a vessel filled with “whisky punch.”  The 1st Maine had, because of its temperance reputation, been dubbed as “Puritans.”  Many of the Puritans gathered for the festivities abandoned, for the time being, their puritan principles.  A pleasant hour, filled with speeches, songs and toasts passed quickly, as did the whisky punch.  At the close of the occasion, the Colonel asked one of the officers to offer a parting toast.  Lewis’ company commander, Colonel Charles H. Smith, gave the toast: “Here’s hoping we will do as well at Brandy Station tomorrow as we are doing at whisky station tonight.”

 

Early the next morning, the 9th of June, Lewis and his comrades of the 1st Maine crossed Kelly’s Ford.  The regiment formed column of fours and sped at a gallop for four miles over a narrow, dusty road, bordered by thick woods on both sides.  It was, for Lewis, a time of triumph and exaltation.

 

The sense of excitement over‑spread the entire regiment.  Even the great, black steed on which Lewis rode sensed the thrill of action.  He ran swiftly, easily, without effort.  Lewis carried on his person the newest cavalry weapons: a light cavalry sabre, a magazine‑fed Spencer carbine, and a Colt “army” revolver.

 

Heavy firing was heard in the distance, and the regiment was ordered to halt.  The men dismounted and gave their horses a moment to recover their breath.  When everything was put in order, the men remounted and sped on at

full speed. They broke from the woods and entered a large clearing. At that moment a furious cannonade opened upon them.

 

Lewis looked out on the vast field and saw, to his front and left, bodies of Union cavalry advancing toward the enemies’s cavalry.  General Kilpatrick, the brigade commander, was nearby, troubled over the reverses being suffered by his other regiments.  He dashed up to Colonel Douty and said, in a voice plainly heard by Lewis and every other man in the regiment, “Men of Maine, You must save the day!  Your regiment can do it!  Charge!”

 

The regiment leaped forward.  Lewis rode as he had never before rode. His great steed carried him at breath‑taking speed over level and undulating ground, over ditches and fences, over a railroad track, for more than a mile.  On the men dashed, their nerves strung to their utmost tension, their faces bright with fierce excitement, their clothes torn by the masses of artillery fragments flying through the air.

 

Then, in an instant, it seemed, Lewis saw the approaching enemy cavalry, the Black Horse Cavalry of the 4th Virginia, charging toward his own regiment. Now, with a piercing cheer, the “Puritans” increased their speed, and with drawn sabres raised, ready to strike all who dared oppose them, the regiment rode straight toward the enemy.

 

 

Riding furiously beside Ray, Lewis was almost deafened by a large shell that came screaming over his  head. Instinctively, he ducked his head.

 

“That’s not going to be any help,” Ray shouted through the noise.

 

Lewis nodded grimly, his face set in stern resolution.  He spurred his horse forward.  Overtaking an enemy cavalryman and abruptly turning his horse, he reached out with both arms, tore the Southerner from his horse and flung him to the ground.

Ray glanced to one side and stared in astonishment.

 

They tore forward, through the ranks of the fleeing enemy forces.  Lewis suddenly looked to his right.

 

“All right, you nigger‑lover, you have had it,” yelled a grim‑faced gray‑clad rider.

 

Lewis threw his sabre up in defense.  His weapon was flung from his hand, as his opponent raised his sabre in readiness to strike.

 

For a brief instance, he felt the terror of death.  He heard a sharp report.  His opponent screamed and fell lifeless to the ground.

 

“You saved my life,” Lewis shouted to Ray, as the two brought their horses to halt.  “I can never thank you enough.”

 

Lewis went back where his sabre lay on the ground, jumped off his horse

and jammed the weapon in its sheath.

 

They spurred their horses sharply, and caught up with their comrades. They yelled with excitement as they rode over the fleeing rebel forces.  They rode past a defiant rebel who refused to retreat and stood firm as the two rode around him.  Two Confederate troopers, intent upon fleeing the Federal deluge, rode beside them, as coolly as though they belonged there.  They saw, through the cloud of dust, the quiet guns of the battery that had fired upon them.  They went over a hill and over the guns like a great whirlwind.  They tore on, through the lines of troops guarding the guns.

 

Colonel Smith, commanding the regiment in the momentary absence of Colonel Douty, pierced the air with his cry, “Halt.”  The men re‑formed, in readiness for another charge.  Lewis and Ray, among others, dismounted and opened fire with their carbines upon the enemy, now reappearing.

 

Smith saw that his men were now isolated, with the enemy in the rear.  He waited while troopers scattered by their charge came in and joined ranks.

 

“Wheel,” he cried, when his command had reassembled.

 

“Forward!”

 

The regiment sped back over the ground from which it had just driven the enemy.  Lewis heard the shells from the battery, now reattended by the enemy, and the bullets fired from the guns of returning enemy cavalry.

 

“We’re between two fires,” Lewis hollered at Ray through the din.

 

 

They rode straight for the battery.  The gunners leveled the guns toward them.

 

Colonel Smith, who was leading the break‑out, suddenly swerved to the right.  Lewis and Ray, riding close behind, pulled their horses in the same direction.  A charge of grape and cannister tore up the ground behind them.  The regiment drove on, and in a moment cut its way out.

 

Late in the afternoon, about 5 o’clock, the Union cavalry headed back to the fords over which they had crossed that morning.  Lewis and Ray rode side by side.  They rode slowly and leisurely, for there was now no need for haste, and it was wise to give their faithful mounts a breather.  The sun soon went down and the night began spreading its dark shadow over the landscape and the forest.  The night came on cool and clear.  There was no moon, and only the stars, with their faint light, illumined the troopers’ path.

 

“Look, Lewis,” Ray suddenly exclaimed, “there’s someone walking this way.  Over there, to our right.”

 

“Yes, I see him.  We’d better be careful.  It may be the enemy scouting us out, setting a trap for us.”

 

“Hold him while I go and see,” Ray said, dismounting and handing the reins to Lewis.

 

Ray went forward a few paces, then took cover behind a large tree.  Lewis went farther into the shade of a nearby grove of woods.  Both men now saw the approaching figure more distinctly.  They could see, by the soft light, only that he was a tall person and that he was walking with difficulty. He carried a heavy roll on his back.  There were times when he started to fall, but he always recovered himself and groped his way forward.  He appeared to be unarmed.

 

Convinced that he was in no immediate danger, Ray suddenly stepped from his place of concealment, and with his rifle cocked and aimed, shouted, “Halt!  Who comes here?”

 

The approaching figure, as if in surprise to hear a human voice, stopped, and with his hands held above his head, replied, “Don’t shoot!  I’m a Union soldier.  I’ve just escaped from Richmond.”  He could reveal himself, since he saw that the man confronting him was also a Union soldier.

 

In a flash Lewis leaped from his horse and ran forward.  He stopped, peered ahead through the opening in the forest.  He seemed to know that voice. Then he was sure; it was his brother, William.  They recognized each other, and ran forward to meet in the embrace of brotherly affection.  It was over; William had won his freedom.

 

Like knights of old, several men, sitting their mounts, formed a protective circle around the two soldiers of freedom as they stood together in the triumph of victory.  It was a scene reminiscent of ancient days.  For a fleeting instant, amidst the land scarred by the wrath of war, there came again the lost age, when the world was young and resplendent in pristine glory,

 

 

When the morning stars sang together,

and all the sons of God shouted for joy.

 

ROSTER OF THE ARMIES

 

CHANCELLORSVILLE, MAY 1‑6, 1863

 

ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, USA

 

Major‑General Joseph Hooker, Commanding

First orps: Major‑General John F. Reynolds

Second Corps: Major General Darius N. Couch

 

Third Corps: Major‑General Daniel E. Sickles

Second Division: Major‑General Hiram G. Berry (killed)

Brigadier‑General Joseph B. Carr

First Brigade: Brigadier‑General Joseph B. Carr

Colonel William Blaisdell

1st Massachusetts: Col. Napoleon B. McLaughlen

William Prescott

 

Fifth Corps: Major‑General George C. Meade

Sixth Corps: Major‑General John Sedgwick

Eleventh Corps: Major‑General Oliver 0. Howard

Twelfth Corps: Major‑General Henry W. Slocum

Cavalry Corps: Brigadier‑General George Stoneman, Commanding

Third Division: Brigadier‑General David McM. Gregg

First Brigade: Colonel Judson Kilpatrick

1st Maine: Colonel Calvin S. Douty

Lewis Prescott

 

ARMY OF NORTHERN VIRGINIA, CSA

 

General Robert E. Lee, Commanding

First Corps: Lieutenant‑General James Longstreet

Second Corps: Lieutenant‑General Thomas J. Jackson (wounded)