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WHEN President Lincoln called for troops in April, 1861 to put down the rising insurrection, some colored men in the city of New York hired a room and began to drill in military tactics. At that time, as all through the Civil War, there were many sympathizers with secession in New York City, and they threatened these colored men with violence and in order to secure the public peace, the police authorities felt compelled to order them to cease drilling. Before the end of the war a regiment of colored men was raised and equipped by the Loyal League of that city, and marched down Broadway on its way to the seat of war, amid the cheers and plaudits of thousands.

In 1862 General Hunter organized negro regiments in his department of the South. A howl of indignation went up in Congress from the rebel sympathizers in that body. Mr. Wickliffe of Kentucky introduced a motion asking the Secretary of War, if General Hunter had organized a regiment of fugitive slaves and whether the government sanctioned the act. Hunter made explicit answers. He replied to the first question, "No regiment of fugitive slaves has been, or is being organized in this department. There is, however, a fine regiment of persons whose late masters are fugitive rebels, men, who everywhere fly before the appearance of the National flag, leaving their servants behind them to shift for themselves as best they can." A few weeks later, Secretary Stanton, by special order, directed General Rufus Saxton, Military Governor of the Sea Coast Islands, to "arm, uniform, equip and receive into the service of the United States, such number of volunteers of African descent, not exceeding five thousand" as would be useful.

General J. W. Phelps in command above New Orleans, in the summer of 1862, finding crowds of colored people flocking to

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his camp, asked permission of General Butler to arm and equip negro regiments. Butler had no authority to do so. He recommended Phelps to employ them in servile work on the fortifications. Phelps replied, "I am not willing to become the mere slave driver you propose, having no qualifications that way," and throwing up his commission, returned to Vermont. Very soon afterwards Butler called for negro volunteers from the free colored men in New Orleans, and full regiments were formed.

A year passed by and but few of the thousands of colored men made free by the Emancipation Proclamation were found in arms. There was quite a general prejudice against them, but as the war went on, this prejudice, like many others, passed away, and in the summer of 1863 the President was authorized by Congress to accept colored volunteers. From this time on they were freely enlisted, and nearly two hundred thousand of them fought in the ranks for the preservation of the Republic and for their own freedom.

Within the Confederate lines, the colored men in bondage were freely used in the military service, but not with arms in their hands. Under white leaders, they were "armed and equipped with axes, shovels, spades, pickaxes and blankets," and built many of the fortifications, which defied and held in check, the Union Army.

In Massachusetts, "the employment of freedmen as soldiers in the army of the Union was favored from the beginning and looked forward to with fond hopes by Governor Andrew and prominent public men in the Commonwealth. They saw in this, the certainty of a successful issue of the war. Thus what was predicted early in the struggle, became a truth, "Africa was carried into the war, the black man was made a soldier with a musket in his hand, and on his body the uniform of a loyal volunteer."

The movement for the organization of colored troops forms a very interesting chapter in the military history of the old Bay State. It was a very rare thing to see a colored man in military uniform. They were not allowed to form part of the militia, nor could they be enlisted in the regular service.

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It was regarded by many as an experiment of doubtful utility, and many in their secret hearts hoped it would prove a failure. But that far-sighted statesman, Governor Andrew, had faith that it would succeed and was constant and persistent in urging it upon the general government. History has long since awarded him the full meed of praise for his wisdom and sagacity in this, as in many other matters which distinguished his administration and placed Massachusetts in the forefront in that memorable struggle.

On January 26th, 1863 an order was issued by Secretary Stanton, giving authority to Governor Andrew to recruit a colored regiment in Massachusetts, and on February 7th he issued an order for the good work to commence. On May 14th, which was less than one hundred days, the regiment was filled to the maximum, and was known as the Fifty-Fourth Massachusetts. Before its organization was completed, there were so many colored men anxious to enlist, it was decided to raise another regiment and this was also rapidly filled. These two regiments of colored troops were the first that were organized in any of the loyal states and they were armed and equipped in the best manner. Governor Andrew determined to select for officers of these regiments the very best material that could be found in the Massachusetts volunteer service. "They should be of acknowledged military ability and experience, of the highest social position, if possible, in the State, and men who believed in the capacity of colored men to make good soldiers. For colonel of the Fifty-Fourth Regiment he immediately fixed upon Robert G. Shaw, a captain in the Second Regiment Massachusetts Infantry, a gentleman of education, a brave officer, and connected by blood and marriage with the oldest and most respectable families in the state. Captain Shaw was afterwards relieved from his command, and came to Boston to superintend the recruiting of the regiment." When the organization of the Fifty-Fourth was completed, many gentlemen in New York, who favored the enlistment of colored troops, desired to have the regiment pass through that city on its way to the front. They wanted to have it march down Broadway that the people might see it, and that New York might imitate

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the example of Massachusetts in regard to colored regiments. But others, equally friendly to raising colored troops, counselled against it and their prudent counsels prevailed. The Fifty-Fourth Regiment was ordered to South Carolina and embarked on the 28th of May, 1863 on board the United States steam transport, De Molay. In the passage through Boston it received a splendid ovation, but the men kept close ranks, not a man left his place, not a straggler was seen. Two sons of Frederick Douglass, the colored orator, were in the ranks; the father himself was present to witness the departure of his sons.

In less than two months this regiment participated in that deadly and unsuccessful assault on Fort Wagner in South Carolina, led by their gallant Colonel, Robert G. Shaw, who was instantly killed. Because he commanded colored troops, Shaw was intensely hated by the confederates, and they foolishly thought they had dishonored him, when, as they proclaimed, they had buried his body "in a pit under a heap of his niggers."

On April 1st, 1863, Governor Andrew wrote a long letter to the secretary of war in regard to raising a colored brigade in North Carolina, which, he was assured, could easily be done, if the proper man was selected to organize and command them.

General Foster in command of the Department of North Carolina regarded favorably the formation of colored troops. In obedience to the suggestion from the War Department, Governor Andrew proposed the name of Colonel Edward A. Wild, of the Thirty-Fifth Regiment, as a suitable person for such a position. He was of the right age, a graduate of Harvard College, a physician by profession. His first military experience was as a surgeon in the Crimean War on the staff of Omar Pacha. He raised a company in 1861, and went with it as its captain in the First Regiment of three years' men from Massachusetts. He was in the first Bull Run fight, and in all the battles before Richmond, in one of which he was severely wounded. As Colonel of the Thirty-Fifth, he fought at South Mountain and Antietam, where he lost his left arm.

The enlistment of the colored troops in North Carolina was a matter in which the members of the Forty-Fifth Regiment took

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a deep interest, largely so, because of the earnest support given to the project by the Hon. Edward W. Kinsley, the loyal and enthusiastic friend of the regiment. At the twenty-fifth reunion of "Company A, 45th Associates," Mr. Kinsley gave an interesting and thrilling account of his trip to New Berne, about this time, a little of the inside history, so to speak. He was well known to be one of Governor Andrew's truest and most confidential friends, and came down, ostensibly, as a servant to General Wild but actually in the capacity of a diplomat Governor Andrew had seen enough of the bickerings and jealousies of army officers, to lead him to have very little faith in the success of the undertaking unless backed by brains and executive ability, and Mr. Kinsley must pack up, go to North Carolina, and look the field over He went to Washington and had a long interview with Mr. Lincoln, answered questions and arguments innumerable, but the iron rules of war were not relaxed, no pass could be obtained. Determined not to be thwarted in his purpose he signed articles as a servant to General Wild and in that capacity entered New Berne. But the blacks did not come forward to enlist. Something was wrong and it did not take Mr. Kinsley long to find out the trouble. Among the blacks was a man of more than ordinary ability, a coal black negro, named Abraham Galloway. So great was his influence among the colored people that all matters of importance concerning them were left to his decision. Mr. Kinsley had several interviews with him, but still the recruiting hung fire. One day a message was brought to Mr. Kinsley to be at the house of Mary Ann Starkey, a colored woman, at twelve o'clock that night. He was there at the appointed hour, was blindfolded and led to an attic room. When the bandage was removed he could see, by the dim light of the candle, that the room was nearly filled with blacks, and right in front of him stood Abraham Galloway and another huge negro, both armed with revolvers. With these weapons at his head, they put him under a solemn oath, that any colored man enlisted in North Carolina should have the same pay as their colored brethren enlisted in Massachusetts; their families should be provided for; their children should be taught to

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read; and if they should be taken prisoners, the government should see to it that they were treated as prisoners of war. To all of this Mr. Kinsley made oath and he was then conducted out of the house. He often avowed that these few moments spent in Mary Ann Starkey's house was the most thrilling experience of his life. The next day the word went forth, and the blacks came to the recruiting station by hundreds and a brigade was soon formed." Before leaving the North, Mr. Kinsley assured Governor Andrew and President Lincoln that the Massachusetts Regiments in the Department of North Carolina would exercise a protecting care over any colored troops that might be raised there, and he advised that the camp of the First North Carolina Regiment be located near that of the Forty-Fifth Massachusetts, which was done. It was no unusual thing for members of that regiment to go over to the camp of the First North Carolina and drill the "raw recruits" in the manual of arms, and afterwards instruct them out of the primer. On his way home from New Berne, Mr. Kinsley stopped at Washington and had another long interview with President Lincoln and related, in his own inimitable way, the success of the scheme, and the manner in which the Massachusetts regiments had treated the colored troops. Mr Lincoln was deeply touched at the narrative and was thoroughly convinced that the government had done the right thing in ordering the enlistment of colored troops.

Benson J. Lossing in "Our Country," says of the colored troops and of the negro during the war,--"The natural docility of the negro made him an excellent man to discipline for a soldier; and his faithfulness and courage were never surpassed, in strength and endurance, by the white man's faithfulness and courage. Their conduct throughout the war was most remarkable. Their numbers, in some of the revolted states, were nearly equal to those of the white people; and in the absence of the men of the latter race, in the army, the whole region which they occupied, was absolutely at their mercy. There were, at first, apprehensions that the negroes, perceiving their opportunity and advantage, would rise in insurrection and assert their right to freedom. On the contrary they worked faithfully and patiently

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for their masters, on the plantations, and there is no record of an attempt, by individuals, or in numbers, of that vast servile population, to gain their liberty. Not a woman or child was injured by their slaves; on the contrary, they were the trusted protectors from violence, of the wives and children of the confederate soldiers.

They had faith that God would, in his own good time, deliver them from bondage; and in that faith they patiently waited and suffered. Because of their faithfulness and forbearance, when they might have filled the land with horror, the colored population of the South deserve the everlasting gratitude and good-will of the white people there, whose families they protected and by their labor supplied with food and clothing during the terrible civil war.

History furnishes no parallel to the noble conduct of the negroes toward those who were making war for the purpose of perpetuating the slavery of their race."

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IN those days just after the close of the war, the three years' men used to ask a question, "Were you a soldier or a nine months' man?" When I heard that question asked by some bearded veteran who, perhaps, spent as much time in Confederate prisons as would cover my whole term of service, I was tempted to reply with trembling knees and bated breath -- "Only a nine month's man, oh, mighty warrior." And yet when I think of sacrifices made by those who served only the short period, when I recall deeds of bravery, when I remember the many hardships borne uncomplainingly, and more than all, when I recall those of our number who "died on the field of battle," those who passed away in southern hospitals from wounds and disease, and others who carry with them honorable scars, I come to the conclusion that a man may be a soldier, and yet only a nine months' man.

The call for troops for this short period, brought two large classes into the field,--one, of young men, who, prior to the call were too young to enlist, another, and a larger class of men,--old and young, with families and responsibilities, home duties, which, up to that time, had restrained them from enlisting. These welcomed the call, gladly, as giving them an opportunity to do a little for the good cause, when they could not do much. Thus it happened that our regiment was composed of good material; of my own company, one-half was raised on Cape Cod, the other half in the city.

There were sailors who had circumnavigated the globe, fishermen, farmers, mechanics, tradesmen and clerks, ranging in age from eighteen to forty-five. All shades of religious and political

[image: Sergt. Royal P. Barry, Company D]

[image: (drawing) Camp Massachusetts]

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beliefs had their representatives. As regards religion, it was noteworthy that there was a general respect for it, even by those who seemed most reckless, and the profanity of the minority, while it was forcible, and in some cases, peculiar and original, had little of real viciousness about it. It reminded me of the old answer of the swearing sailor to the parson, "My cursing is a good deal like your praying, parson, we don't either of us mean anything by it."

Those men I learned to love with a brother's affection, their faults are forgotten. When we meet it is with a hearty grip of the hand, and long talks take place, the old scenes come back to us, we ask for this one and that one, and learn that some are dead--others are living in foreign lands--others are in the great West. Once a year a hundred or more of us come together--we have a dinner--once again we form a "Dress Parade," laughing at our awkward attempts to perform the once familiar tactics--and then we separate to meet another year with possibly diminished numbers.

Camp Amory, our first camp in Dixie, was on the bank of the river Trent, about a mile or two from New Berne. Our quarters were two long wooden barracks, each divided into five rooms. Every morning we went to the river bank to wash, later came breakfast, then guard mounting, and the morning drill for those who were not on guard. Dinner was followed by another drill of the entire brigade--then came the "Dress Parade," with its solemn and punctilious ceremonies. As the company assembled the orderly-sergeant would pass down the ranks, gently reproving the men for some personal untidiness, then came the captain "spick and span" and he rolled his cold eye over the ranks. "Jones, those buttons have not been polished lately." "Brown, where are your company figures?" "Lost 'em, sir." "Get new ones to-morrow." "Smith, I foresee you will get some extra guard duty, if you don't present a better appearance tomorrow night." The discipline was severe--distances between officers and men, were always made great in our regiment, although at home, they may have been friends. Sometimes the discipline seemed too severe, but I think we all conceded that it was not, before we

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finished our term of service. Our barracks were but a part of a large camp--beyond us the Fifty-First was camped, also in barracks, and beyond them the Forty-Third in tents.

Occasionally we obtained a pass, and going through these camps, walked up the bank of the river to the ruins of the old mansion, to which all the lands we were occupying belonged in the "ante-bellum" days. Sometimes as we smoked our pipe under the sunny side of its walls, we used to try and imagine the scenes which might have taken place there before the war--the river parties--the Christmas festivities and all that.

Picture to yourself the feeling of the owner returning after his four years of service in the Confederate Army--his home destroyed--not a building standing--fences destroyed and burned, his timber felled--the land wasted. "A righteous retribution," you say, and you rightly say so, and yet when a man returns in such a case, and sets to work manfully to build up his shattered fortunes, accepts the situation, puts behind him the past, ranges himself under the Old Flag, is he not entitled to credit? And if it should happen that it don't suit him to eat dirt and say he was wrong, and wear "sackcloth and ashes," and all that, ought we to complain? I trow not. "Put yourself in his place."

For several weeks we did picket duty on the other side of the Trent, and for five miles beyond the bridge. The men sought picket duty rather than camp guard, as it was more free and easy.

At the Block House on the other side, the main guard was set. There a detachment of, say, twenty men, under a sergeant, would start out on the wood road. At every mile interval, three men and a corporal would be left, and at the outer picket station, nine men and the sergeant.

It was easy business, the woods were very pleasant, and there was little to do. The Confederates were quiet, and were, no doubt ten or twelve miles away. This fact did not however relieve us from close watching and scouting when night fell.

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The night hours seemed mighty long in these woods, especially do the hours drag between two o'clock and the break of day. Then all the curious woodland noises are hushed. The silence is almost appalling, the cold becomes unbearable, probably because the power to resist it has become weakened by the long vigil, your teeth chatter, your blanket seems little protection, and you hover over the few embers allowed, awaiting the dawn of day. But as the sun gets up, and the birds begin to sing, and your comrades wake and join you--the fire is started up--you boil your coffee, eat the nutritious hard tack, and salt horse, and finally fill your pipe. The blue devils that have been your companions vanish, and your life seems jolly and cheerful again. The rest of the forenoon we can sleep if we choose, for no duty is expected till afternoon.

One night we were all sleeping quietly, when I was partially awakened by a confused noise which seemed a part of my dream, and yet, not of it. As I gradually came to my senses I found the drums were beating in the square a continuous roll, increasing in volume, momentarily, as one drum after another joined in. The sergeants were rushing like crazy men from one bunk to another. "Turn out! Turn out! The Long Roll! The Long Roll! Come fly around. Tumble out!" One sergeant distinguished himself by ordering us to put on our dress coats and both belts, as though it was a "Dress Parade." Naturally we were not long in dressing, and as we grabbed our guns, and jumped into our accustomed places, the officers made their appearance. All sorts of rumors were afloat, the Confederates had driven in our pickets, but I never quite learned what did give the alarm. Whatever it was, the outer picket had fired one or two guns, and the other posts following the usual orders, had also fired, and so the alarm was carried into camp with the result of turning out three thousand men, but it was all in the way of experience.

I want to mention a case of real bravery on the part of one of our men, at the battle of Kinston, who had seen something of frontier life in Kansas and Missouri. The colonel desired to get

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a little better knowledge of the location of the Confederates who were in front of us, and called for volunteers to go forward and report. Two men jumped to their feet, but the colonel signed to one to lie down again. The other, Whytal of Company D, just walked to the edge of the wood, trailing his rifle behind him, parted the bushes with his left hand, took a good look, turned about with deliberation and walked back, making his report to the colonel. I always thought that was an instance of real bravery.

The fire was very severe. It seemed a miracle he was not hit, for as it turned out afterwards, a Confederate regiment was only a few rods from him, and he was old enough to know the danger, and again he was alone. There isn't much courage required to make a charge when the regiment is massed together. You feel the touch of the elbows and shoulders of your neighbors, you are making forward rapidly, yelling, probably, excited and sustained by the excitement, but this cold-blooded bravery is rare.

On the second day of our Goldsboro march, much of the road was under water, from the overflow of the river, which crossed the road once or twice. At first there was some effort to keep dry shod, by walking on logs, and the hummocks, which projected above the swamp. One of the boys had been particularly active, in leaping from one dry spot to the other, so much so that he got himself disliked by the others, whose feet were wet, and as I came along behind him, and saw him balancing on a hummock, looking for another one to spring to, I couldn't resist the temptation, and I rubbed against him, so that he slipped into about a foot of water. It was a mean thing to do, and I shall never forget the reproachful look he cast on me.

Some of the boys were always scouting in the fields and farmhouses, doing about double the marching the company did, and seeming never tired, coming back with chickens, pies, etc., which had been given them by the hospitable people of the country. One of these found a horse one day, an old bunch of bones, white in color. Our comrade tied his blankets on the horse for a saddle, made a rope halter and this completed the harness.

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He rode him all one day, but turned him loose at night, claiming that riding was harder work than marching.

I have often been asked to describe the sensation of being "under fire." Well, it is difficult to describe it. I have read in novels of the ardor which seizes the soldier to be in the front of battle. Charles O'Malley, you know, volunteered for the "forlorn hope," and all that sort of thing, but I can't say I ever experienced it. My impression is, that the average soldier don't care about doing any unnecessary fighting, but when it comes, why then he does it. So far as our men were concerned, they had their wits about them, were quite steady, obeyed every command, just as though they were on their usual drill, and were very glad when the fight was over.

Company D had very pleasant quarters at New Berne, when we were doing provost duty. Our house had open fire-places in each room, and every night a wood fire was blazing on the hearth, and those of us who were "off duty," would have a game of cards, or a social smoke till "Taps."

On Sundays we obtained leave to attend the Episcopal Church where Major Russell Sturgis, Jr., read the service. The singing was probably as good as any they were likely to have in that church or in any other, as the well-known basso Myron W. Whitney, who was a member of our band, used to sing there and the male quartette was made up of voices of a high order.

The church-yard surrounding the edifice was in fairly good condition, some of the inscriptions were a little quaint, as indeed they always are, when we go back a half century or more. I recall one on a stone over the grave of a young man, whose virtues were fairly and fully stated in prose, but the usual desire to burst into poetry was also manifested in four or five verses, of which I recall one.

"Ingenuous Youth! Thou art laid in dust
Thy friends for thee in tears did burst,
But though thy youthful qualities were great,
We all must learn with thee to follow Christ, the great."

While this leaves something to be desired by those disposed to be critical as regards rhyme and measure, no exception can be taken to the sentiment of the verse.

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The next house to ours was a large brick house, one of the best in town. The blinds were always closed, and I supposed at first, that it was unoccupied, but found I was mistaken. Occasionally we could hear the music of a piano, and I learned that the family consisted of two ladies, and one or two gentlemen, and servants. When they took their out-door exercise, if at all, I know not, for I did not see them during our three months stay there. I used sometimes to wonder how they passed their time in their self imposed seclusion.

One evening we learned there was to be a negro wedding nearby, and I was detailed to take some men round and see that there was no trouble. It was quite a swell affair, the groom was dressed in black, the bride in white, and both had on very fine white cotton gloves After the wedding ceremony there was a dance to the music of a fiddle, played by a darkey who sat on a table in one corner of the room. It was rather warm and rather close, and one of the boys found some cayenne pepper in his pocket and "sanded" the floor with it. (I would not like to say that he brought it there with a purpose, and yet it was not customary to carry cayenne pepper about the person.) Naturally the sneezing, with the dancing, aroused the indignation of the wedding party to such an extent that we had to withdraw.

Occasionally we had unpleasant duties to perform, in the way of searching houses of residents. I remember going through one on the order of the Provost Marshal Major Jones Frenkle of the Seventeenth Massachusetts. Some sanitary stores had been taken and suspicion fell on the inmates of this house. We went over it from cellar to garret, turned over the beds, opened trunks, pulled out the contents of closets, followed about by a young woman, about twenty years old, quite pretty, but boiling over with anger. I tried to reason with her but she wouldn't discuss the matter with that calmness, which, as you all know, is absolutely essential to reach a correct conclusion, in fact she seemed quite prejudiced against us, but we found nothing, and I confess I was glad to beat a retreat.

I recall the night ride on open platform cars, which our regiment took to Batchelder's Creek, to reinforce the Fifty-Eighth

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Pennsylvania, whose colonel was killed just after a successful foray on the Confederates. The next day we escorted his body to the cars, a detachment of his regiment accompanying it to New Berne. The Drum Corps of his regiment furnished the music and I have seldom heard music of any kind that affected me more deeply. The "Dead March in Saul" is familiar to all of you, but you will never appreciate it, till you have heard it played by fife and drum. The fife played the air, the kettle drums playing a continuous roll, swelling and dying away with the cadences of the air, while the bass drum marked the measure with muffled throbs.

A few days afterwards we were invited to do escort duty when the colonel's body was put on board the steamer to be sent to his home in Pennsylvania. The same dirge was played by our brass band but the music was not so effective.

Our term of service having expired we embarked at More-head City on steamers bound for Boston, and in a few days were in sight of the "Hub."

I am not easily stirred by emotion but I freely confess that at the sight of our New England coast, I felt my heart beat a little more rapidly than usual and was conscious of a shaking sensation at the throat as I caught myself humming an old air, which I used to sing at school--

"Hurrah for old New England
And her snow-capped Granite Hills."

Some of the boys re-enlisted and served the remainder of the war, but myself and the majority, we just dropped back into our old ways and manner of life, none the worse I am disposed to think, for the life we had led in the South. It is said that the soldier's life is a demoralizing one, and there is a certain amount of truth in the saying, nevertheless, it is a question with two sides, much depends there, as at home, on the associations which surround the individual, the character of the officers, and the regiment, etc. Looking back on those Southern days, I find myself forgetting its hardships, and remembering only the pleasant

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events, and the one thing which made the life bearable, not to say enjoyable, was the sense of freedom from responsibilities of all kinds. A munificent Government clothed and fed us, more-ever, it paid us $13.00 per month, in brand new greenbacks, of which we had no need, save to furnish us with tobacco, and (shall I say it) Butter, when in camp. Why, I was able to save or spare to others, more out of this income, than I have in some quite recent years. Then there were no conventionalities to be respected--no bosom shirt--no collar--no silk hat. If you were "off duty" and tired you could lie down in the sand and sleep.

There was much in the life to commend and to look back upon with a certain amount of regret and yet it was a serious business, how serious, those of us who lost our nearest and dearest, know, only too well--and if the war had been waged as some wars have been in the past for the aggrandizement of an individual, or of a nation, I could look back on it with no sentiment save that of horror, but our War was not such an one. It was waged for a vital principle, the Perpetuity of the Union, and with this principle vindicated, and now triumphant, not a dollar was expended, or a life lost, that we, of this day and generation have a right to regret, and we have an additional cause for gratitude that in this mighty struggle, the curse of Slavery, which had so long impeded and arrested the progress of the country, was forever removed.

But the war is ended and has been ended these many years. The country is now great and prosperous. It remains for us, who may, and I think will, experience the benefits of this prosperity to remember the past and avoid its errors.

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They are going forth to battle,
God shield them, every one!
The sister for the brother prays,
The mother for her son.
"The father of these little ones,
Oh, God, in mercy spare!"
So falters forth the waiting heart,
That hath no help but prayer.
They are going forth to battle,
Oh, we knew that this must be,
And we know some noble hearts must die,
Ere the hour of Victory.
For them, the danger and the strife,
And the hour so full of fate,
For us, the anguish of our dread
To hope, to fear, to wait.
They are going forth to battle,
God shield them, every one!
The sister for the brother prays,
The mother for her son!

Annie E. Johnson,

Nahant, Mass.

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MR. President, Comrades and Friends: I do not know how I can better honor the memory of the heroic dead whose graves we are, this week by beautiful custom to crown with floral tributes, than by bringing before you out of the record of the past a picture or two, of real army life, as we who lived it, found it. It is this plain, humble, unromantic record, finding no place in the stately scroll of history, which most clearly reveals the actual of war, and our debt to the men who endured its hardships and achieved its triumphs. In sketching for you some of the varieties of the soldier's experience, I must confine myself to what I saw and shared, and though this restriction will keep us at a distance from the most eventful scenes of the strife, its great battles and chief crises, yet we shall perhaps gain in vividness what we lose in tragic grandeur.

I had the honor of serving as chaplain of the Forty-Fifth Regiment Massachusetts Volunteers, through a nine months' campaign in North Carolina, and it is in connection with this brief term of service that all the personal observations of which I speak have been gathered.

One general remark I may however, at first interpose. What making war means, we have all learned to know, better than we once did. When we thought at first of warlike collision with the South, we pictured to ourselves a grand army of tens, or hundreds of thousands, in fair and ordered array. Every man in the ranks, a soldier and a patriot. Some gallant leader riding in the van. Each hand that held a sword, wielding it only at his will and word, and over all, its gleam reflected in every eye and stirring all hearts in noble unions, our country's starry flag. The

[image: Rev. A. L. Stone, D.D. Chaplin]

[image: Park Street Church, Boston]

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signal given, this army should move right on, with measured tramp of feet, with prancing horses, with thunder of artillery to meet the foe. Then battle--right against wrong--twenty millions against eight. Northern strength against Southern vaporing and victory for the Union. The triumphing army should follow fast and far on the broken and shattered rebel columns, allow no pause for rest or breath, beat them small as the dust of the balance, then with jubilant music return, their path lined with festive crowds, and saluting cannon from every height, throbbing out a nation's gratitude and joy. This was war. We were ready for this. We could interrupt trade and agriculture, and household dalliance long enough for this.

But this notion of war we very soon had to correct. The stern rude reality was too much you know for some men. They could have fought through one of those poetical campaigns, but the prose was hard and tough. It was this prose of war that took the nation by surprise. But we had to read it without a rhyme. War was not that swift, sudden, smooth, triumphant excursion. War couldn't start at a signal, except on paper. It hadn't rifles. They had all been sent off South by official traitors. It gets its rifles, but it hasn't bayonets. It adds these and it is without artillery. This want is supplied and where are the horses? Down came the droves of Vermont and Maine, and now alas, for ammunition--something blocks the wheels at every step. The cartridges are supplied--but, transportation!

Now then, "forward," but rations are lacking. Given the rations, once more, advance, but whither, upon what plan? War hasn't one leader. It has fifty, envious, jealous, self-sufficient, aspiring, ambitious, willing to see a defeat, which they could have intercepted, rather than a new star in a rival's crown. Or, if pure in love of country, disagreeing in the ordering of campaigns, perplexing themselves and one another, frittering away precious time, grand opportunities, delaying natural seasons. But let me transfer you now to the special scenes we are to recall. The embarkation in Boston Harbor and voyage to North Carolina, we may "skip." Only if anybody thinks it is a pleasure trip to crowd nearly two thousand men into a single steam transport,

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sifting them down into the pitchy darkness at the bottom of the hold, packing them in horizontal strata like fixed geological formations or so many herring in a box, then bring upon the vessel the fury of a November storm, with driving rain and sleet, a rough sea, and hatches down, and ten days from port to port, I wish he might have tried it. The first sight of the strange hostile shore as our transport threaded the tortuous entrance of Beaufort Harbor, and the railway train bore us inland, made every heart homesick for dear New England.

Those fields near our first camp lay before us like the wastes of Sahara, and when the wind blew, it was like the desert simoon, bearing on its bosom a withering cloud of sand in which one could neither wink nor breathe. The eye ached for a New England hill, for one green pasture field, for a single rocky ridge, for a nice side expanse of emerald meadow, a yard of grassy lawn, for anything homelike to break the monotony of level desolation. All of us felt, I believe, that if we were fighting for soil and not for ideas, there was nothing in that first view worth conquering or holding. One drop of Northern blood was too large a price for a million acres. It is true that in our expeditions toward the interior we saw a better natural soil, higher culture, fairer mansions, more thrift, more refinement and more comfort.

New Berne itself, lying on a low sandy plain between the two rivers, was a pleasant town, with not a few really comfortable homes, broad streets (improved by Northern street commissioners, well shaded with elms, with gardens filled with fig trees, grape vines and roses, and yet this description applies to only the better part, and the gardens had other contents not so attractive to a New England eye, cabins for the enslaved poor and black olive plants in nature's first simplicity.

Three or four weeks after our arrival on the banks of the Trent, the routine of camp life well established, and some of us feeling perhaps that our experience was rather quiet and peaceful for war time, there came an order one evening at our dress parade that the regiment should march in forty-eight hours with three days' cooked rations in haversacks, and seven days' uncooked in their train. This broke in on the monotony of life in

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the barracks and the tent, and three cheers went up from the long enthusiastic line That was rather boyish and somewhat verdant. After that first expedition we never did it again. We knew better before long. The third morning after the order, our line was formed by the gray twilight that sifted down upon us at daybreak, through an overlying continent of fog. It is no light task, even with system and discipline, to start a small army and we did not number over fifteen thousand men. Gentlemen who sit at home and read the newspapers often wonder why soldiers don't move with more celerity--leap to arms--rush forth--make a dash, pursue a retreating army as a staghound the deer, and show themselves generally nimble and lively. We had, as you may remember, an abundance of such comments upon army movements. Put a heavy rifle into a man's hands, load him down with sixty or a hundred rounds of cartridges, make him carry fifteen pounds of overcoat and blanket, his rations for three days, and then halloo your staghound over ditches and hedges, through swamp and wilderness. He don't feel like it. He can't jump high, and stretch out fleet and far. He isn't a staghound, he is a pack-horse. The fact is our soldiers carried too much weight. The system was wrong. But the soldier was not responsible for that. Then there is a huge four-horse army wagon, a dozen, a score, half a hundred of them, loaded with rations for men, and provender for horses and extra ammunition; these are not exactly flying machines.

Here are hospital wagons filled up with stretchers on which to bear the wounded out of the fight, the use of which we soon enough learned. Here are ambulances, two wheeled, one-horse covered vehicles, heavy and lumbering, on stout elliptic springs and fitted with berths, in two stories for four wounded men. All these must be ready, provided with their accessories and appurtenances and take their places in due time and order. It can't be hurried, you can't move such an army like a squad of light horsemen. You can't start them as a gentleman orders his trotter to the door with an open buggy. You think you are ready and a mule kicks over the traces and entangles the whole team inextricably, till chains are broken and leather cut and ropes parted.

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Move on again. A pair of wheel horses balk and lie down in the mud. Start once more after half an hour's delay, there goes an axle in that deep rut. The freight must be shifted to wagons already overloaded, and the wreck lifted out of the single, only practicable track. Meanwhile the artillery has not come up. When will that regiment of cavalry mount? Creep on a little, what now? A dead halt. What's the trouble? Nobody knows, or at least, nobody who will tell us. Forward at last. Ah, we see what the trouble was. A muddy creek had to be bridged, work for the pioneers, and here their axes have been patiently and skilfully toiling.

From early dawn till twelve o'clock noon, we had made, how much do you guess--perhaps three miles and had just straightened our column, so that we could begin fairly to swing off on our march. But men must feed who march under weight. Indeed dinner is a convenience to gentlemen who don't march at all. Halt, again. Ah, my friends, if you don't know it, let me tell you that it is not easy swimming with cannon balls tied to your feet, nor running races with packs on your backs, nor marching promptly and swiftly with an army train to engineer on Southern highways. Will you march with us a little way? The men are ordered to take the "route step," which is, in English, each man striding as best suits his instruments of locomotion. The guns are borne on either shoulder, or strapped over the neck, as weariness or caprice dictates. The colonel of each regiment with perhaps the lieutenant-colonel and the adjutant rides in the van. The major, surgeon and chaplain ride in the rear. "Forward" over the low interminable levels. The road is a sandy cartpath, flanked on either side with the inevitable ditch. It dips every now and then into little swampy runs that spread out in the travelled path, sometimes for many rods, with a miry channel often in the centre, sometimes a corduroy bridge crosses the lazy stream, often there is nothing but a single slippery log spanning them at the roadside. The soldiers at first pick their way a little daintily. Their feet are dry and their stockings clean. It took sometime to learn all the secrets of economic marching, but this lesson came earliest, that avoiding

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difficulties always multiplied them. It came presently to be understood that the easiest way was straight through.

The men lost time in going round, lost strength, fell behind and had to "double quick" to overtake the column. A few miles under such alternations of scrambling, plunging and running, all and always with the heavy weights loading them down, tell upon a soldier's strength. A slender boy, the pet of some careful mother, slackens his pace. It is well she can't see him as he looks now. "Ah--are you used up?" "Pretty nearly so." "Give me your rifle up here, you will go lighter without it," and he starts forward with more elastic step. Another sits down by the roadside, face flushed, eyes looking hollow and desperate, a comrade pausing at his side. "What's the matter?" "Feet have given out, sir, they are all blistered." "Get up into my saddle a little while and rest them." Some more falling out. "What is it boys?,' "Feel faint and sick." Then the surgeon speaks, "Wait till the wagons come up and take a little ride, then come on again as well as you can." So he writes them a pass for the wagons. Others are taken ill in other ways and the hospital knapsack is opened and such wayside remedies as we have, administered. All day long these scenes repeat themselves, drawing perpetually on our care and our sympathy. Some of the men, boys rather, we had no veterans, must return and give up the expedition. They were unfit to start. Their ambition was greater than their strength. They could not bear in their brave hearts that their comrades should be marching and fighting and they left behind. But they have to fall out and fall back. And still the word of cheer ring out over the staggering column: "Forward men!" "Keep the ranks." "Close up," and every call lends new life to flagging steps, till at last the dusky twilight settles down upon the wood and the host, and the hope of pitching camp soon buoys up drooping frames and spirits.

We look ahead. Up the long avenue of the wood and above the treetops a ruddy light glows in the sky. It is not the lingering crimson of departed day. It is more like the lurid glare of a burning city. The pathway that rifts the forest, opens like a

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gate upon this flood of red ether. Soon our march emerges from the wood upon broad-cleared fields, and the sources of the wild illumination are given.

A thousand watchfires are kindled in long lines stretching away from the roadside across the breadth of the clearing. Other regiments in advance of us have lit these fires.

Into the deeper darkness on the margin of these lines of flame, our column, stumbling over corn ridges and bushes, and dipping suddenly into ditches, deep and wet, and coming up slimy and stained, is led. At last in the mid discomfort of soft bare earth, we halt. We, too, have reached our quarters for the night. Now, "stack arms" and then first for the materials whereof to make fires. But the fences for many a furlong are gathered already. We must go further for rails, and the wearied boys, yes and officers too, plod away into the blackness for pine rails. They make a glorious fire when you get them. Soon around these blazing pyramids the soldiers are grouped, drying their steaming garments, boiling tea and coffee, chatting, laughing, singing, as though all weariness and peril were at an end. The officers have other cares. Where is the forage for the horses? In the wagon train. And where is the train? Stuck in the mud miles back. When will it come up? Certainly not, until after midnight. And our faithful dumb allies--must they starve? Not, if we can gather anything for them. Again we tramp off into the darkness. At last we came upon a field of coarse, dry, sedgy grass, with a fibre as tough as that of grass. This we pull, lacerating our hands with the blackberry thorns that grow thickly in the midst of the grass, and our fasting studs eagerly welcome the unwonted repast. After a frugal supper from our haversacks, we spread our rubber blankets upon the cold moist earth, wrap ourselves in a woollen blanket, and with a saddle for a pillow, if we have one, if not we kick up a little pile of dirt and our feet toward the replenished fire, the night settling chill and damp around us. We take our last glance at the star, dim through the mist, and close our eyes in slumber.

Of course the most absorbing scene of the soldier's life is battle. Five times in our brief campaign our march met the

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enemy. One of these engagements was near Kinston, a pleasant town on the banks of the Neuse, some thirty miles from New Berne. It had no very exciting features, perhaps, and yet it was memorable to us, as our first and sharpest fight, sweeping away nearly one entire company of our regiment. The Ninth New Jersey, a regiment of splendid fighters are ordered to penetrate the wood. They disappear under the leafy screen, and then the Forty-Fifth, our own regiment advances. Over us hummed and shrieked the deadly missiles from our own batteries. Upon our bosoms beat the leaden hail of rebel bullets, as, we, too, entered the wood. Then you looked upon the faces of your young men to see what countenances they carried into battle. The moment long, and variously anticipated, had come. This was war's grim reality. We entered upon the rear of the regiment in advance of us and then defiling to the right, plunged into the black, tangled swamp. Our first death came before the swamp received us. A round shot plunged its way through the lines, narrowly missing several files and dashing two gallant fellows dead to the ground. Not a man faltered. The cheeks, here and there, changed color. That was so in every battle. With some it was a paler, with others it was a swarthier hue. But look at the mouth and into the eye. The mouth was set in ominous sternness, lips, that mothers and sisters had kissed, were pressed together as though they would never part again, and the eye was bright with steady and resolute purpose. The music of rifle balls is in strange contrast with their deadly errand. It is a soft, low, singing tone, pleasant as a child's voice, keyed almost like a loving sigh. It isn't a music that pays much attention to time. The notes are now hurried and huddled, and now scattering and sparse, and always irregular. The serpent-like hissing and hoarse screech of a shell is a very different style. The forceful rush of a large solid shot is still another specialty. Our own rifles now take part in the chorus and the sharp sleet of minie balls heralds our steady advance. Little groups bending together show where a comrade has fallen.

Thither with strong and willing helpers from the "band," the chaplain hastens to lift and bear out his wounded boys. A swallow of water from his canteen, or a swallow of spirit from the

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flask he carries into action about his neck and a word of comfort in the ear, and he toils back with his living burden to lay it down at the surgeon's feet and hurries toward the front again. I think the idea of following duty shuts out fear. Wherever duty calls a man at such times feels that he may go, without raising the question of danger. If he is where he ought to be, and doing what he ought to do, he need'nt dodge. All this time we are nearing the hostile front, which sends us such harsh salutation. The question crowds closer, which shall yield, shall this line of ours retire broken and baffled, or shall that concealed torrent of fire be stemmed and turned back? We cannot allow our flag to recede. At length we see our enemy. A deadlier storm greets us. A deadlier reply is sent back and then on our side bayonets are fixed. All of freshness and ardor he has ever known, gathers then upon a soldier's heart, and at the word "charge!" he leaps forward to the shock like a bolt of destiny.

After the fellowship of strife, pleasant and tender were the meetings and salutings, the joy that so many are spared, that we could look into eyes undimmed and upon forms unsmitten. Sad and heavy the task of counting up our fallen, searching for them in wood and marsh and committing to the earth those that shall fight no more. Memorials of their loved ones are found upon their persons.

Perhaps a Bible with a leaf turned down to such a passage as this, "Two men shall be in the field, one shall be taken and the other left." There are last words with the dying and their parting whispers hoarded up. The wounded are housed as well as the occasion will suffer, and night comes down with its healing dews upon wearied eyelids and the trampled battlefield.

A word or two concerning the return march as that has also its peculiar features. The men look upon one another as those who have been proved and have not been found wanting. Quiet, pale-faced striplings have turned out heroes. Individual instances of daring come to be known and repeated. Some hands bear with them souvenirs of the march. A book, snatched from some rifled house, a bit of household decoration, a scrap of rebel writing, some small piece of household furnishing to comfort a soldier's barrack.

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In the rear of the regimental column are led, perhaps, a dozen captured horses, though comparatively few such spoils fall into the hands of the infantry. Our mounted warriors for the most part, sweep this sort of plunder clean. Foraging of any kind behind cavalry boys is proverbially unremunerative. In the midst of the closing company of the column moves a squad of rebel prisoners, not uniformed save in the inevitable butternut colored stuff, which seems the staple costume. They are long, lean, brown, lank, hairy and dirty. They are, however, social enough and converse freely about the war. Another feature of the return march is a procession of "contrabands," men, women and children, in strangest medley of rags, but with a kind of earnest and solemn joy on their faces, that make them look sublime. "Are you a slave?" you ask of one. "Yes, Massa, not now. No, bress de Lord." "Where are you going?" "Going to New Berne." "What for?" "O, we tought as de sogers was a gwine, we mout as well jine now, didn't know as de good time come again." So they followed the flag and saw its bright folds streaming over them, red with the flames of their morning, Freedom's star leading them on.

In the rear of the regiment ride our wounded in ambulances, suffering, but cheerful and brave. They bear the jolts and lurches of their unwieldy carriages, without a murmur, sometimes asking us to raise from across them the leg or arm of a friend patient that presses their wounds, sometimes announcing that the comrade next them had ceased to breathe, and suggesting that the face of the dead man be lifted a little apart from their own. I shall have accomplished my purpose in these sketches if they shall serve at all to make the actual life of the soldier more distinct and vivid. What we ought to commemorate is not simply the soldier's death, but his toils, his marches, all that he suffered and wrought under the flag, before, to his dying eye, its stars were blended with the lamps of heaven. All the land over these private memorials ought to be gathered and written, until they are held within the memory of the living.

One of the pleasantest scenes of camp life was always the arrival of a mail from the North. The camp swarmed. A stripling

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son of mine, a private in the regiment, was postmaster. "Stand back, boys, give us room to sort the letters." This is done by companies in the chaplain's tent, ten boxes for the ten companies of the regiment. Outside a crowd of eager voices are communing. Within, the work goes silently and swiftly on. A thousand, perhaps two thousand letters are each to be handled and their superscription read. Every now and then one who cannot wait longer, without a crumb of comfort, will push half his face in, and ask beseechingly, "Frank, do you see any for me?" When an affirmative answer can be given there is a little jubilee outside. At length each has his own, and the camp is full of tender silence for half an hour, while misty eyes are following the familar characters of loved fingers.

A letter from home saves the soldier from despondency, it saves him from temptation, it saves him from vice and ruin. If none seem to care for him, if amid the chorus of epistolary salutations, no friendly voice falls upon his ear, he will cease to care for himself, grow reckless and riotous, or sick and desperate. A stroke of your pen would have saved him. It is well enough to pray for him, but if you pray so much you can't write, I think it would be better to cut down the prayer a little, and leave room for the other.

Half a mile from our last camp on the banks on the Neuse, just before we left, there shot up the white tents of the First Regiment of North Carolina Colored Volunteers, under the command of Colonel James Bucher. The problem whether these newly enfranchised freedmen could be converted into serviceable recruits was speedily solved. The National uniform was as a magic robe to them and they straightened up and stood erect in it, at once men and soldiers. The touch of the rifle as their hands clasped it seemed to fill their veins with electric life. The new style of address so different from their ears had ever heard before, "Attention, Battalion!" Load, Prime, Ready!--Fix Bayonets! Charge Bayonets! transformed them from slaves to warriors. Their drill was not one whit behind the manual of white regiments. The colored women of New Berne, stimulated by a word read in their hearing which had been spoken by the Governor of this Commonwealth at the presentation of a regimental

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flag, contributed themselves a hundred dollars, and purchased for their brethren a set of silken colors. That regiment went to Morris Island, where colored valor asserted itself on the dark and slippery parapet of Fort Wagner, and answered, once for all, the question whether colored soldiers can fight, and where a gallant colonel of Massachusetts lies in a grave, meant as an insult to his memory by the hands that dug and filled it, but which neither marble nor bronze could have made more honorable than the companion dust of those twenty-five colored heroes.

My own faith in the victorious issue of our cause never for one moment faltered. I never believed that God put the fate of this great nation into the hands of rebels, nor that instead of a broad, free Republic, he meant to rear here, on the ruins of the Republic and the neck of the African, a column of despotism.

When the war broke out, there stood on Shackleford Island, off the coast of North Carolina, in the midst of a thinly scattered and disloyal population, a tall flag pole on which, before the days of treason, the Stars and Stripes had been given to the breeze. Of course the sacred banner was torn down, and the new ensign fluttered in its place. But the pole was surmounted by a carved and gilded eagle. That was too national an emblem to be suffered to remain. An expert climber reached it and brought it down, and it was ignominiously buried in the ground. Scarce was the ceremony ended when there was heard the rush of lordly wings and a live eagle came sailing over and alighted on the desolate staff. The marksmen brought out their rifles, and bullet after bullet was sent aloft at the kingly visitant. But he only plumed his wings in contempt, or rose a few feet into the air, and then definatly resumed his perch, until the riflemen with reason superstitious forbore to fire Then the royal bird spread his pinions again and rose in slow gyrations to the topmost bough of a monarch pine near by, a hundred feet higher in air, than his gilded counterfeit had shone. So shall it be with our own eagle of empire and destiny. Its symbols may be desecrated and profaned. Itself may be the target of treason's murderous aim. But out of the tumult and out of the smoke of unnatural war it shall soar unharmed, with a broader sweep and to a lordlier height in the serene blue of heaven.

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ALTHOUGH the Forty-Fifth Regiment Massachusetts Volunteer Militia was enlisted for only nine months, it did its full share of the work of dislodging the Confederates from coasts and harbors of North Carolina. While they were an exceptionally fine set of men, physically and morally considered, they were not proof against bullet or disease, and the contents of this chapter will show how many of them laid down their lives to save the Union. Their work, even if of brief duration, was well and conscientiously done, and at a time of especial need, where, it was thought, and perhaps, with justice, had there been less delay and more energy in striking heavy blows that the conflict would be ended in less than a year from their enlistment. My experience with them was of the most pleasant character, and their continued warm friendship, I prize highly.

In February, 1862, I was detailed with other medical officers by Surgeon-General Dale of Massachusetts to proceed to Roanoke Island, and join General Burnside's forces and replace one of the four disabled surgeons.

While serving at the Hammond Hospital, Beaufort, North Carolina, I received on October 7th, 1862, the following letter from Surgeon-General Dale.

Office of Surgeon General. Boston, Sept. 27, 1862.

Doctor:

You are offered the surgeoncy of the Cadet Regiment for nine months' service. Will you accept? Answer immediately, and if you

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accept, state the earliest possible moment when you will return to Boston to enter upon your duties. The Regiment is now in camp at Readville.

Yours Wm. J. Dale, Surgeon-General.

This letter I at once referred to the Medical Director of the Department who endorsed it, as follows:

Headquarters Department of North Carolina. Oct. 7, 1862.

Dr. Kneeland has the consent of the Medical Director to avail himself of this offer at the earliest moment and will notify him by letter at once, that he terminates his contract.

F. G. Snelling, Surgeon U. S. Vols., Med. Director.

Losing no time I sailed for Boston from New Berne, arriving after a very stormy passage on October 15th, and reported at once to Dr. Dale, and went to the Readville Camp, where I was introduced to Colonel Codman. I received my commission on the 21st, and was mustered into the United States service on the 28th. Dr. J. B. Treadwell, Assistant-Surgeon, slept in camp on the 28th, and I held first surgeon's call the next morning.

The Regiment broke camp at Readville November 5th, and on arriving in Boston was escorted by the Independent Corps of Cadets to the Common where two flags were presented by Governor Andrew, and a collation served.

On the steamer Mississippi, I occupied a stateroom with the Chaplain, Rev. Dr. A. L. Stone, and Dr. Treadwell. The next day was cold, windy and rainy, the men were very uncomfortable in their close, dark, dirty and hot quarters below; the steamer was waiting for the gunboat Huron to escort and protect her. The storm continued for four days, and the sea was so rough that much seasickness prevailed; whiskey was served all round to warm and cheer the justly exasperated men.

Having had some months previous experience on gunboats crowded with soldiers, I at once saw that vigorous measures must quickly be taken to diminish the number on board, and to cleanse

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the ship, or a serious epidemic would soon follow in such crowded quarters and such foul air, without adequate means for ventilation and cleanliness. On representing this to the colonel, he at once sent me to Boston to inform the Governor and Surgeon-General Dale of the dangerous condition of the overcrowded ship. As a result of this remonstrance, a partial, but insufficient relief was obtained by the removal of three hundred men. The Convoy was now anchored near by us and ready to sail.

On the 9th, the gale increased and the weather was cold with snow at night and was in every way uncomfortable. Dr. Dale came down and seeing for himself the overcrowded state of things sent off five hundred men of the Forty-Sixth Regiment to Boston by the steamer Saxon. Whiskey was again served to the men all round with happy results.

Monday, November 10, was clear and cold. Lanterns, buckets, mops, and shovels having been supplied by friends in the city, the cleaning up began in earnest, and scores of bucket-loads of filth of all descriptions were brought up from the hold and dumped overboard, and a general and thorough purification carried out. That the men escaped serious disease was most fortunate, and that they behaved with moderation, penned up as they were in such quarters, because someone had blundered, showed their good sense and self-respect. After the cleaning thirty-four barrels of apples and other fruits and vegetables were sent to our ship, by Swampscott fishermen in one of their fishing vessels, commanded by Captain Miles Blanchard. These supplies were most gratefully received and were a very healthful present.

Lying on and off in the rough seas, the work of transferring the supplies to our ship was difficult, but the plucky fishermen proved themselves equal to the task. Before sailing one hundred and fifty men were put on board, being a gain of six hundred and fifty on the first number assigned, a great relief both for comfort and health. The steamers Mississippi, Merrimac and Saxon, with their convoy gunboat Huron sailed about 5 P. M.

We took our breakfast next morning, the 11th, after a quiet night off Gay Head, the convoy boat being so slow, that we had to

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slacken our speed to allow her to come up, thus unnecessarily prolonging the inevitable discomforts of the men.

On the 14th we sighted the Cape Lookout shore, and went into Beaufort about 1 P. M., sticking in the mud for a time on the way. The Regiment landed at Morehead City, our left wing passing the night in a large warehouse in New Berne, which town we reached after dark by rail on freight cars. The right wing went into camp on the Fair Grounds in hastily pitched tents, sleeping on the ground. This camp was near that of the Forty-Fourth Massachusetts Regiment, the members of which kindly provided supper and breakfast for us.

On the 15th of November, the regiment was quartered in barracks near the river Trent, about three miles from New Berne on a barren, dreary, sandy plain looking like a hot bed for epidemic diseases. The officers were in tents, sleeping at first on boughs on the sand. There were two other regiments encamped near us, guarding a bridge of some importance. The men were delighted to get into Dixie's land, exchanging gladly the long confinement of a crowded ship, even for this unwholesome and uninviting region. The regiment was well housed as far as exposure to rain was concerned, but the boards were green and damp, and the chimneys were unfinished; though the days were fine and warm, the nights were cold even to the formation of thin ice. These sudden changes soon began to tell upon health, and in less than a week, sixty-two reported sick, mostly from diarrhœa, colds and rheumatism from the bad water and the damp lumber of the barracks.

I wrote to Major Hoffman about the regiment going to Beaufort, until their quarters could be rendered more habitable, but without avail. Dr. Treadwell was detailed by Colonel Amory to take charge of the sick of the Seventeenth Massachusetts for a few days. Medical supplies were soon exhausted, and it was ten days before I could get a small amount of those most needed from the Medical Purveyor. The great changes between the temperature of the day and night were very bad for the sick, and hard to bear for the well.

To meet the demands I was forced to borrow some necessary

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medicines from Dr. Babbitt at the Stanley Hospital at New Berne, and some bedsteads were promised for the most sick, but in the absence of these, it became expedient to send the latter to the Stanley Hospital where they could obtain better care, food, and surroundings, than in a newly organized camp, liable at any moment to be disturbed and broken up, by contemplated expeditions. Among the patients thus sent was Lieutenant Edward B. Richardson of Company A, who was suffering from a painful neuralgic affection of the thigh aggravated by the cold damp air of the tents.

Early in December, the Regimental Hospital was moved into the barracks of a company that had been detailed for special service, and this was well suited for the prevailing diseases. I requested permission from Dr. Galloupe to use a portion of his Brigade Hospital for the Forty-Fifth, and to attend them myself, but this was not granted. The hospital tents not being wanted, were used for mess-tents. During the first week in December, as the regiment was to go on the expedition to Goldsboro, seven men were sent to the Stanley Hospital. The cold was such that ice an inch thick formed in the night.

The regiment started on the expedition to Goldsboro on the 11th of December, and returned to Camp Amory on the 21st. On the next day there were eighty-two at surgeon's call, suffering mostly from colds, rheumatism, and the various laming effects of the long and hard march, and ten days exposure.

On the 23rd there were one hundred and five sick, the sustaining excitement of the expedition having been followed by the inevitable reactionary depression; the sick-list continued large for a week, though there was no serious case, until the first week in January. The comfort of the sick was greatly increased by some much needed slippers for hospital use, which I obtained from Dr. Page of the United States Sanitary Commission in New Berne.

In January there were many cases of miasmatic origin, with a tendency to brain disturbance; and a few displayed the type of the epidemic which was called cerebro spinal meningitis, as it was evident that the membranes at the base of the brain

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were the seat of the trouble. This disease was rapidly fatal, destroying life in twenty-four hours; beginning with chills and fever, it soon became an inflammation as shown by the pain at the upper part of the neck, delirium, convulsions, and rigidity. It resisted all treatment, even the most vigorous, and all the cases which were accompanied by delirium and rigidity proved fatal; these were George H. Bearse and Elijah H. Wellington of Company D, and Charles C. Holmes of Company H, who died respectively January 3rd, 7th, and 24th, 1863. I thought at the time that it was due to the influence of the new lumber used in the construction of the hospital and barracks, but it is now my opinion, that it was due to the minute vegetable organism, microbes or bacte ria, which, under certain favorable conditions, swarm and multiply in air, water and soil, especially in regions and seasons where marshes and river beds and banks, are alternately wet and dry, and where excavations are made in the earth in preparing camps and their accessories. Our camp was well cared for, and the sinks were free from noxious effluvia; in fact it is now generally admitted that the so-called miasmata are not gases, but germs floating in the air, or carried in the water. It must be remembered that it was the winter season when the air is comparatively dry and when the low state of the rivers exposed their banks to its drying influence, affording the most favorable conditions for the increase and transportation of these microscopic germs. Whether taken into the drinkable water, or inhaled from the air or touching the warm moist surfaces of the mouth and air passages, they found a suitable place for development and rapidly multiplied. In this way they gained access to the blood, and caused death either by the rapid growth of their spores which attack and disorganize the red globules, or by the generation of so-called ptomaines, the result and course of putrefaction and decomposition producing a poison of great virulence.

Early in January I was ordered to send the sick, except transient cases, to the General Hospital, accordingly George E. Fox, of Company A was sent to the Foster Hospital, where he died the next day, and Joseph B. Morey of Company H to the Stanley Hospital where he died February 15th. Sergeant Charles

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E. Hickling of Company B was sent to the Stanley Hospital sick with fever; he remained there until February 19th, when he was taken home by his father. Such was the prevalence of chills at this time and the danger of their being developed into intermittent fever, that those doing guard duty at night, were required to take three grains of quinine at 7 P.M. This was not relished by some who had overweening confidence in their power to resist disease, and to placate them, the bitter was mixed with the sweet in the shape of whiskey; this sop to Cerberus was generally taken without a murmur for they loved quinine less, but whiskey more.

(Shakespeare amended to suit the case.)

Just before the Expedition to Pollocksville January 16th, James W. Merrill, of Company F was taken sick, and sent to Hospital, where he died January 20th. After the return from this Expedition very few were sick, notwithstanding the heavy march back to Newbern in the drenching rain. On January 22d I was ordered to furlough our wounded; accordingly Benjamin F. Hoar, Company D, Edward McKnight, Company F, wounded at Kinston, and Corporal Luther F. Allen, Company A, Corporal George H. White, Company E, and Sergeant Wm. J. Tillson, Company F, wounded at Whitehall, were sent home. At this time the general health of the regiment was good and the sick were well cared for by their convalescent comrades, and the regimental nurses.

The morning of December 14, 1862, was a beautiful, sunny and quiet Sunday, soon to be disturbed by the roar of artillery and the crack of rifles bearing messengers of death and wounds to many of our comrades. Having no positive orders to remain behind I kept my post in the rear of the regiment and followed it with our chaplain, Rev. Dr. A. L. Stone and our Ambulance Corps into the hottest of the fight. In going through the swamp I was afoot, toiling along with the rest, when suddenly my advance was checked from below; one of my spurs got entangled in the roots which ran through the mud in all directions. I was held as in a vice, and soon found that the choice was between losing my boot, or my spur, and I wisely chose the latter, being forced to cut the straps. I thus got loose and that Yankee spur

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may, at some future time be dug up and kept as a precious souvenir by the archeologists of the 20th Century. I was present at the battle of Newbern (eight months before), but the sights of that Sunday battle of Kinston more than equalled them. I saw two of our regiment in front of me, whose heads were knocked completely off, and one poor fellow, not of our regiment, the whole of whose lower face with lower jaw had been carried away. Lieut. J. Frank Emmons received a cut on the cheek which wound I dressed for him, in a semi-recumbent position. Had the rebel bullets come a foot lower, our loss would have been very great. The music was not exhilarating but it lasted until nearly noon, when the enemy began to retreat at all points. I saw no other surgeon in the fight. The action began suddenly As it was, I rashly exposed myself, Dr. Stone and the Hospital Corps to great and unexpected danger. I seized a house in Kinston after the battle for the sick and wounded and slept for awhile during the night on a bed, a luxury I had not enjoyed for a long time Assistant Surgeon J. B. Treadwell has elsewhere given the loss of our regiment at Kinston. Companies D and H suffered the most, and Companies B and F the least. I remember one case, I think it was Corporal Charles L. Ingraham of Company H, who was mortally wounded by a bullet which entered near the neck and passed out at the groin. Knowing that he could not live, he expressed no regret that his life was to be thus cut short, but simply requested that opiates might be given him to deaden the pain. As he now lay on the ground, head to the enemy, any bullet which struck would be likely to produce a fatal wound, either of the head, or chest or a penetrating wound of the abdomen and bowels. At the Battle of White-hall, December 16, I established my hospital in a hollow, over which the shells howled frequently, and one shot plunged among us, killing one man close by. I thought it prudent to change my position rather suddenly and in so doing left behind my very useful surgeon's scissors, which were recovered by Private John D. Whitcomb, who was my hospital attendant, as stated, from the Ambulance Corps. I saw some other surgeons in the hollow.

Next day the 45th occupied the dangerous position of rear

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guard, the enemy coming in behind us, but not attacking. On the 18th I was detached from the regiment, and placed in charge of the Ambulance Train to convey the wounded to Newbern. Nothing could be done for the poor fellows, in such a rapid journey in an enemy's country, liable at any moment to be attacked, but the simplest and probably the best dressings of their wounds keeping up their strength and courage by stimulants, and procuring a certain amount of sleep and freedom from pain by opiates. It was a terribly rough journey, but the painful jolts and shakings were borne without a murmur, with that stoical courage which I have before alluded to as accompanying, in the Anglo Saxon race, especially wounds, in which they took pride, a remnant of the old Viking character of our ancestors, who regarded death on the field of battle, an honor and passport to heaven. This Ambulance train was on the road all day of the 19th and reached Newbern in advance of the column, before sunset of the 20th; the wounded were all safely placed in the Hospital.

According to the statements of a rebel prisoner the fire of the 45th first caused them to retreat at Kinston, and we were, as proved by our loss of 19 killed and nearly 60 wounded, in the hottest of the fire. Our brigade was the only one engaged, except General Wessels, reports to the contrary, notwithstanding, and our loss was from 8 companies only.

On the Expedition to Pollocksville, I took a deserted house, started a good fire, and made the few sick very comfortable, though we all had to sleep on the floor, as we were outside our pickets and might easily have been gobbled up, had the enemy been there.

On April 27th we left Newbern and marched 20 miles towards Kinston, but found no enemy. On the 29th we engaged a rebel force at Dover Cross' Roads. Henry M. Putney of Company F was killed in this action, and four were wounded, viz: Corporal George C. Richards of Company E, Captain Joseph Murdoch of Company G, -- Judson F Ames of Company K and Corporal Wm. F. Lentner of Company K.

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This makes a total of 20 killed and 57 wounded of which I have a record, and 21 more died of the various diseases incident to the climate, making more than 40, whose bones remain in North Carolina soil, and two others died on their way home.

While doing Provost Duty at Newbern a large amount of most welcome hospital stores were received from some young ladies of Boston, the gift being acknowledged to Miss Cumston, also, from the father of Captain Thomas B. Wales, a box of wines and brandy for the use of the sick. On February 1 there were 46 on the sick list and 10 wounded. February 7 our Colonel received some severe bruises by a fall from his horse, and was obliged in consequence to remain quiet in quarters for a few days. On February 10, George Brooks, of Company, A died. Dr. Lothrop who left for Boston on the 18th of February, carried a request for medicines for the Hospital; soon after many useful articles were received for the hospital from Lincoln, Mass through Sergeant James A. Walker of Company D.

At the end of this month there were in hospital 33 sick and one wounded. On March 15th I was appointed Post Surgeon, and commenced by inspecting barracks and visiting the jail.

In the middle of April, one of Company D's men was prostrated, and several were more or less benumbed, by lightning during a severe thunderstorm. Dr. Treadwell who had looked sick for some time went home on furlough April 16th. I received an ambulance knapsack from Dr. J. Mason Warren, of Boston, April 19th. I examined stragglers from Pennsylvania regiments, at Fort Anderson, on the other side of the Neuse, for duty, or the hospital. April 25, the regiment was relieved of Provost Duty, though I was ordered to remain as Post Surgeon, until my successor was appointed.

Provost duty is always considered a responsible and honorable one, and during our term of service, was held by the 17th, 23d, 45th and 44th Massachusetts Regiments. During the attack on Newbern, March 14th and the siege of Little Washington, N. C., and from the 17th to the 20th of April the 45th, one or two New York regiments and the garrisons of the forts were the only troops in Newberne.) Colonel Codman was in

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command of the city. Our next Camp, Massachusetts, near Fort Spinola, was in a comparatively cool and pleasant place, except for the plague of a fine and penetrating dust which covered everything, and was very irritating to the eye and air passages. Officers, as well as men were in tents. The camp regularly laid out in avenues, planted with pine boughs, and tents raised on stockades four feet from the ground was rather a pretty sight, and the sanitary arrangements were good. Near the river was a small grove, with a few houses, where I located the regimental hospital, in a really charming and shady place. The health of the regiment was good, and there were no complaints except diarrhoea from sudden changes. All the ten companies were once more together on April 30th. New medical stores were received, and there were in hospital 30 sick, and 3 wounded. May 7th Dr. Siddall sent strawberries to the regiment, resulting in many cases of diarrhoea, a well meant, but mistaken kindness. Dr. Treadwell returned, and I was ordered to take charge of the Camp for convalescents: the next day I was appointed on a Sanitary Board with Dr. Delamater and Captain N. Willis Bumstead of Company D. We began by inspecting quarters; reporting to Dr. Snelling, Medical Director. May 28th Theodore F. Russell, of Company F died of a diphtheritic inflammation of throat; and the last of May there were 47 sick and wounded in hospital. During the first half of June, the Sanitary Board inspected houses, yards, streets and negro quarters, abating many nuisances and breeders of disease, and thinning out the denizens of the crowded and ill ventilated tenements. June 21st, G. Dudley Blaney of Co. E and Charles H. Manning of Company G, died of typhoid fever. The typhoid type were increasing in number and severity, and I picked out the men of our regiment to take home with us, the risk to life being greater to remain in Newbern than to take the voyage home. June 24 was a sunny and hot day, and we left camp at 8 A. M. for Morehead City, embarking on the steamers S. R. Spaulding and Tillie for Boston. The sick became cheerful, under the pleasing thought that they were going home. Some were quite ill, but as I have said I thought they could endure the discomforts of the voyage, better than to be

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left behind in hospital. Ample provision had been made for their care, and the result proved satisfactory, as only two, Norman Hastings, of Company C, and William B. Price of Company E died, the former from internal bleeding, and the latter from exhaustion, both having been brought on board with but little hope of their reaching land. Arriving at Fortress Munroe, the Colonel went on shore and tendered the services of the regiment, although its time had expired; the offer was declined, as the number of sick from malarial fevers indicated that it was best for them to continue their voyage to Boston. I went on shore to obtain food and medicines. June 30th the regiment landed, marched to Boston Common where a reception was held, thence to Readville where the men were furloughed until July 6. I spent this day packing up my medical stores, which were transferred to Captain McKim and Lieutenant Pierson at Readville. Here ends my connection with the 45th Regiment. Very many officers and men re-enlisted for the war. Among others I did the same. After examination in Washington, D. C. I entered the Army as Surgeon of Volunteers, and was sent to the Department of the Gulf, then under command of General Nathaniel P. Banks. I reported to his Adjutant General, and to Medical Director Alexander, U. S. A, September 30th, 1863, and was assigned to duty at the Barracks Hospital in New Orleans. There I remained until the discontinuance of that hospital in May, 1865, when I was put in charge of the Marine General Hospital, Mobile, Alabama; where I remained until Feb. 6, 1866, when I was mustered out of the service, with the rank of Brevet Lieut. Colonel, U. S. Volunteers. Since my return to civil life I have been secretary and professor of Zoology and Physiology in the Mass. Institute of Technology for 12 years; since 1879 I have devoted myself to literary and scientific pursuits and lecturing after my travels in various parts of the globe.

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Letter of Dr. J. Brackett Treadwell, Assistant-Surgeon Forty-Fifth Regiment, M. V. M., to the Boston Journal.

Field Hospital, [2½ miles from]

Kinston, N. C., December 16th, 1862.

To the Editor of the Boston Journal:

I send you a list of the wounded and also of the killed, so far as known, of the Forty-Fifth Massachusetts Volunteer Militia at the Battle of Kinston, which was fought on Sunday, December 11th. . . . . In that battle the rebels numbered between three thousand and four thousand men, and were commanded by General Evans. Our loss is about fifty killed and two hundred wounded, belonging mostly to the Tenth Connecticut, which lost about one hundred; the Ninth New Jersey, about fifty; the Forty-Fifth Massachusetts about forty-five, and the remainder to Wessell's Brigade. The fire of the rebels was most deadly, and had they used conical instead of round bullets, the wounds of our men would have been of a vastly more serious nature. The rebel loss was less than half our own. Our men owing to the character of the ground, fired too high and too far to the right. The fire from our "Parrott," and "Weard" guns was most terrific. The woods through which the shot passed bear full evidence of this.

The veterans of Wessell's Brigade, who went through the Peninsular Campaign, and those of other regiments who fought at Roanoke Island and New Berne, testify that they have never before experienced such appalling and terrific fire, as was poured into our ranks at the short but bloody battle of Kinston.

The sons of Massachusetts in the Forty-Fifth Regiment have vindicated the ancient honor of their native state. They faltered not even in their first engagement, as the record of the bloody day fully proves.

Colonel Codman was always in front of his line cheering on his men, and in one instance was actually pulled back, so great was his danger, by one of his own officers.

Many acts of individual bravery might be mentioned: one only is sufficient.

Private Frank Brooks, Company I, while being borne from the field severely wounded, shot a rebel who was lurking in the woods.

Obstructions in the river prevented the ascent of our gun-boats in season to aid in the fight.

Immediately after the firing commenced I was detailed to take charge of a hospital just in the rear of the field. The wounded began to come in and soon exceeded one hundred in number--two other hospitals receiving the remainder. We are to take the wounded to New Berne in gunboats.

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----Thursday the 18th.

The name of this town is often improperly written Kingston. It should be Kinston. Many of the rebel prisoners who were paroled after the battle of Kinston, have been again taken prisoners during the actions at Whitehall and Goldsboro. No means of transporting the wounded to New Berne have been provided. We hope however, to go down tomorrow.

List of casualties in the Forty-Fifth Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteer Militia at the battle of Kinston, December 14th, 1862.

Company A.--T. Parker, thigh, severely; Edmund W. Buss, face slightly; Horace Holmcs, shoulder, severely; Elbridge Graves, shoulder and lung, dangerously, died December 17th.

Company B.--F. M. Lovell, shoulder, slightly; H. C. Ray, side slightly.

Company D.--G. Perkins, Jr., hip, not severely: T. L. Mercer, neck slightly; C. Savi le, head slightly; J. P. Foss, shoulder, slightly; T. C. Evans, both hands one finger off, leg severely; Corporal S. H. Nye, head, slightly; W. K. Wright, contusion, slight; F. W. Childs, hand, not seriously; S. Butters, thigh, slightly; Corporal G. Edmands, neck, not seriously; H. F. Benson, spine, seriously; A. H. Young, ankle, severely; G. E. Hart, back, slightly; Corporal G. Simons, neck, contusion, slight; Freeman H. Lothrop, slight.

Company F.--E. McKnight, arm, severely.

Company H.--S. Gibbs, shoulder; O. Coffin, thigh, severely; Corporal J. W. Rand, left arm and right thigh, amputated; A. Mansfield, knee sprained; F. Turner, thigh, not badly; T. B. Folger, neck, slightly; Corporal C. L. Ingraham, abdomen, dangerously; died December 15th; D. Hall, back, severely; W. H. Marcy, thigh, severely; Corporal S. H. Ellis, contusion, slight; G. K. Robinson, neck, dangerously; died December 18th; H. Hewett, contusion, slight.

Company I.--A. Brooks, abdomen, dangerously; died December 16th; F. Brooks, thigh, severely; B. H. Rockwood, foot, severely; J. Henry Blanchard, thigh, slightly.

Company K.--Sergeant W. M. Goodrich, shoulder, severely; A. A. Merrill, shoulder, severely; J. Sherman, face, severely; A. Parlin, shoulder and lung, dangerously; died December 18th.

Total number wounded forty-one.

Company B.--S. Richards, by shell.

Company D.--Bassett, by shell.

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Company E.--Williams shot through head; E. R. Clark, shot through head.

Company K.--William Cooper, W. H. Parker.

Company I.--J. Murphy, shot through head.

Company H.--E. Daggett, by shell.

Whole number killed eight.

Company A.--Corporal Luther F. Allen, neck, not seriously.

Company D.--Sergeant W. L. Wellman, not seriously; J. Wilson, wrist, severely.

Company E.--N. E. Symes, face, not seriously; G. A. White, leg, not seriously; O. Cushman, shoulder, slightly; Nevins, arm.

Company F.--Sergeant G. F. Tillson, head, not seriously; A. Poland.

Total wounded nine.

Company E.--T. Donnelly, shot through head.

Company H.--Color-Sergeant, Theodore Parkman, shot through head.

Company I.--Boedman.

Total number killed, three.

None of those wounded marked "severely" are considered dangerous. The wounded are comfortably situated in the General Hospitals at New Berne.

None of the officers were injured with the exception of Lieutenant Emmons, who received a slight contusion of the head at Kinston.

The wounded are doing well, Corporal Rand, Company H, being the only one who is considered in a dangerous condition.

J. Brackett Treadwell, Assistant Surgeon Forty-Fifth Regiment, M. V. M.

[image: Miss Susan D. Messinger]