Soldiers' record, 1868-12-12

              D e v o t e d t o t h e I n t e r e s t s o f t H e S o l d i e r s a n d S a i l o r s o f t U e l a t e W a r .
VOL 1. HARTFORD, CONN., DECEMBER 12,1868. NO. 23
WOUNDED,
Steady, boys steady!
Keep your arms ready !
God only knows whom we may meet hero.
Don't let me be taken,
I'd rather awaken,
To-morrow, in—no matter where.
Than lie in that foul prison-hole over there.
Step slowly!
Speak lowly!
These rocks may have life !
Lay me down iu this hollow,
We are out of the strife.
By heavens ! the focman may track mo in blood
Tor this hole in my breast is outpouring a flood.
No! no surgeon tor me—ho can give me no aid;
The surgeon I want is tlie pickax and spade.
What, Morris, a tear! why, shame on ye> man !
I thought yoii a hero : but since you've began
To whimper and cry like a girl in lier teens,
By George! I don't know what the devil it means !
Well ! well! I'm rough; 'tis a very rough school,
i'his life is a trooper—but yet I'm no fool!
I know a brave man, and a friend from a foe :
And boys, that you love me I certainly know.
But wasn't it grand,
When thev came down the hill oversloughing and
sand f
But we stood—did we not—like immoveable rock,
"Unheeding their balls and repelling their shock 1
Did you mind that loud cry,
When as turning to fly.
Our men sprang upon them dertermined to die ?
Oh! wasn't it grand.
God help the poor wretches who fell in that fight.
No time was there given for prayer or fliglit,
They fell by the score, in the crash, hand to hand,
And, they mingled their blood with the sloughing
sand.
Huzza!
Great heavens ! fhis bullet hole gapes a grave;
A curse on the aim of the traitorous knave !
Is there never a one of ye knows how tO pray,
Or speak for a man as his life ebbs away 'f
Pray !
Pray!
Our Fatlier! Our Father! VVhy dont you proceed?
C^n't you see I am dying ? Great God, how I bleed !
Ebbing away!
V Ebbing away,!
The light of the day.
Is turning grey.
Pray !
Pray !
Our Father in Heaven—boys, tell me the rest
While I staunch the hot blood from this hole in my
breast;'
There's something about a forgiveness of sin,
Pntthat in ! Put that, in !—and then
I'll follow your words and say an amen.
Here Morris, old fellow; get hold of my hand !
And Wilson, my comrade—oh, wasn't it grand
When they came do wn the hill like a thunder-charged
cloud ?
And were scattered like mist by our brave little
crowd ?
Where's Wilson—my comrade—here, stoop down
your head;
Beauregard saw his army dwindling
day by day, and knew that his only alter-native
was to force a battle or to retreat-
On the evening mentioned he determined
to bring on a general engagement, and
made his disposition accordingly. ' The
entire army was put in motion and march-ed
out of the entrenched camp of Corinth.
We halted on the brow of the hill half
way betweeh the two' (iamps—the Federal
army then occuipying Farmington, three
miles from 'Corinth. The country was
thickly wooded and undulating, and a
s m a l l stream meandered through the ra-vine
which separated the hostile hosts.
Our forces were disposed in three lines
of battle in the same manner as we began
to fight atShiloh. Price and Yan Dorn,
with their Missouri and Arkansas troops,
had been sent to .attempt a secret move-ment,
by which it was contemplated the
left Hank of the enemy might be turned,
and the thunder of their guns on our
right and the Federal left, ilie next morn-ing,
was to announce the nuccess of their
plan, and be the signal for a general as-sault
all along the line. I was iu the first
line of battle, acting as file-closer, the left
being in front.
The sun was setting serenely in the
west, as is usually the case, and betoken-ed
a goodly day on the morrow, when a
"solitary horseman" approached the
head of our column and reined his su-perb
war steed within two paces of
where I stood leaning on my musket. He
at once commenced talking. -'Men," said
he, "in to morrow's battle fire low. It
is as important to wound the enemy in his
legs, and even mote important, than to
kill him,for it will require two sound men,
at least, to take care of one Avounded.
Be calm; and be sure of your aim. Don't
Wciste your ammunition, keep your for-mation
; reinnin always with your colors;
be careful not to sti aggie or get separa
ted, aud always push to the front. Nev-er
mind your wounded comrades, for
ample provisions have been made to re-move
them from the field. You need not
take any prisoners. I dn not want them.
They will only serve to embarrass the
army and weaken onr strength. Obey
my instructions—stand by your colors—
I and to morrow's sun will set upon one of
Morning came—the sun rose ; but the
fog which hung like a shroud over the two
armies was impenetrable to its rays.
Every ear was awake to hear the signal
from the right; but the day advanced,
the sun stalked his stately course up the
heavens; noon came, and still nothing
from Price and Van Dorn The day
waned, night approached, and with it a
tired and dust-begrimed courier, with the
intelligence that the flank movement had
failed through premature discovery, and
that Price and Van Dorn were falling
back.
So ended the intended great fig'it of
the 22d of May, 1862, which would have
been known as the battle of Farmington,
and which would have resulted as did
that of Shiloh. Beauregard now com-menced
his preparations lor the evacu-ation
of Corinth, and eightdays after, sim-ultaneous
with the opening of Halleck's
bi'j; guns on that town, his army withdrew
by the causeway he had previously con-structed
for the purpose, through the
Tuscumbia swamp, and escaped to Tupe-lo,
without the loss of a single prisoner,
notwithstanding Gen. Pope telegraphed
to Washington that he had caken 10,000.
He might have taken 20,000 if he had
p'n^sued the army or attempted to cut it
oft", for I never before or since beheld
such demoralization among troops. They
were without organization, almost in a
state of mutiny, and ready to yield any
moment to the first demand Pope lost
a golden opportunity there. I never saw
Hindman again.
Can't you say a short prayer for the dying and dead? ^^^^ ^^^^ glorious victories ever achieved
"Christ God, who died for sinners all. on the American continent;" and, bow-
Hear thou this suppliant wanderer's cry,
Let not o'en this poor sparrow fall
Unheeded by thy gracious eye,
Throw wide Thy gate to let him in,
And take him pleading to Thy arras :
Forgive 0 Lord ! iiis lifelong sin.
And quiet all his fiercc alarms."
ing gracefully, he passed on, leaving us to
wonder. As he wore no uniform, car-ried
no sword, showed no military insignia
save a revolver in his belt, and was un-
! known to the command, his address some-
1 what surprised us, and the inquiry, "who
is he ?" was i retty general. "VVhy,
j that's Gen. Hindman, your new division
i commander," said the Brigade Adjutant,
! "and you'd better believe that he'll show
! us h—1 to morrow." The reply was any-
' thing but reassuring, for we had heard
1 that iie was prone to ihe fault of unnec-i
essarily exposing his men "What did
he mean by not wanting to make prison-ers?"
inquired a Sergeant at my left.
"Does he expect us to murder thorn'?"
"That's the only construction I can give
his remark, and the peculiar manner in
a few days under the command of the late which it was made," was the reply. And
Confederate Gen. Hindman, of Arkansas, his division so understood it—but 1 donbt
so recently assassinated in that State, sup- whether a single man in that line would
plies us with the following page of un- have obeyed instructions so inhuman. Ho
recorded history. I -was a splendid tyrant—young and hand-
"Did I ever meet with Hindman iu my ^ some, but soulless—and no doubt met his
war expei'ience ? " you ask. Yes, I met | fate at the hands of some relative of one
him once, and had no wish to meet him of the many victims to his stern cruelty,
again. "Tyrant" was marked in every as it was his practice to shoot his sol-lineamont
of his handsome face, in each diers for very slight oftences. or other-haughty
curl of his proud lip, and waved wise severely punish them.
God bless you, my comrades, for singing that hymn,
It is light to my patli, when my sight has grown dim.
I am dying—bend down, till 1 touch you once more—
Don't forgot me, old follow-^God prosper this war—
Confusion to enemies!—keep hold of my hand—
And float our dear iiag o'er a prosperous land !
§ms at iome.
From tho Hichmf)nd Stato Journal.
A PAGE OP WAR HISTORY.
A friend who happened, by the for-tunes
of the recent war, to be placed for
in every ringlet ofhis fair, flowing, Ab-salom-
like locks. It was late in the eve-
That night was an anxious one—as
"the night before tho battle" ever is to bo
ning, on the 21st of May, 1862. Gen, Hal-; the soldier. Arouud tho bivouac fires
' h i s r l i ng
es, plank roads, entrenchments and par- tiubduod the certarninis gaudia, and re-allels,
while tho ConCederate iirmy was mimled us that ere tho sun ro^io again the
melting away by sickness, and almost per- combat would deepen and many of us lie
ishing for want of water. ' lo^^
[From tho Detroit Free Press.]
A Remarkable Story.
A WIDOW MABIIIBD TO HER OWN BROTHER?
WHOM SHE HAD NEVER SEEN.
There passed through this city yester
day, en route to Chicago, a lady whose
history is one of the m')st remarkable ever
brought to public notice. It has been
well said that truth is stranger than fic-tion,
and the details of this lady's history
abundantly verify the adage. For reasons
which all will see the propriety of, we
withhold her name, merely relating th®
facts as they were communicated to our
reporter by one who had heard her
" strange, true story " from her own lips.
In 1838 her parents emigrated to this
country from England,: leaving behind
them an only son some ten years of age
who had engaged as a. cal)in boy on i
merchant.vessel iu the East India trade—
they landing in New York., when, a few
months later, the subject of this sketch
was born. While she was yet a helpless
infant, both her parents died, and she was
sent to the Foundling's Home, where she
remained some time, when she was finally
adopted by a lady and gentleman wh > then
resided in iilmira, N. Y. Of course she
knew nothing of her sailor brother, and
she grew up in the belief that she was
really the child of her foster parents.
At tho age of eighteen she married
an industrious young mechanic, and
set out for the great west. After travel-ing
in various States, they finally settled
in Missouri, where they continued pros-perous
and happy until the storm of war
burst upon the country. Then her hus-band,
in common with the thousands of
his misguided countrymen, enlisted in the i small
service of the rebellion, and was assigned
to Gen. Price's army. He served faith-fully
during tho first eighteen months of
tho war, but was finally killed in one of
the southwestern engagements. From
tho breaking out of tho wai-, the lady of
whom wo write had lost all trace of her
foster parents, owing to the disturbed con-ditions
oftliat portion of the country, in
which she resided, and after her husband's
death she removed to St. Louis, whore
she sought to nuiintain herself h j serving.
In 1863 sho again married, and her
husband ombarked in busiuoss ia St. Louis.
This last mariiago was a thoroughly hap-py
one aud in tin* course ot time two chil-drau
wore born unto them. The husband
gradually extended his business opera-tions,
so thatmuoh ofhis time was neces-sarily
spent in traveling about the country,
and during one of his business tours he
visited Chicago, where he became ac-quainted
with a lady and gentleman, who,
by a fortunate chain of circumstances he
ascertained were the long-lost foster
parents of his wife. Delighted at the dis-covery
he had made, and pleased no doubt
with anticipations of the joyful surprise
he should give his wife, the husband at
once concluded his business with the in-tention
of returning to St. Louis, and
bringing her to Chicago for the purpose
of reuniting with her friends, without hav-ing
first prepared either party for such
an event. On the night of his contem-plated
departure for home, while convers-ing
with Mr. and Mrs, ^—, it happen-ed
that ho Avas led into a recital of his ad-ventures
about the world, and before the
narrative: was finished his listeners knew
that their adopted daughter had married
her own brother, who, before she was
born, had sailed for East India. Horri-fied
beyond expression, the wretched man
fled from the house, and from that hour
no tidings of him have ever reached his
, friends.
This was in March last, and a few
weeks later the wretched sister-wife was
rendered comparatively poor by the
destruction of alarge portion of the prop-erty
left in her hands, by fire.
Although written to by her stricken
friends, their letters never reached her,
and a few weeks since she started for
Elmira, her early home. Upon her arri-val
here she learned the address of her
foster parents, with whom she at once
communicated, giving them full details of
experience since she had first bade them
farewell, upon setting out for her West-ern
home. Their answer to her letter
contained a statement, of the terrible dis-covery
of tho identity of her husband and
brother, together with an afiectionate
invitation to come to them with her chil-dren
and share their home.
Heart broken and nearly crazed by the
strange denouement of her happy married
life, the wretched w oman hastened to ac-cept
th(5 ofter, and this morning will
doubtless see her unite 1 to her earliest
and dearest friends.
THE APOSTLE' S CLOCK IN PRAGUE.
While in the market-place we will wait
for the hour, for here is a curious old
clock that ticked for centuries ago—when
the Swedes were thundering at the gates
of Prague, and when Bohemia Avas a
great and powerful kingdom—just as it
is ticking now. Twenty-four hours—
the day and the night—are marked upon
the dial, instead of twelve, for the clock
follows the sun. When night comes
black, just as the night is, and, when the
day approaches, it turns its great white
face out to meet the li|lit You can tell
from it what time th*sun rises and at
what hour he Avill sot. Planush, the clov-er
fellow who made it was something of
an astronomer; but men knew little
about stars in those days.
But tho hour has arrived—it is ten
o'clock Watch, closely, for the delicate
mechanism is now at work. Out of a
dowr al)ovo fiui dial comes out a
skeleton, ghastly and grim. Ai-ound its
bony neck old Father Time, has tiung his
remorseless scythe. Tho gaunt figure
producosjian hour glass, and turns it to in-dicate
that another hour has gone, and
that the now has counnenced. It then
pulls violently a boll-rope, j)rocisely as
the old sexton in a New England village
church would do on a Sabbath morning.
At each pull the bell strikes, and the
skeleton bows its head in approval.
Then out of the mysterious tower comes
a miser with a bag of gold. Ho clinches
it tight, for it is evident his time has
come, and he hates lo leave his worldly
goods behind. Ho walks al)out and l»eats
the ground with his stick. There is av-