Personal Recollections of Sherman's Campaigns in Georgia and the Carolinas

by George W Pepper

  You have marched during the campaign, in your windings, the distance of four hundred miles; have put hors de combat more of the enemy than your Corps numbers; have captured twelve thousand stand of arms, two thousand four hundred and fifty prisoners, and two hundred and ten deserters. The course of your march is marked by the graves of patriotic heroes, who have fallen by your side; but, at the same time, it is more plainly marked by the blood of traitors, who have defied the Constitution and laws, insulted and trampled underfoot the glorious flag of our country. We deeply sympathize with the friends of those of our comrades in arms who have fallen; our sorrows are only appeased by the knowledge that they fell as brave men, battling for the preservation and perpetuation of one of the best governments of earth. "Peace be to their ashes."

  You now rest for a short time from your labors. During the respite prepare for future action. Let the country see, at all times, by your conduct, that you love the cause you have espoused; that you have no sympathy with any who would by word or deed assist vile traitors in dismembering our mighty republic or trailing in the dust the emblem of our national greatness and glory. You are the defenders of a government that has blessed you, heretofore, with peace, happiness and prosperity. Its perpetuity depends upon your heroism, faithfulness and devotion.

  When the time shall come to go forward again, let us go with the determination to save our nation from threatened wreck, and hopeless ruin, not forgetting the appeal from widows and orphans that is borne to us upon every breeze, to avenge the loss of their loved ones, who have fallen in the defense of their country. Be patient, obedient, and earnest, and the day is not far distant, when you can return to your homes with the proud consolation that you have assisted in causing the old banner to again wave from every mountain-top, and over every town and hamlet, of our once happy land, and hear the shouts of triumph ascend from a grateful people, proclaiming that once more we have one flag and one country.

  John A. Logan,

  Major-General Commanding.

  Atlanta was ours at last and never was conquest so dearly purchased, the loss of the Federal army in the siege amounted to several thousand men, among whom, were many officers; for the field and line officers led the men to the deadly breaches, setting a noble example of personal gallantry. Among the officers slain, General Sherman had to lament Major General McPherson, the incomparable soldier and high toned gentleman. The rebel loss, according to the statement of the rebel officers, amounted to thousands, the majority of whom were killed or wounded.

  Our narrative of the magnificent campaign has reached a point where repose is necessary. We have followed the gifted chief and his matchless battalions from the cloud-capped summits of Lookout and Missionary Ridge—through the narrow defile of Snake Creek Gap; over the towering ridges of Resaca and the eagle cliffs of Kenesaw— over the fair and beautiful region of the Chattahoochie. Let us pause awhile ere accompanying him on his brilliant march through the far South where we will behold the Confederacy prostrate at his feet.

  SCENES IN THE ATIANTA HOSPITAL.

  Perhaps my readers would like to visit (those who have not personally visited) the hospitals in which the sick and wounded of our army are. If so, come with me to a hospital. This hospital contains about twenty wards, and is calculated to accommodate about two thousand patients. We find a general air of cleanliness and comfort, which is gratifying to the visitor, who has at heart the welfare of our brave wounded heroes, and also shows that the surgeon in command not only knows the value of these principles, but also sees that they are put in practice by those under him. Visitors we admitted from 10 A. M. to 7 P. M. If visitors be of the softer sex, you will probably be prompted to shrink back from going farther than the threshold. On either side of the long, wide room before you, are rows of single beds, about three feet apart, with the heads resting against the wall, leaving a space through the centre of the floor about six feet wide. These beds are neat and comfortable, with clean white spreads over each. The wards are well ventilated. While passing through, the thought occurs that most of those patients are more comfortable here than they would be at home, in their present state of health.

  To a lady, there is at first a feeling of almost insurmountable repugnance to entering the hospital, which only a strong sense of duty will overcome. On the threshold, with that scene before you, of long rows of beds, with sick and wounded men, the newness of the scene is oppressive; you falter in your purpose; you lift up your thoughts for a moment to "Our Father" for strength and wisdom, that you may be enabled to say and do that which will comfort or soothe these sufferers. You will feel the propriety of wearing a cheerful face, though the pain is hard at your heart. You approach the first bed on your right; here lies a man with his arm swollen to twice its natural size, with every evidence of losing it, in prospect. Does he suffer much? Generally the answer is "yes, but I am fortunate in getting off so well; I might have been much worse." Next, the patient on the left; he had a bullet in the leg, which has not yet been extracted. The wound looks venomous. After a word of comfort, you pass to the next. He had recently suffered amputation, just above the ankle, and the poor stump is snugly bound up. It is all he had left of that, while a bad wound in the other leg makes it doubly painful and difficult for him to move. But, brave man, he moves the stump over to the other side of the bed, first, (preferring to do it himself,) and then turns his attention to the wounded one, in order to get that over also, and in answer to your expressions of sympathy, remarks with a grim smile, "I have patience enough with this stump, but this other one I have no patience with. I think it ought to behave itself, because it has a foot." In the course of your visit, you speak with a young hero who had quite recently lost his arm, and in answer to your surprise at finding him walking about cheerfully, he tells you that he walked about after it was amputated, as soon as he recovered from the effects of the ether. Another, who has but slight prospect of living beyond a week or two, exclaims, as he glances at the first line of prayer for "Our soldiers on the Battle-field," "Yes, if we had some one to pray for us; that’s what we want." He is assured that prayer is being offered up for them all over the land, and he replies, "I am glad, for we need it."

  He has tried to do his duty to his country, and wished he had tried to do his duty [to his God, early in life. In reply to your inquiry, he says that he wants to be a Christian, and that he has been trying for three weeks to become one, exclaiming, "Oh, how foolish it is for people to put this off to the last." He is earnestly assured that even at the eleventh hour, his desire to enter into the kingdom is welcomed by the Father above; to try no longer, but simply give himself, just as he is, to the Lamb of God, who died for all — for him. After a space of deep reflection, he replies, "I will try to do so— I do so." In all the wards you meet brave hearts, who bear intense suffering patiently, and even cheerfully.

  THE DYING SOLDIER.

  We came at last to a cot, somewhat by itself, outside the wards. Here, reclining at length, was a young man, whose face bore slight traces of suffering. It was flushed with a hue like that of health; the eyes were undimmed, and only the position of his hands, which were thrown over his head, and locked in almost spasmodic tightness, told that he was in pain. He was unusually noble in countenance. His brow was broad and fair, and the thick locks that clustered back from the temples curled like the ringlets of a boy. He knew not why, but the chaplain experienced an unusual and sudden sympathy for this young man, struck down in his beauty; still he felt there was no immediate danger in his case.

  “How is he wounded?” he asked of the surgeon, as the two approached the bed softly.

  “In the right side, below the ribs,” was the reply.

  “Is he in danger?”

  “Oh, no, that is, not at present. The case may take a bad turn, to be sore; but it looks very well, new. Charles," he added, addressing the sick man, familiarly,” the chaplain is going the rounds; would you like to see him.”

  “O, certainly!” exclaimed the young man
, smiling. “I am very glad to see him;” and he held out his hand. His voice was strong and ringing, as with the highest health; his clasp was vigorous.

  “I am sorry to find you wounded, my friend,” said the chaplain.

  “Oh, only the casualty of war; we must some of us expect it, you know.”

  “Do you suffer much?”

  “At times, sir, very severely; I feel so well, only the distress here,” and he pressed his hand to his side.

  “You will be up soon, I hope.”

  “I trust so sir; the doctors say it is a bad wound, but will yield with care. I only wish I had my mother here. She has heard of it, and, doubtless, started before this. It will seem so comfortable to see her; you don't know how I long for her."

  Ah! Mothers, you are first thought of when the hardy soldier feels the pang of pain. It is your name he calls, your form he sees through the mists of delirium, your voice he hears in every gentle word that is spoken. He knows whose touch will be tendered through the sympathy of suffering, he knows who has borne the most for him; and on the tented field, and the holy name of mother receives a fresh baptism of love and beauty.

  “I can imagine how you feel," said the chaplain, "mad I have no doubt you will see her soon. Meanwhile, you know there is a Friend who will be to you more than mother or father, sister or brother.”

  “I realize that, sir,” said the young man; “I am a professor of religion, and have been for years. When I was shot, ay, and before, I commended my soul to Him for life or death, but I confess I have much to live for. I am not brought yet where I am perfectly willing to die.”

  “It may be for the reason that you are not yet called to die,” replied the chaplain,”

  “But in life, you know, it is the one important thing to be prepared for death.”

  After a short prayer, the minister and the sick man parted. “He seems very strong and sanguine,” he said, as he met the surgeon again, “and likely to recover.”

  “No doubt of it, sir, no doubt,” was the hasty reply of the surgeon, as he passed on.

  The hour of midnight had struck from the great hall. Slowly and solemnly it knelled the departing moments, and its echo rolled through the halls, vibrating on many an ear that would never near the sound of the striking hours again. The chaplain still sat up in his own room, writing letters for three or four of the wounded soldiers, and a strange stillness fell around him, as he closed the last sheet, and sat back with folded hands to think. He could not tell why, but do what, and go where he would, the face of the young volunteer, with whom he had spoken last, haunted him. He arose to move to the window where the breeze was cooler, when a knock was heard at the door, and a rapid voice called "Chaplain?" He hurried to lift the latch. The surgeon stood there, looking like a shadow in the dim moonlight that crept into the passage.

  “Chaplain, sorry to disturb you, and more sorry still to give you an unpleasant duty to perform.”

  “Why, what is it?” was the quick rejoinder.

  “The fine young fellow whom you talked with is going.”

  “What, you do not mean”

  “Won't live an hour or two at the most. I tried to tell him, but I couldn’t; and finally I thought of you. You can ease it, you know.”

  A great shadow fell on the chaplain; for a moment he was stunned and choked, and his voice grew husky as he made reply.

  "It is a sad errand, but none the less my duty. Poor fellow! I can't realize it, indeed I cannot. His voice was so strong; his manner so natural! I’ll be there presently." And left alone, he threw himself upon his knees to wrestle for strength in prayer.

  The atmosphere was filled with low sighs from the strugglers with pain and disease. Going softly up to the couch at which he had stood before, the chaplain gazed upon the face before him. It looked as calm as that of a sleeping infant, but he did not sleep. Hearing a slight noise, his eves flew open, and rested in some surprise upon the chaplain.

  "I felt as if I must see you again before I retired," said the latter, striving to steady his voice.

  "How do you feel now?"

  "Oh, better, I thank you; in fact almost well. The pain is gone, and I feel quite hopeful. I rather think the surgeon does, though he said nothing."

  Again that fearful swelling in the chaplain's throat. How should he tell him of his danger-— how prepare the mind so calmly resting on almost a certainty— the poor hopeful soul that would never look with earthly eyes on the mother he so longed for? Another moment, and the young man appeared to be struck with some peculiarity in the face or movements of the chaplain. The large eyes sought his with an intenseness that was pain, and he strove to interpret that which made the difference between this and his former demeanor.

  "Your cares weary you, chaplain," he said, quietly; you must be very faithful, for it is past midnight"

  "I was on the point of going to bed, when I was called to prepare a dying man for his last hour," was the tearful response.

  "Indeed! What poor fellow goes next?" rejoined the young man, with a look of mournful inquiry.

  There was no answer; for the wealth of the world the chaplain could not have spoken now. That tone so unconscious of danger; that eye so fall of sympathy!

  Still a strange silence! What did it mean? The sick man's inquiring glance changed for a moment to one of intense terror. He raised both arms—let them fall heavily upon the coverlet at his side, and in a voice totally altered by emotion, he gasped —

  “Great Heaven! You mean me?”

  “My dear friend!” said the chaplain, unmanned.

  “I am to die, then—and—how—long?” His eyes once more sought those of his chaplain.

  “You have made your peace with God, let death come as soon as it will, he will carry you over the river.”

  “Yes; but this is awfully sudden! Awfully sudden!" His lips quivered; he looked up grievingly—”and I shall not see my mother.”

  “Christ is better than a mother,” murmured the chaplain.

  “Yes.” The word came in a whisper. His eyes were closed; the lips still wore that trembling grief, as if the chastisement were too sore, too hard to be borne; but as the minutes passed, and the soul lifted itself up stronger and more steadily upon the wings of prayer, the countenance grew calmer, the lip steadier, and when the eyes were open again, there was a light in their depths that could have come only from Heaven.

  “I thank you for your courage,” he said, more feebly, “taking the hand of the chaplain.” “The bitterness is over now, and I feel willing to die. Tell my mother” — he paused, gave one sob, dry, and full of the last anguish of earth — “tell her how I longed to see her, but if God will permit me I will be near her. Tell her to comfort all who loved me, to say that I thought of them all. Tell my father I am glad he gave me his consent, and that other fathers will mourn for other sons. Tell my minister, by word or letter, that I thought of him, and that I thank him for all his counsels. Tell him that I find that Christ will not desert the passing soul; and that I wish him to give my testimony to the living, that nothing is of real worth but the religion of Jesus. And now will you pray for me?"

  Oh! What emotions swelled the heart of that devoted man, as he kneeled by the bedside of that dying volunteer, the young soldier of Christ; and with tones so low that only the ear of God and that of him who was passing away could hear; besought God's grace and presence? Never in all his experience had his heart been so powerfully wrought upon; never had a feeling of such unutterable tenderness taken possession of his soul. He seemed already in the presence of a glorified spirit; and after the prayer was over, restraining his sobs, he bent down, and pressed upon the beautiful brow, already chilled with the breath of the coming angel, twice, thrice, a fervent kiss. They might have been as tokens from the father and mother, as well as himself. So, perhaps, thought the dying soldier, for a heavenly smile touched his face with new beauty, as he said, "Thank you! I won't trouble you any longer; you are wearied out — go to your rest."

&nbs
p; "The Lord God be with you!" was the fervent response.

  "Amen!" trembled from the fast whitening lips.

  Another hour passed. The chaplain still moved uneasily around his room. There were hurried sounds overhead, and footsteps on the stairs. I.e. opened his door; encountered the surgeon, who whispered one little word —

  "Gone!"

  Christ's soldier had found the Captain of his salvation.

  There is touching pathos in some of the marks attached to the blankets, shirts, handkerchiefs, and the like, sent to the Sanitary Commission for the soldiers in camp and hospital. Thus, on a bed-quilt was printed a card having this tender inscription:

  "My son is in the army; whoever is made warm by this quilt, which I have worked on for six days and most of six nights, let him remember his own mother's love!"

  Who can doubt that these simple words have made some weak one strong again; filled some sad heart with joy and hope? On a pillow sent to the Commission was written:

  "This pillow belonged to my little boy, who died resting on it; it is a precious treasure to me, but I give it to the soldiers!"

  On a box of beautiful lint was this inscription:

  "Made in a sick-room, where the sunlight has not entered for nine years, but where God has entered, and where two sons have bid their mother good-bye, as they have gone to the war."

  What a spirit of sacrifice and saintly heroism shines through this little sentence; sunshine, joy, sympathy, coming out of the shadow; the sick-room giving tender greeting to the camp-fire and the hospital. But the tenderest of all inscriptions we have seen is this, written on some eye-shades: