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Title: Volume of anecdotes

Author: Anonymous

Release date: November 7, 2022 [eBook #69313]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: A. B. Courtney

Credits: Demian Katz, Craig Kirkwood, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VOLUME OF ANECDOTES ***


Transcriber’s Note:

Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

       *       *       *       *       *

MULTUM IN PARVO LIBRARY.

Entered at the Boston Post office as second class matter.

Vol. 2. DEC., 1895. Published Monthly. No. 24.




VOLUME OF ANECDOTES.


  Smallest Magazine in the world. Subscription price
  50 cts. per year. Single Copies 5 cts. each.

  PUBLISHED BY
  A.B. COURTNEY,
  Room 74, 45 Milk Street,
  BOSTON, MASS.




HUMOR OF THE BATTLEFIELD.


Many humorous incidents, says a writer in the _Century Magazine_,
occurred on battlefields. A Confederate colonel ran ahead of his
regiment at Malvern Hill, and, discovering that the men were not
following him as closely as he wished, he uttered a fierce oath and
exclaimed: “Come on! Do you want to live forever?” The appeal was
irresistible, and many a poor fellow who had laughed at the colonel’s
queer exhortation laid down his life soon after.

A shell struck the wheel of a Federal fieldpiece toward the close of
the engagement at Fair Oaks, shivering the spokes and dismantling the
cannon. “Well, isn’t it lucky that didn’t happen before we used up
all our ammunition,” said one of the artillerists as he crawled from
beneath the gun.

When General Pope was falling back before Lee’s advance in the Virginia
Valley, his own soldiers thought his bulletins and orders somewhat
strained in their rhetoric. At one of the numerous running engagements
that marked the disastrous campaign, a private in one of the Western
regiments was mortally wounded by a shell. Seeing the man’s condition,
a chaplain knelt beside him, and, opening his Bible at random, read out
Sampson’s slaughter of the Philistines with the jaw-bone of an ass.
He had not quite finished, when, as the story runs, the poor fellow
interrupted the reading by saying: “Hold on, chaplain. Don’t deceive a
dying man. Isn’t the name of John Pope signed to that?”

A column of troops was pushing forward over the long and winding road
in Thoroughfare Gap to head off Lee after his retreat across the
Potomac at the close of the Gettysburg campaign. Suddenly the signal
officer who accompanied the general in command discovered that some of
his men, posted on a high hill in the rear, were reporting the presence
of a considerable body of Confederate troops on top of the bluffs
to their right. A halt was at once sounded, and the leading brigade
ordered forward to uncover the enemy’s position. The regiments were
soon scrambling up the steep incline, officers and men gallantly racing
to see who could reach the crest first. A young lieutenant and some
half dozen men gained the advance, but at the end of what they deemed
a perilous climb they were thrown into convulsions of laughter at
discovering that what the signal men took for Confederate troops were
only a tolerably large flock of sheep. As the leaders in this forlorn
hope rolled on the grass in a paroxysm of merriment they laughed all
the louder at seeing the pale but determined faces of their comrades,
who, of course, came up fully expecting a desperate hand-to-hand
struggle. It is perhaps needless to say the brigade supped on mutton
that evening.

As the army was crossing South Mountain the day before the battle of
Antietam, General McClellan rode along the side of the moving column.
Overtaking a favorite Zouave regiment, he exclaimed, with his natural
_bonhommie_: “Well, and how is Old Fifth this evening?” “First-rate,
General,” replied one of the Zouaves. “But we’d be better off if
we weren’t living so much on supposition.” “Supposition?” said the
General, in a puzzled tone. “What do you mean by that?” “It’s easily
explained, sir. You see we expected to get our rations yesterday; but
as we didn’t, we’re living on the supposition that we did.” “Ah, I
understand; you shall have your rations, Zouzous, to-night,” replied
the General, putting spurs to his horse to escape the cheers of his
regiment. And he kept his promise.




NIGHT ON THE FIELD OF FREDERICKSBURG.


Many years have now passed, writes General Chamberlain, of Maine, since
“Fredericksburg.” Of what then was, not much is left but memory. Faces
and forms of men and things that then were have changed--perchance to
dust. New life has covered some; the rest look but lingering farewells.

But, whatever changes may beautify those storm-swept and barren slopes,
there is one character from which they can never pass. Death gardens,
haunted by glorious hosts, they must abide. No bloom can there unfold
which does not wear the rich token of the inheritance of heroic blood;
no breeze be wafted that does not bear the breath of the immortal life
there breathed away.

Of all that splendid but unavailing valor no one has told the story;
nor can I. The pen has no wing to follow where that sacrifice and
devotion sped their flight. But memory may rest down on some night
scenes too quiet and sombre with shadow to be vividly depicted, and
yet which have their interests from very contrast with the tangled and
lurid lights of battle.

The desperate charge was over. We had not reached the enemy’s
fortifications, but only that fatal crest where we had seen five lines
of battle mount but to be cut to earth as by a sword-swoop of fire. We
had that costly honor which sometimes falls to the “reserve”--to go
in when all is havoc and confusion, through storm and slaughter, to
cover the broken and depleted ranks of comrades and take the battle
from their hands. Thus we had replaced the gallant few still lingering
on the crest, and received that withering fire which nothing could
withstand by throwing ourselves flat in a slight hollow of ground
within pistol shot of the enemy’s works, and mingled with the dead and
dying that strewed the field, we returned the fire till it reddened
into night, and at last fell away through darkness and silence.

But out of that silence from the battle’s crash and roar rose new
sounds more appalling still; rose or fell, you knew not which, or
whether from the earth or air; a strange ventriloquism, of which you
could not locate the source, a smothered moan that seemed to come
from distances beyond reach of the natural sense, a wail so far and
deep and wide, as if a thousand discords were flowing together into a
keynote weird, unearthly, terrible to hear and bear, yet startling in
its nearness; the writhing concord broken by cries for help, pierced by
shrieks of paroxysm; some begging for a drop of water, some calling on
God for pity; and some on friendly hands to finish what the enemy had
so horribly begun; some with delirious, dreamy voices murmuring loved
names, as if the dearest were bending over them; some gathering their
last strength to fire a musket to call attention to them where they lay
helpless and deserted; and underneath all the time, the deep bass note
from closed lips too hopeless or too heroic to articulate their agony.

Who could sleep, or who would? Our position was isolated and exposed.
Officers must be on the alert with their command. But the human took
the mastery of the officials; sympathy of soldiership. Command could
be devolved, but pity not. So with a staff officer I sallied forth
to see what we could do where the helpers seemed so few. Taking some
observation in order not to lose the bearing of our own position, we
guided our steps by the most pitious of the cries. Our part was but
little--to relieve a painful posture, to give a cooling draught to
fevered lips, to compress a severed artery, as we had learned to do,
though in bungling fashion; to apply a rude bandage, which might yet
prolong the life to the saving; to take a token or farewell message for
some stricken home--it was but little, yet it was an endless task. We
had moved to the right and rear of our own position--the part of the
field immediately above the city. The farther we went the more need
and the calls multiplied.

Numbers half-awakening from the lethargy of death or of despair by
sounds of succor, begged us to take them quickly to a surgeon, and,
when we could not do that, imploring us to do the next most merciful
service and give them quick dispatch out of their misery. Right glad
were we when, after midnight, the shadowy ambulances came gliding
along and the kindly hospital stewards, with stretchers and soothing
appliances, let us feel that we might return to our proper duty.

The night chill had now woven a misty veil over the field. Fortunately,
a picket fence we had encountered in our charge from the town had
compelled us to abandon our horses, and so had saved our lives on
the crest; but our overcoats had been strapped to the saddles, and
we missed them now. Most of the men, however, had their overcoats or
blankets--we were glad of that. Except the few sentries along the
front, the men had fallen asleep--the living with the dead. At last,
outwearied and depressed with the desolate scene, my own strength sank,
and I moved two dead men a little and lay down between them, making
a pillow of the breast of a third. The skirt of his overcoat drawn
over my face helped also to shield me from the bleak winds. There was
some comfort even in this companionship. But it was broken sleep.
The deepening chill drove many forth to take the garments of those
who could no longer need them, that they might keep themselves alive.
More than once I was startled from my unrest by some one turning back
the coat skirt from my face, peering, half vampire-like, to my fancy,
through the darkness to discover if it, too, were of the silent and
unresisting; turning away more disconcerted at my living word than if a
voice had spoken from the dead.

And now we are aware of other figures wandering, ghost-like, over the
field. Some on errands like our own, drawn by compelling appeals;
some seeking a comrade with uncertain steps amid the unknown, and
ever and anon bending down to scan the pale visage closer, or, it may
be, by the light of a brief match, whose blue, flickering flame could
scarcely give the features a more recognizable or human look; some
man desperately wounded, yet seeking with faltering step, before his
fast ebbing blood shall have left him too weak to move, some quiet or
sheltered spot out of sound of the terrible appeals he could neither
answer nor endure, or out of reach of the raging battle coming with
the morning; one creeping, yet scarcely moving, from one lifeless form
to another, if, perchance, he might find a swallow of water in the
canteen which still swung from the dead soldier’s side; or another, as
with just returning or last remaining consciousness, vainly striving to
raise from a mangled heap, that he may not be buried with them while
yet alive, or some man yet sound of body, but pacing feverishly his
ground because in such a bivouac his spirit could not sleep. And so we
picked our way back amid the stark, upturned faces of our little living
line.

Having held our places all the night, we had to keep to them all the
more closely the next day; for it would be certain death to attempt to
move away. As it was, it was only by making breastworks and barricades
of the dead men that covered the field that we saved any alive. We
did what we could to take a record of these men. A Testament that had
fallen from the breast pocket of the soldier who had been my pillow I
sent soon after to his home--he was not of my command--and it proved to
be the only clew his parents ever had of his fate.

The next midnight, after thirty-six hours of this harrowing work, we
were bidden to withdraw into the town for refreshment and rest. But
neither rest nor motion was to be thought of till we had paid fitting
honor to our dead. We laid them on the spot where they had won, on the
sheltered edge of the crest, and committed their noble forms to the
earth, and their story to their country’s keeping.

  “We buried them darkly, at dead of night,
   The sod with our bayonets turning.”

Splinters of boards, torn by shot and shell from the fences we had
crossed, served as headstones, each name hurriedly carved under
brief match lights, anxiously hidden from the foe. It was a strange
scene around that silent and shadowy sepulchre. “We will give them a
starlight burial,” it was said; but heaven ordained a more sublime
illumination. As we bore them in dark and sad procession, their own
loved north took up the escort, and lifting all her glorious lights,
led the triumphal march over the bridge that spans the worlds--an
aurora borealis of marvelous majesty! Fiery lances and banners of blood
and flame, columns of pearly light, garlands and wreaths of gold, all
pointing upward and beckoning on. Who would not pass on as they did,
dead for their country’s life, lighted to burial by the meteor splendor
of their native sky?




PRESIDENT LINCOLN AND THE SOLDIERS.


The soldiers who were bearing the heat and burden of the war always
held a near place in Mr. Lincoln’s heart and sympathy. Upon one
occasion, when he had just written a pardon for a young soldier who
had been condemned by court-martial to be shot for sleeping at the post
as a sentinel, Mr. Lincoln remarked:

“I could not think of going into eternity with the blood of that poor
young man on my skirts. It is not to be wondered at that a boy raised
on a farm, probably in the habit of going to bed at dark, should, when
required to watch, fall asleep; and I cannot consent to shoot him for
such an act.” The Rev. Newman Hall, in his funeral sermon upon Mr.
Lincoln, said that this young soldier was found dead on the field of
Fredericksburg with Mr. Lincoln’s photograph next to his heart, on
which he had inscribed, “God bless President Lincoln.”

At another time there were twenty-four deserters sentenced to be shot,
and the warrants for their execution were sent to the President to be
signed. He refused, and the general of the division went to Washington
to see Mr. Lincoln. At the interview he said to the President that
unless these men were made an example of, the army itself would be
in danger. Mercy to the few is cruelty to the many. But Mr. Lincoln
replied: “There are already too many weeping widows in the United
States. For God’s sake don’t ask me to add to the number, for I won’t
do it.”

“I am astonished at you, Ward,” said Mr. Lincoln; “you ought to have
known better. Hereafter, when you have to hit a man, use a club and not
your fist.”




A WOMAN’S COURAGE AT GETTYSBURG.


Mrs. Peter Thorn, of Gettysburg, lived in the house at the entrance
of the borough cemetery. The house was used as headquarters by
General O. O. Howard. Mrs. Thorn’s husband was away from home at that
time (serving in the 148th regiment of Pennsylvania volunteers, and
stationed in Virginia), leaving her with two quite young children.
During the first day of the fight General Howard wanted some one to
show him and tell about different roads leading from Gettysburg, and
asked a number of men and boys who were in the cellar of the house to
go with him and point them out. But these persons were all fearful and
refused to go. Then Mrs. Thorn showed her courage and patriotism by
voluntarily offering to show the roads. This offer was at first refused
by General Howard, who said he did not wish a woman to do what a man
had not the courage to do. Mrs. Thorn persisted in her offer, saying:
“Somebody must show you, and I can do it; I was born and brought up
here, and know the roads as well as anybody.” Her offer was accepted,
and with the general and his horse between her and the fire of the
enemy, Mrs. Thorn went from one spot to another pointing out the
different roads. When passing along the line of troops the general was
greeted with: “Why do you take a woman for a guide? This is no place
for her.” “I know it,” said the officer, “but I could not get a man to
come; they were all afraid.” This answer to them started cheers for
Mrs. Thorn, which lasted several minutes and showed that our soldiers
admired the courage shown at such a time.




STONEWALL JACKSON’S BRIDGE-BUILDER.


A useful man to Stonewall Jackson was old Miles, the Virginia
bridge-builder. The bridges were swept away so often by floods or
burned by the enemy that Miles was as necessary to the Confederate army
as Jackson himself. One day the Union troops had retreated, and burned
a bridge across the Shenandoah. Jackson, determined to follow them,
summoned Miles.

“You must put all your men on that bridge,” said he; “they must work
all night, and the bridge must be completed by daylight. My engineer
will furnish you with the plan, and you can go right ahead.”

Early next morning Jackson, in a very doubtful frame of mind, met the
old bridge-builder.

“Well,” said the general, “did the engineer give you the plan for the
bridge?”

“General,” returned Miles slowly, “the bridge is done. I don’t know
whether the pictur’ is or not.”

From that time forth General Jackson allowed Miles to build the bridges
after his own fashion, without annoying him with “pictur’s.”




HOW CUSTER AND YOUNG TOOK DINNER.


Generals Pierce Young, of Georgia, and Custer were messmates and
classmates and devoted friends at West Point. In the war they were
major-generals of cavalry on opposing sides. One day General Young was
invited to breakfast at the Hunter mansion in Virginia. The beautiful
young ladies had prepared a smoking breakfast to which the general was
addressing himself with ardor when a shell burst through the house.
Glancing through a window he saw Custer charging toward the house at
the head of his staff. Out of the window Young went, calling to the
young ladies, “Tell Custer I leave this breakfast for him.” Custer
enjoyed it heartily, and looked forward with pleasure to the dinner in
the distance. In the meantime, Young, smarting over the loss of his
breakfast and his hasty retreat, drove the Federal line back, and by
dinner time was in sight of the Hunter mansion again. Custer, who was
just sitting down to dinner, laughed and said: “That’s Pierce Young
coming back. I knew he wouldn’t leave me here in peace. Here’s my
picture; give it to him, and tell him his old classmate leaves his love
with his excellent dinner.” And out of the window he went like a flash,
while the Georgia general walked in and sat down to dinner.

       *       *       *       *       *

Transcriber’s Notes:

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

p. 13: The one-sentence paragraph that starts “I am astonished at
you...” does not belong in this story. It is from another story
entitled “Some of Lincoln’s Jokes” (George B. Herbert, _The Popular
History of the Civil War in America_, F. M. Lupton, Publisher, New
York, 1885, p. 476).



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