At WinchesterOn the Road thence to Tom's Brook, New Market, and Staunton.

There were two battles that Monday between Sheridan and Early, the first indecisive, though bloody, a drawn game; the second, after a comparative lull of several hours, a fierce struggle in which the whole front of the Sixth, Nineteenth, and Crook’s Corps simultaneously advanced, and Torbert’s Cavalry, arriving at last after their unaccountable delay upon our extreme right, made a magnificent charge crumpling up all the enemy’s left. The victory was real, but not so complete as it should have been. Sheridan ought to have captured or destroyed the whole of Early’s army. Instead, he had left them an open line of retreat. He took only five pieces of artillery, nine battle-flags, and some twelve or fifteen hundred prisoners; and, to use his own words, “sent the Confederates whirling up the valley.”

In the recoil of Gordon’s brilliant charge of six thousand about noon, we prisoners were swept along into Winchester, and then locked in the old Masonic Hall. The sociable guards took pains to emphasize the statement that George Washington, “glorious rebel” they called him, had presided as Grand Master in that very room!

After several hours we heard a great noise in the streets. Looking out we saw men, women, children, moving rapidly hither and thither, the current for the most part setting toward the southwest. The din increased; the panic became general; the Union Army was advancing on Winchester!

We were hustled into the street now filled with retreating hundreds, and were marched rapidly along the turnpike toward the setting sun. The road crowded with artillery, army wagons, common carriages, all pouring along in the stampede; a formidable provost guard enclosing us prisoners in a sort of hollow column; cavalry in front, flank, and rear; the fields on either side swarming with infantry, the whole of Early’s army in retreat, we apparently in the middle of it; Sheridan’s guns still booming in our rear such was the scene as we two or three hundred prisoners were driven on. Our mingled emotions can be better imagined than described. The bitter regret that we had not been slain; the consciousness that we had done our whole duty in facing unflinchingly the storm of shot and shell, never retreating an inch; the evident respect and even courtesy with which I was personally treated; the inspiring certainty that our army was victorious, the unspeakable mortification of being ourselves prisoners of war! we sorely needed all our philosophy and all our religion to sustain us.

Marching moodily along I was aroused from a sort of reverie by an experience far too common in those days. I had been sick the night before, and had worn my overcoat into battle. My horse was shot. The blood was spurting from him. As he seemed likely to fall, I leaped down. We were in the midst of a rapid advance and I had not time to throw off my overcoat. I was now carrying it swung over my arm. It was growing dark. A mounted soldier, whom I took to be an officer, rode up to my side and seized hold of the coat. He said, “I want that overcoat.” I replied, “You can’t have it.” “I must have it.” “You shan’t have it.” He tugged and I tugged, and as I was on foot and sober I nearly dragged him from his horse before he let go. During the tussle I repeatedly shouted, “Captain of the Guard Help! Help!” The provost captain instantly came riding to the spot. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “That rascal has tried to rob me of my overcoat,” I answered, pointing to the villain who was beginning to slink away. The captain appeared to recognize him, said not a word to him, but whispered to me a moment later, “You are entitled to keep your overcoat.”

We had had little breakfast and no dinner nor supper, but we suffered more from thirst than hunger. Can we ever forget it? Will the long flight never end? On through Kerrstown without halting we march, with promise of rest and water at Newtown; no rest nor water there. On from Newtown with assurance of water at Middletown. Five minutes at Middletown, and a little muddy water that seems to aggravate our thirst. Farther on we cross a bridge under which the water is dashing as if in mockery, and the cry “Water! water!” rises from a hundred lips, the guard joining, for they are suffering like ourselves. Some comfort in that! Past midnight we reach Strasburg and are halted around an old wooden pump. It is broken! No water there. Still on and on at a snail-pace, up and over the almost interminable stretch of Fisher’s Hill. At three o’clock in the morning we arrive at a place known by the classical name of Tom’s Brook about twenty-five miles from Winchester. Never was nectar more delicious than the water of this stream, nor downy pillow more welcome than the sod on its banks. Without blankets or covering we sank in each other’s arms for mutual warmth on the dew-drenched grass; and blistered feet and aching limbs and hunger and thirst and suffocating despair are all forgotten!

Morning came unnoticed, except by those whom the keen cold permitted to sleep no longer. Towards noon we rose, washed without soap or towel, were made to form line, had our names taken, and received as rations a pint of flour per man, with a little salt, nothing else. How to cook or prepare the flour? We learned of the rebel guards a process not laid down in the cook-books. Mixing with water they made a stiff paste or dough. This they put around the end of a stick about the size and half the length of a walking cane. The end thus thickly coated they hold over a little fire till the smoke and flame have sufficiently hardened it. Then pull out your stick and you have a thick chunk or cylinder of bread, not quite so tough as a gun-barrel, but substantial!

I contrived to keep a little memorandum book. In it I noted down that there were three hundred and eleven of us prisoners; two lieutenant-colonels, two majors, four captains, nine lieutenants, and two hundred and ninety-four enlisted men. These were in the march from Winchester. A few may have been added to our number at Tom’s Brook.

I have stated how it happened that none of those near me were robbed when captured. Those at a distance were not so fortunate; for, if circumstances permitted, the Confederates, being themselves sadly in want, often improved the opportunity to grab every article of value. At Tom’s Brook I noted in my diary the following:

Major A. W. Wakefield, 49th Pa. Cav., was robbed of hat, blanket, and $100 in money. Adjt. J. A. Clark, 17th Pa. Cav., was robbed of cap, boots, mug, pocket-book and money. Lieut. Harrison, 2d Regular Cav., was robbed of gold watch and money. Capt. John R. Rouzer, 6th Md. Inf., was robbed by an officer of hat and $20 in money. Lieut. Wesley C. Howe, 2d Mass. Cav., who recently died at Kansas City, Mo., was robbed by Lieut. Housel of the 6th Va. Cav., of silver watch, spurs, gloves, and $10 in money. Major August Haurand, 4th N. Y. Cav., was robbed of a watch and $60 in money.

It was a common practice to snatch from a Union prisoner his cap, and clap on in lieu of it a worn-out slouched hat; pull off his boots, and substitute a pair of clumsy old shoes. The plundering was so thoroughly done that it was poetically termed “going through” a captive!

As I was the senior officer among the prisoners, and we seemed likely to remain a long time there, I went to the Confederate commander and besought him to allow our three hundred prisoners to occupy a barn near by. He refused. I then asked that we be allowed to build wigwams for shelter, as there was abundant material at hand. This too was not permitted. I also begged in vain that a surgeon should be got to dress the wounds of some of the prisoners.

The second morning after our arrival, the sleeping men were aroused by the loud voice of Lieutenant Sargent of the 14th New Hampshire Regiment exclaiming: “If you give me any more of your lip, I’ll annihilate you! I’ve but one arm” (his right arm was disabled by a shot), “but even with one arm I’ll annihilate you on the spot, if you give me any more of your lip!” This was exceedingly gratifying, for it proved that at least two of us were not yet “annihilated!”

During our sojourn at Tom’s Brook the Confederates labored hard to induce us to exchange our greenbacks for their paper currency. Our own was sadly depreciated, one dollar of silver or gold being equal to two of greenbacks; but one in United States paper was equal in purchasing power to eight of theirs. They argued that our money would certainly be forcibly taken from us by rapacious guards farther south, and kindly offered us four for one. Sergeant Reed of the Provost Guard was quite a character. Like Gratiano in The Merchant of Venice, he talked loud and long, speaking “an infinite deal of nothing.” He had a mania for watches. He told me he now had twenty-seven which he had obtained from Yankee prisoners, always paying them in good Confederate money. He set his heart upon a little silver watch of mine, which he said he wished to buy and present to one of his lady admirers. I asked:

“Why do they admire you?”

“Because of my bravery,” he replied; “none but the brave deserve the fair.”

“If you are so brave, why are you back here? Why are you not at the front?”

“Colonel, I’ve been in the forefront of the hottest battles. I’ve been fearfully wounded. I’ll be hanged if I haven’t been one of the bravest of the brave. Twice, Colonel, I was shot all into inch pieces; and so now I’m put on light duty!”

On Thursday, the third day after our arrival, two “india-rubber men,” circus performers, of the 22d Indiana Regiment, gave an exhibition of “ground and lofty tumbling” for the entertainment of their fellow prisoners. They had somehow contrived to retain the gaudy costume of the ring. They were really skillful. While we were watching with interest the acrobatic performance, a squadron of the Confederate General Imboden’s Cavalry dashed past us. Sergeant Reed, who had just made me an offer for my watch, sprang to his feet, exclaiming: “I swear! there must be a battle going on in front, for there goes Jimboden’s Cavalry to the rear! Sure sign! I’ll be hanged if we ain’t gettin’ licked again!” We had heard the cannonading in the distance, but paid little attention to it. The Richmond papers, announcing that Fisher’s Hill was impregnable to the whole Yankee army, were said to have been received about an hour before the heights were actually carried by storm. Again Early’s army was not captured, but sent “whirling up the valley.”

We prisoners thoroughly enjoyed the changed aspect of affairs. At first they marched us directly back a short distance up the slope towards the advancing Yankees; but they seemed suddenly to discover their mistake; they halted, faced about, and marched down. Hilarious and saucy, our boys struck up the song and three hundred voices swelled the chorus:

Rally round the flag, boys, rally once again,
Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom
The Union forever! hurrah, boys, hurrah!
Down with the traitor! up with the star! etc.

till Captain Haslett of the provost guard came riding into the midst with savage oaths shouting, “Silence! Silence! Silence!”

Twenty-seven miles, first through stifling dust and then through pelting rain, past Hawkinstown, Woodstock, Edenburg, Mount Jackson, brought us to New Market. On the march Colonel Brinton of a Pennsylvania regiment, a new arrival, planned with me an escape. He had campaigned through the valley, was familiar with the lay of the land, and said he had friends among the inhabitants. Our plan was to run past the guards in the darkness. As a preliminary step I cut off my shoulder-straps which were very bright. Within half an hour Sergeant Reed came up to me and asked, “Colonel, where’s your shoulder-straps?” I replied, “I don’t wear shoulder-straps now I’m a prisoner.” “But, Colonel,” he answered, “I’ve been lookin’ at them shoulder-straps since we left Tom’s Brook. I wanted to buy ’em of you for a present to one of my girls. I’ll be hanged if I don’t believe you’re goin’ to try to escape, and so you’ve cut off your bright shoulder-straps. But, Colonel, it’s impossible. I’ll be hanged if I hadn’t rather lose any six of the others than to lose you.” The fellow stuck closer to me than a brother all the rest of that night; so close that he lost sight of Colonel Brinton, who actually escaped about midnight at a place called Edenburg! Almost immediately Sergeant Reed came to me and asked, “Colonel, where’s that other Colonel?” I answered: “You ought to know; I don’t!” “I’ll be hanged,” said he, “if I haven’t lost him, a-watchin’ you!”

At New Market they put us into a dilapidated church building. “The wicked flea, when no man pursueth but the righteous, is bold as a lion,” was repeatedly misquoted from the Book of Proverbs, and not without reason. We concluded if that interpretation was correct, we had reason enough for obeying the injunction in Ecclesiastes, “Be not righteous overmuch”; for the little jumpers were fearless and countless. They were reinforced by a Confederate deacon, who recommended two things: Confederate paper and “gospel piety”; the one would carry us safely through this world; the other through the next. He would be only too happy to furnish us the currency in exchange for our greenbacks. “Confederate treasury bills and true religion” was the burden of his song, till one of our literary officers, it was said, squelched him: “Deacon, your recipe of happiness, rebel paper and godliness Confederate money and a Christian spirit! reminds me of what Byron says in one of his wicked poems:

’Beyond all doubt there’s nought the spirit cheers
Like rum and true religion!’”

He subsided.

We left New Market at noon, Saturday, September 24th, and marched all the afternoon and all night, past Harrisonburg, Mount Crawford, Mount Sidney, and Willow Springs, reaching Staunton, Va., about nine in the morning. On the march, forty-three miles in twenty-one hours, we were hungry; for the morning ration at New Market was scanty, and they gave us nothing more, except a small loaf of wheat bread. Some of the guard were kind to us. One of them, private John Crew, Co. E, 11th Alabama Regiment, unsolicited by us, and, so far as I am aware, without hope of any reward, would endeavor to bring us apples or other food, whenever we halted. I was careful to write his name in my diary.

As we trudged along, a lively discussion of slavery ensued. Lieutenant Howard of the provost guard was a learned champion of the “peculiar institution,” and I was a pronounced abolitionist. He was an ardent “fire-eater,” to use the term then in vogue, and I, who had lost my position as principal of the Worcester High School by my defense of John Brown, was equally intense. Both were pretty well “posted” on the subject. He seemed to be familiar with the Bible and the proslavery arguments, including drunken Noah’s “Cursed Canaan!” Moses Stuart’s Conscience and the Constitution, Nehemiah Adams’s Southside View of Slavery, and Rev. Dr. (the name is gone from me) of Baltimore’s Sermons. I was fresh from reading the arguments of George B. Cheever, Horace Bushnell, Henry Ward Beecher, Garrison, Phillips, and the rest. He proved that slavery among the Hebrews was a divine institution. I answered they were commanded to “undo the heavy burdens, let the oppressed go free, and break every yoke.” He said Paul sent back the fugitive slave Onesimus to his master Philemon; I rejoined, “Paul said, ’I send him back, not as a servant, but above a servant, a brother beloved; receive him as myself.’” He quoted the Constitution of the United States, the article commanding that fugitive slaves should be delivered back to their masters; in reply I quoted from Deuteronomy the “Higher Law,” “Thou shalt not deliver unto his master the servant which is escaped from his master unto thee.” He quoted from the great speech of the magnificent Webster in the Senate, March 7, 1850, in which he urged all good citizens to obey the Fugitive Slave Law “with alacrity.” Waxing hot, I quoted from Beecher:

As to those provisions which concern aid to fugitive slaves, may God do so to us, yea and more also, if we do not spurn them as we would any other mandate of Satan! If in God’s providence fugitives ask bread or shelter, raiment or conveyance at my hands, my own children shall lack bread ere they; my own flesh shall sting with cold ere they shall lack raiment. And whatsoever defense I would put forth for mine own children, that shall these poor, despised, persecuted creatures have at my hands and on the road. The man that would do otherwise, that would obey this law to the peril of his soul and the loss of his manhood, were he brother, son, or father, shall never pollute my hand with grasp of hideous friendship, nor cast his swarthy shadow athwart my threshold!

The lieutenant finally cited the examples of “those glorious southern patriots who led the rebellion against England during the first American Confederacy,” Washington, Patrick Henry, Madison, Jefferson, “every one a slaveholder,” he proudly exclaimed. I happened to be cognizant of their views, and responded with some vehemence: “But Washington’s hands were tied so that he could not free slaves till his death. He said it was among his first wishes to see some plan adopted for putting an end to slavery. Patrick Henry declared, ‘I will not, I cannot justify it.’ Madison expressed strongly his unwillingness to admit in the national Constitution ‘the idea that can hold property in man.’” In a rather loud voice I quoted Jefferson, who, in view of our inconsistency in violating the “self-evident truth” that “all men are created equal,” solemnly affirmed, “I tremble for my country, when I remember that God is just, and that his justice cannot sleep forever!” I had some reputation as an elocutionist in those days, and Sergeant Reed, who was listening with open mouth, broke in with, “I’ll be hanged, Colonel, if you warn’t cut out for a preacher! By I should like to hear you preach.” The best reply I could make was: “You’ll undoubtedly be hanged sometime; and if I were a minister, nothing would give me more satisfaction than to be present at your execution and preach your funeral sermon.” He replied: “Now, Colonel, you don’t mean that. You don’t think I’ll ever be hanged!” “Indeed I do, if you don’t stop your profanity and general cussedness.” “I’ll be hanged, if I will,” was his last word to me.