xt795x25bb2v https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt795x25bb2v/data/mets.xml Nott, Charles C., 1827-1916 1911  books b9297378n8482009 English W. Abbatt : New York Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. United States. Army. Iowa Cavalry Regiment, 5th (1861-1865) United States --History --Civil War, 1861-1865 --Personal narratives. Sketches of the war; a series of letters to the North Moore street school of New York, by Charles C. Nott, late captain in the Fifth Iowa cavalry. text Sketches of the war; a series of letters to the North Moore street school of New York, by Charles C. Nott, late captain in the Fifth Iowa cavalry. 1911 2009 true xt795x25bb2v section xt795x25bb2v 








I.'-DoNELSON ........ 1

II.   The Assault ....... 10

III.-foeaging......... 22

IV    The Hospital....... 35

V.   A Flag of Tetjce...... 45

VI.   The Holly Foek...... 64

VII.   Scouting......... 77

VIII.   A Subpeise.......... 98

IX.   The Escape........ 124

X.   The Last Scout....... 144

Appendix I........ 165

Appendix II........ 170 

The first edition of this little work was published during its author's absence in the Department of the Gulf, and fought its own way into public favor. The second edition is now published for the exclusive benefit of disabled soldiers, and in the expectation of opening for them a profitable field of employment. As the first edition was soon exhausted, and no work has been offered to the public that fulfils the designs of this, it is hoped that this edition may find an approval beyond the humane object which calls it forth.

Written for readers whom I had been accustomed to address familiarly, and among whom the most usefully happy moments of my life had passed, and composed for the most part amid the scenes which they describe, these letters to the North Moore Street School were never intended for adult readers, nor to assume the shape and substance of a book. In composing them I carefully avoided that "baby-talk" which some people think simplicity, and that paltriness of subject which by many is thought to be alone within the grasp and comprehension of a child. The greatest of children's stories are those which were written for men. Robinson Crusoe and Gulliver's Travels, amid the annual wreck of a thousand "juvenile publications," sur- 


vive, and pass from generation to generation, known to us best as the attractive reading of our early life. This enviable lot is secured to them by the severe purity of their English composition, the simplicity of their style, the natural minuteness of their description, but above all by the real greatness of their authors, who in striving to be simple, never condescend to be little. The Goody Two Shoes of Goldsmith, which was written for children, is hardly rescued by his charming style; but the Vicar of Wakefield, which was written for men, has ascended to be a story-book for childhood, and is speedily becoming the exclusive property of the young.

Therefore while I sought to instruct a few of the children of the United States by carrying them unconsciously through the details of military life, and unfolding to them some of the better scenes in their country's great struggle, still I selected just such incidents and topics as I would have chosen for their fathers and mothers, only endeavoring, with greater strictness, to blend in the narration simplicity with elegance.

C. 0. 1ST. 

TT is twelve years since what was termed "A great meeting in Cooper Union, 1ST. Y.," was held "to honor the memory of Colonel George E. Waring, Jr." A portrait of Colonel Waring, draped with the American flag, was displayed at the rear of the platform. Many of those seated there were members of the City Club, of which Colonel Waring had been President; and there were members of the Authors' Club, the Century Association and the Chamber of Commerce, "all of which organizations had united in making arrangements for the meeting." Bishop Potter, President Seth Low and Professor Pelix Adler were on the platform. Letters were read from prominent citizens. Colonel Roosevelt wrote that the city of JSfew York owed Colonel Waring a great debt; and Archbishop Corrigan, that the success of Colonel Waring made it impossible for others not to follow in his footsteps; and Rev. Lyman Abbott sent a letter in which he eulogized the work done by Colonel Waring and referred to his unselfish, public-spirited record.

"While President Low was speaking," says the report, "several hundred boys and girls of the volunteer aids to the Department of Street Cleaning and of the Juvenile League of the same department, marched into the hall 


carrying banners." The memorial resolutions covered Colonel Waring's career as soldier, civilian and scientist. "He died a hero's death," said the resolutions, "not upon the field of battle   though he had proved his courage upon many such fields   but, as he would have preferred to die, in the effort to rescue a great city from infection and disease." In a word, Colonel Waring's memory was honored, as the memory of very few men is honored, by the eminent, the learned, the wealthy and the children of the East Side.

Many years before this, when fresh from the scenes of the Civil War, Colonel Waring expressed his warm appreciation of the first edition of the book which we now reproduce, in a personal letter to a fellow soldier:

My Dear Hanson :   I send you with this a copy of War Sketches, which were written by Colonel Nott, who was Captain in our regiment before your time, and with the tradition of whose good qualities you are familiar. It will be especially interesting to you, as recalling the scenes of our jolly rough-riding in Western Kentucky and Tennessee.

Do you remember (when we took our brigade from Clinton, and started on that wild-goose chase after Faulkner) how we went into camp on the west fork of Clark's Eiver, with our headquarters in a retired nook in the bush, only large enough to hold our little party ? and how there came to us there, a Mr. Wade, a Mr. Chunn, and a Mr. Magness, whose statements, that they were Unionists, we doubted, until they told us of their assistance to Captain Nott? how 


we trusted them then; and how faithful we found them?

11 of this pleasant summer campaign comes back to me    as it will to you   in reading the Sketches.  And your mind will run on, as mine does, to our entrance into Murray, the jnext day, and the Sunday dinner with the good old foxhunting Mr. Guthrie (the rebels burnt his house down for that hospitality); and our "secesh" visitors in the camp below Conyersville, with their peach-brandy and honey; and the preparation for a night attack on the enemy at    Paris; and how that promising scheme was knocked on the Ihead by a stupid order from our nervous old general (a hundred miles away), to turn immediately back, and leave our ripe fruit unplucked; how Faulkner took courage from our movement, and broke up our game of corn-poker on the Buffalo robe, in the next camp on the back track; and how we mounted and scoured the country, and couldn't find the    party which had attacked us   only heard of them going [toward Paris again?

Eead the account of the entrance into Paris (pages 71 ;and 72), and see if it does not take you back to our enter-ling it, a year and more ago; and to our night at Dr. Mathe-son's brick house, at the head of the street, where we went for good quarters, thinking him a rebel and wishing him out of our room before we settled ourselves for the evening, until he asked us if we knew Captain Nott, and showed us that he knew and was trusted by him; and what a cozy evening we passed with them, in spite of the bitter cold weather? We knew we were with a friend, and he did not spare his wood-pile in entertaining us.

How graphic is the description of the freezing fast to the ground of the citizens, when they first see us coming 


into a town (making it always look like Sunday). Bead, too, of the Obion bottom   which was less muddy, but not more pleasant, to Captain Nott than to us   and of the wild confusion of single-rank cavalry when surprised; and of BischofFs holding the Captain's stirrup under fire;   how like Hover and the "Vierte Missouri" that!   and of Bischoff's gamey little black horse, bringing him through a tight place, just as Miss Pussy has done for you.

And the skirmish over the piano, with Miss Ayres; how like it is to what I've so often seen from you and the other young ones of the staff.

It seems at first rather odd that a book originally written for school children should be so exactly the book which is most interesting to men   even to those who have served    but it is precisely those little details, which one would think of writing only for children, which give to all the clearest idea of the realities of military life, and which best recall the daily pleasures, trials and anxieties of a campaign, when graver events have dimmed our recollection of them.

I am sure that I am sending you material for a few hours' pleasant reading in camp, and I trust to Captain Nott to turn your memory back to the companionship and the incidents of the months which we passed together, in the valley of the Obion Biver.

Very truly yours,

George E. Waring, Jr. To Capt. Hunn Hanson, A. D. C.

H'd Q'rs Sixteenth Army Corps, Mobile Bay.

Colonel Nott furnishes us with the following interesting addition to Colonel Waring's letter:

When Colonel Waring was writing to Captain Han- 


son it was not necessary that he should tell his friend and fellow-soldier something that he already knew. But in a conversation after the war Colonel Waring told me the following little story, a story of which it may be said that "truth is often stranger than fiction."

But first I must tell you that I left Tennessee deeply grateful to the three farmers who had risked their lives for me, as told in the chapter entitled "The Escape," and earnestly desirous of doing something that might be of service to them. This book was then in the publisher's hands, and it occurred to me that when it should come out, it might help these men to establish their loyalty if they should ever need to do so. Suspicion reigned in the border States; mistakes were sometimes made, and it was not impossible for good Union men to be arrested and shot by good Union soldiers. At the least it would be a great thing in the quiet, uneventful lives of these three noble, simple-hearted men to see their names in print, and to know that in that great, far-away, tumultuous New York the story of what they had done for the "stranger-officer" should be printed and published, not in a mere newspaper, but actually in a book. Moreover I was under orders which would carry me by sea to Louisiana, and this was the only thing I could do for the men.

But publishing the story in New York was one thing, and getting copies of the book sent into a remote rural district in Tennessee was another. The "U. S. Mail" did not run then into hostile territory and the three men were not great men, well-known men, but poor, unknown farmers, whose modest homes did not front on great thoroughfares, but were hidden away in retired nooks and approached only by grass-grown bridle-paths. The books might start upon their 


journey, but it was most unlikely that they would ever reach their journey's end. It seemed a waste of books to send them. However, I thought I must do the best I could and leave the result with Providence.

The "best I could" was to charge the publisher to put up three copies of the book separately addressed to the three men and to send them in one package by express to the U. S. Quartermaster at Cairo, Illinois. I also wrote a letter to the Quartermaster (whom I did not know), telling him how much I owed to the three men, and begging him, if any expedition or scouting party should be going into that part of the country, that he would send the books by some trusty officer and ask him to leave them with at least one of the three. I then left New York for Louisiana, the war-wave rose higher, carrying me resistlessly along, and I never heard of the books; whether they reached the three men, whether they reached the Quartermaster, whether they even started from New York, was unknown to me when Colonel Waring told this story.

On the day to which Colonel Waring alludes in his letter to Captain Hanson, his regiment, after a long march, had gone into camp, and as night approached were in the more or less nervous state in which soldiers often are who believe that the enemy is near them, but don't know where, and don't know how strong. The element of uncertainty sometimes makes even veterans nervous. Accordingly, when these three farmers in their Southern "butternut" suits came into the camp, the sentry who received them called the corporal of the guard and whispered that he "wouldn't wonder if they were spies; it would be just like the enemy, if they were going to make a night-attack, to send in spies to find out where to make it."  The corporal


of the guard reported to the officer of the day that "three men had been arrested as spies"; and the officer of the day reported to Colonel Waring that "three spies had been caught and were now under arrest."

Colonel Waring was in no mood for tolerating spies    certainly not for tolerating spies who would sneak into camp at nightfall to find out the lay of the land and then sneak out and tell the enemy how he could best make a night-attack. He ordered the three men to be brought before him and he thought that it might be his unpleasant duty to tell them when they came that they would have a drum-head court martial in an hour, and if found guilty, be shot at daybreak.

The three men were not glib talkers. Their dress, their speech, their drawl betrayed unmistakably that they were Southerners. Colonel Waring's suspicions were intensified, and his questions grew ominously searching.

"Was there no one who could testify to their being Union?"

"No, 'tweren't safe to tell folks where they lived that you were a Union man."

"Then they could not call one witness to establish a good Union character?"

"No, the men they trusted and who could vouch for them were all hiding out in the brush."

"What were they doing so far from home? Had they any business here, and if so, what was it ?"

"No, they had no business here, and they were here because they had been lying out in the brush, too, and thought they'd be safer if they came in and got among Union soldiers."

"And they had come in not knowing any officer or soldier 


in the regiment, and not even knowing what regiment it was ?" "Yes."

"Had they no certificate or pass from any Union officer showing that they were Unionists?"

"No; they'd never had occasion to get a pass; they'd never been into Paducah or Cairo. They'd just stayed at home and minded their business, and had never asked any officer for a certificate; hadn't even supposed that they would want one."

Then Colonel Waring summed up the case: "They had no certificate, no pass, no witness, no proof of any kind; they had avoided going to Paducah or Cairo, where the Union forces were, and had never done one thing to help the Union cause or to help Union soldiers?"

"Yes, they had; they had helped a Union officer escape, time Jeff Thompson's troops raided in here."

"Where is that officer ?"

"Oh, he was a long ways off; he got hurt, and had never come back to this part of the country."

Then came the saving question. Incredulously, and to make the prisoners' case complete against themselves, Colonel Waring asked, "What was his name f

"Captain Nott."

"Captain Nott!" echoed Colonel Waring.

"Yes. He wrote a book about the war and told all about his escape and how we three men helped him; and he sent, each of us, one; and if you ever come over our way I'd like you should see it."

"And he sent me one," said Colonel Waring, "and I know all about you three men; and he was a captain in this regiment; and it takes my breath away when I think that you three men, one and all, should wander into this regiment for protection and be mistaken for spies!" 


"Well, it is a kind of strange," said the man.

The trooper who had brought the men to the headquarters' bivouac still stood on duty with his sabre drawn straining his ears to hear what he could hear, and a hundred men kept their eyes turned in the same direction, expecting momentarily to see the three prisoners marched back under sentence of death or something like it. But they saw   and they could hardly believe their eyes when they saw it   they saw their commanding officer seize each prisoner by the hand and shake it as heartily as if the owner were his dearest friend, and the sentry heard him say, "You men must stay here and have your supper with me. It won't be much of a supper, but it shall be the best this regiment can give you."

The little book had done its work! Princeton, N. J., December, 1910. C. C. NOTT.

Some years later, in 1882, a German officer, Lieutenant Hermann von Hoff, while studying the English language, met with an extract from the "Sketches of the War" in Munde's "Anglo-American Progressive Reader." The book was primarily intended for young Americans, and was not a military work in an officer's sense of the term, yet the pictures of the great American war so interested the trained Prussian soldier that he sent to America for it and with great difficulty procured a second-hand copy, which in 1883 he translated into German and published under the title of Krieg Scenen. Thus these sketches of our Civil War, which for years had been out of print in America, were purchased by American tourists in booksellers' shops in Berlin. 


With the testimonials of two such officers, the one an eye-witness of such scenes are those described and the other an unprejudiced soldier in a foreign land, the publisher believes that these well-attested pictures of the War should be again placed in view of the American public.

Part of a letter printed in the Evening Post, New York:

In 1861 Mr. Nott was a Trustee in one of the downtown public schools, was deeply interested in its success and welfare, and often took part in the opening exercises. At the outbreak of the War he promptly enlisted, receiving a commission in a regiment of cavalry, and went directly to the front. Soon after he commenced to write a series of letters to the School telling of his personal experiences and of the events of the campaign. These were read as they were received, by the principals of the several departments, to the assembled classes; and his vivid and always graceful accounts of these early movements of our army were listened to with rapt attention by teachers and pupils alike, for he was greatly esteemed by everybody. Incidentally he often referred to a fine and intelligent horse, which he had picked up in Tennessee. One sad day it was announced that Mr. Nott had been wounded in battle, and would never return again. With this intelligence the school was dismissed, and the news was received with unaffected sorrow.

Fortunately, however, the first news was the worst. He was indeed wounded, and a friend and fellow-trustee at once started after him, found him in hospital, and when 


he was convalescent brought him home again, and with him his famous horse.

It was a great day for the school when one morning Captain Nott appeared on the platform, tall and stately as ever, but thin and pale, with his arm in a sling, and received as warm a welcome as a lot of school boys can give. He told them briefly of his mishap, recovery and homeward journey, and, what was of the greatest interest, that his charger was at the moment in the school-yard, and that he had secured permission for all to go down and inspect him, which they at once proceeded to do with much enthusiasm.

Captain Nott's letters were so much sought after that they were shortly afterward published as Sketches of the War and were widely read, as they were among the first contributions to the literature of the time, and had a deep interest for many outside of the circle of teachers and pupils to whom the volume was dedicated.

Captain Nott afterwards received his colonelcy for bravery in the field, married a daughter of Mark Hopkins, president of Williams College, and now for many years has been Presiding Justice of the Court of Claims at Washington. The writer, though following his career with interest, has never seen him since the day he made his dramatic return to the school.

New York, Nov. 21, 1889.

" One oe the Boys." * *The writer was Mr. Walter Howe. 



SOME letters from New York have said "If you are ever in battle, do describe it." In this curiosity I have myself shared, and have always longed to know not only how the scene appeared, but how the spectator felt. I am able now to answer the question, and in so doing I will try to describe to you precisely how the attack appeared to me, without entering into an account of anything but what I saw, and how I felt.

It was by accident that I was at Fort Donelson, and with the attacking column. My regiment left me at St. Louis attending a court-martial. The court adjourned soon afterward, and then, with another member, an officer of the Fourteenth Iowa, I started for. Fort Henry.

We descended the Mississippi to the narrow point where the Ohio joins it, and on which are the fortifications of Cairo. At Cairo there were no boats, save those of the government, conveying troops, and on one of these we went. It was the McOill, and on board was the regiment which was to lead the assault at Fort Donelson, the Second Iowa.

Hp to the time of starting we supposed that the destination of the boat was Fort Henry, on the Tennes- 

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see. It was then announced, Fort Donelson on the Cumberland. We glided slowly up the Ohio, against its swollen current, and passed the mouth of the Tennessee during the night. I arose with the first gleam of light, and went on deck to find that we had entered the Cumberland. It seemed a narrow river, winding amid wooded hills and banks covered with noble oaks. The soldiers, who had passed the warm, moonlit night on deck, were rising one by one, folding blankets and packing knapsacks. I turned from them to the river, and looked curiously for the people who dwelt in this, the rebel part of Kentucky.

For a short time there was nothing but woods. Then a little log house appeared upon the bank, a shed beside it, with its single horse and cow. It was a humble home, and hardly worth a second glance, a hundred such might be seen on the banks of any river; but in front of the door stood a sturdy little flag-staff, and from it waved the Stars and Stripes. The family had risen at the sound of the steamer. The mother stood in the doorway, holding an infant, and waving an apron. A little girl near by timidly tossed her hood around her head. Two ragged boys at the water's edge swung their caps joyfully. The father stood on a stump, hurrahing alone but lustily; and over them, in the dim grey light, fluttered their little flag. "They mean it," "They are honest," "There's no make-believe there," were the exclamations of the soldiers, as they crowded to the side of the boat and answered the father 


and his hoys with their louder cheers. This was the first house wo saw, and the warmest welcome we received; for though many hats were waved to us during the day, and a few flags shown, none equalled in their manifest sincerity the inmates of the little log house.

The day was soft and beautiful. We passed it upon the upper deck, laughing, chatting and watching the shifting scenery of the winding river. A pleasure excursion it seemed to all; and again and again some one would remark "We may be on the brink of battle, yet it seems as though we were travelling for pleasure."

Among the rough exteriors which campaigning gives, two officers of the Second were remarkable for their neat appearance. Some jokes were made at their expense, calling them the dandies of the regiment, and their state-rooms the band-boxes; and it was agreed that they were too handsome to be spoilt by scars. Two days afterward one of these, Captain Sleighmaker, fell at the head of his company, heroically charging the rebel breastworks. A little later, as I was galloping for the surgeons, I passed a wounded officer, borne by four soldiers in a blanket. As I rode by he called out, "We have carried the day, Captain." I looked around and saw it was the other, Major Chipman. "Are you badly hurt, Major ?" I said, pulling up my horse. "No, not badly," he answered. "Don't stop for me;" and when the surgeon arrived he refused to have his wound dressed, and sent him to his men. 

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In the afternoon we overtook twenty steamboats laden with troops, and led by four black gunboats. They moved slowly and kept together, as if they feared approaching danger. Then came a change of weather, and night closed in upon us dark and dreary, with cold and snow.

When the next morning broke I found we had made fast to the western shore. On either bank were high and wooded hills. The gunboats lay anchored in the middle of the stream, all signs of life hidden beneath their dark decks, save the white steam that slowly issued from their pipes, and floated gracefully away. Far down the river could be seen the troop-laden transports, moored to the trees along the bank. The sky was clear and bright; the forest sparkled with snow, and the warm waters of the river smoked in the frosty air. Such a picture I have never seen   never shall see again. As the troops began to debark, the band of the Second Iowa came out on the upper deck, and the dear "Star-spangled" echoed along the river. The men beat time, and hurrahed as the notes died away.

The place of landing was about three miles below Fort Donelson. I may here say that the fort itself is about half as large as the Battery, but that it is only a corner of a large square of earthworks stretching some two miles on each side. To avoid the cannon on the works it was necessary for us to make a circuit of several miles.   The country was woods, high hills 


and deep ravines. A glen that we entered after leaving the river bore a strange resemblance to one on my father's farm. As I looked around I could almost believe it was the same through which, on just such bright winter mornings, I had driven the wood-sleigh or wandered with my gun. But the troops were marching, and I had no time to grow homesick. We passed, in the course of our march, a little log house. I went up to the door and spoke to the people. They seemed sad and dispirited. There had been firing between the pickets a day or two before, and a shower of balls had pattered around the house. The woman said she wished she were forty miles away, and the man said he would not care if he were a hundred.

A little girl was near the door, and I asked her what was her name, to which she replied, after a good deal of embarrassment, "Nancy Ann." I let Nancy Ann look through my spyglass; and, as she had never seen or even heard of one before, she was very much astonished. Nancy Ann's mother thereupon became quite hospitable and invited me to come in and rest, but the column was then well nigh over the hill and I had to push on.

At last we reached the position assigned to us, and here we found the Fourteenth Iowa, to which my friend belonged, and with it I determined to remain until I could find my own regiment.

Around us were thick woods. A deep glen ran in front, and beyond this, along the brow of the opposite 

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hill, ran those earthworks of the rebels which we Avere to win.

It was less than half a mile across; and occasionally a rifle ball fell near us, but the distance was too great for them to be effective. I looked through the trees and examined the hill with my glass, but could see nothing save the ridge of fresh-turned earth. Along the side of the hill were our sharpshooters watching the works. I could see them crawling up behind trees and stumps, sometimes dragging themselves along the ground, sometimes on their hands and knees. Their shots were frequent, and sounded as though a sporting party were below us. It was hard to believe that they were shooting at men. It was wonderful, too, how soon the mind accustomed itself to these strange circumstances. After the first half hour we took no more notice of the rifle shots than though some boys were there at play. Behind those earthworks were cannon as well as men. We were completely within range, and they could have sent their shot and shell amongst us at any time. The night before no fires had been allowed, as they would indicate our position to the rebels; but they were now burning, and around one of them three or four of us gathered to dine. As we sat down upon a log we heard distant sounds of cannon along the river. "There go the gunboats; the fight has begun; they are shelling the rascals out," said everybody. We had taken for granted all the time, and, indeed, up to the last minute, that the gunboats would dismantle the 


fort, and that all we should have to do would be to prevent the escape of the rebels. In this we were much mistaken. The cannonade lasted an hour, and then stopped. We hoped the fort was taken, but no such news came to gladden us.

In watching the earthworks, in talking and warming ourselves at the camp-fires, the afternoon wore away. Evening came, and it was determined to risk the fires. Again we sat down beside one for supper. It consisted of hard pilot-bread, raw pork and coffee. The coffee you probably would not recognize in New York. Boiled in an open kettle and about the color of a brown stone front, it was nevertheless our greatest comfort, and the only warm thing we had. The pork was frozen, and the water in the canteens solid ice, so that we had to hold them over the fire when we wanted a drink. No one had plates or spoons, knives or forks, cups or saucers. We cut off the frozen pork with our pocket knives, and one tin cup, from which each took a drink in turn, served the coffee.

It grew darker; the camp-fires burned brightly, and no threatening shot or shell had come from the Fort. Our sharpshooters and sentinels were between us and the rebels; and it was determined that we might sleep. The men stacked their arms, and wrapped themselves in their blankets around the fires. This was my first night out. Hitherto my quarters had been in houses; I had not even passed a night in a tent. A life among the comforts of New York is not a good preparative for 

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the field. I had looked forward to a tent at this season with some little anxiety, but I was now to begin without even that shelter. My water-proof blanket and buffalo skin were also on board the steamer, so that I had to trust to the better fortune of my friends for these. We managed to find four blankets, two of them were wet and frozen, and a buffalo skin. The snow was scraped away from the windward side of the fire, and the two frozen blankets were laid on the ground    a log was rolled up for a wind-break, and the buffalo spread over the blankets. On this four of us were stretched, and very close and straight we had to lie. It fared ill with the trappings of military life; handsome great-coats were ignominiously rolled up like horse-blankets, and my beautiful sabre (the gift of North Moore Street friends), ordinarily stained by no speck of rust or drop of rain, was tossed out in the snow with pistols and spyglasses, used in camp with the same gentle treatment.

For a few minutes I kept awake; the rebels were but fifteen minutes distant, and if they chose to make a night attack their shells might burst among us at any moment. The snow-flakes began to fall faster and faster. I slipped my head under the blanket and fell asleep. I can imagine that you will say we were to be pitied; but never did I sleep more sweetly. Soon after midnight the sound of cannon roused us. The snow was three inc