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80 pages

English

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Immerse yourself in thrilling battlefield action with this top-notch account of the American Civil War. Based on his own experiences as a Union soldier and, eventually, a prisoner of war, Byers paints a vivid, compelling and at times disturbing picture of life on the front lines of one of history's bloodiest conflicts.

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Military history

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 décembre 2015
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776595914
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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WITH FIRE AND SWORD
* * *
SAMUEL H. M. BYERS

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With Fire and Sword First published in 1911 Epub ISBN 978-1-77659-591-4 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77659-592-1 © 2014 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Chapter XIII Chapter XIV Chapter XV Endnotes
Preface
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In war some persons seek adventures; others have them in spite ofthemselves. It happened that the writer of this book belonged to aregiment that seemed to be always in the midst of great experiences. Itwas, in fact, one of the few regiments that absolutely fought themselvesout of existence. It was mustered in a thousand strong; it lost sevenhundred and seventy-seven men by death, wounds, and disease. Thefragment that was left over was transferred to a cavalry command. Whenthe writer finally escaped from prison, after many months of confinementand many thrilling adventures both in prison and in the army of theenemy, he was mustered out as a "supernumerary officer." His command hadceased to exist. He was literally the last man of the regiment . Of theeighty of his regiment who had been taken to prison with him all butsixteen were dead. Of the nine captured from his own company all weredead but one.
While with his command he had served as a private soldier, as sergeant,and as adjutant. On escaping from prison he was for a time on GeneralSherman's staff and was selected to run down the Cape Fear River andcarry the great news of Sherman's successes to the people of the North.
He kept a diary every day in the four years of war and adventure. Thesubstance of the facts related here is from its pages; occasionally theyare copied just as they are there set down. The book is not a history ofgreat army movements, it is simply a true tale of the thrillingexperiences of a subordinate soldier in the midst of great events.
Chapter I
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My Enlistment in the Union Army—The "Bushwhackers" of Missouri—The Quantrells and the James Brothers—Cutting a Man's Head Off—My First Adventure in the War—Capturing a Guerrilla
I am writing down these sketches of adventures of mine from a dailyjournal or diary kept by me throughout the four years of the Civil War.Its pages are crumpled and old and yellow, but I can read them still.
Fate so arranged it that I was the very first one to enlist in myregiment, and it all came about through a confusion of names. Apatriotic mass-meeting was held in the court-house of the village whereI lived. Everybody was there, and everybody was excited, for the wartocsin was sounding all over the country. A new regiment had beenordered by the governor, and no town was so quick in responding to thecall as the village of Newton. We would be the very first. Drums werebeating at the mass-meeting, fifes screaming, people shouting. There wasa little pause in the patriotic noise, and then someone called out,"Myers to the platform!" "Myers! Myers! Myers!" echoed a hundred othervoices. Mr. Myers never stirred, as he was no public speaker. I satbeside him near the aisle. Again the voices shouted "Myers! Myers!"Myers turned to me, laughed, and said, "They are calling you, Byers,"and fairly pushed me out into the aisle. A handful of the audienceseeing Myers would not respond, did then call my own name, and bothnames were cried together. Some of the audience becoming confused calledloudly for me. "Go on," said Myers, half-rising and pushing me towardthe platform.
I was young,—just twenty-two,—ambitious, had just been admitted to thebar, and now was all on fire with the newly awakened patriotism. I wentup to the platform and stood by the big drum. The American flag, theflag that had been fired on by the South, was hanging above my head. Ina few minutes I was full of the mental champagne that comes from acheering multitude. I was burning with excitement, with patriotism,enthusiasm, pride, and my enthusiasm lent power to the words I uttered.I don't know why nor how, but I was moving my audience. The war was notbegun to put down slavery, but what in the beginning had been anincident I felt in the end would become a cause.
The year before I had been for many months on a plantation inMississippi, and there with my own eyes had seen the horrors of slavery.I had seen human beings flogged; men and women bleeding from anoverseer's lash. Now in my excitement I pictured it all. I recalledeverything. "And the war, they tell us," I cried, "is to perpetuate thiscurse!" In ten minutes after my stormy words one hundred youths and men,myself the first, had stepped up to the paper lying on the big drum andhad put down our names for the war.
We all mustered on the village green. Alas, not half of them were everto see that village green again! No foreboding came to me, theenthusiastic youth about to be a soldier, of the "dangers by flood andfield," the adventures, the thrilling scenes, the battles, the prisons,the escapes, that were awaiting me.
Now we were all enthusiasm to be taken quickly to the front, to the"seat of war." We could bide no delay. Once our men were on the verypoint of mobbing and "egging" our great, good Governor Kirkwood, becausefor a moment he thought he would be compelled to place us in a laterregiment. However, we were immediately started in wagons for the nearestrailroad, fifty miles away.
At the town of Burlington, on the 15th of July, 1861, we were musteredinto the service as Company B of the Fifth Iowa Infantry. Our colonel,W. H. Worthington, was a military martinet from some soldier school inKentucky. His sympathies were with his native South. Why he was leadinga Northern regiment was a constant mystery to his men.
The regiment spent scant time in Burlington, for in a little while wewere whisked down the Mississippi River in a steamer to St. Louis, andsoon joined the army of Frémont, organizing at Jefferson City to marchagainst General Price, who was flying toward Springfield with the bootyhe had gained in his capture of Mulligan and his men at Boonville. Nowall began to look like war. Missouri was neither North nor South; shewas simply hell, for her people were cutting one another's throats, andneighboring farmers killed each other and burned each other's homes. Theloyal feared to shut their eyes in sleep; the disloyal did not know if aroof would be above their heads in the morning. Brothers of the samefamily were in opposing armies, and the State was overrun by Southernguerrillas and murderers. The Quantrells, the James Brothers, and otherirregular and roaming bands of villains rode everywhere, waylaying,bushwhacking, and murdering.
We followed General Price's army to the Ozark Mountains, marching dayand night—the nights made hideous by the burning of homes on the trackof both the armies, while unburied corpses lay at the roadside. Wemarched half the nights and all the days and just as we got close enoughto fight, the Washington politicians caused Frémont to be removed fromhis command. Frémont had been ahead of his time. He had freed someslaves, and the dough-faced politicians were not yet ready for action ofthat character.
The campaign had been to no purpose. Some of our regiment, indignant atthe removal of their general, had to be guarded to prevent mutiny anddisorder. Now we turned about and made the long march back to theMissouri River. Half that cold winter was spent near Syracuse, inguarding the Pacific Railway. We lived in wedge tents, and spite of thecold and snow and storm, our squads by turn tramped for miles up anddown the railroad in the darkness every night. What terrible tales, too,we had in our little tents that winter, of the deeds of Quantrell's men.It did not seem possible that the South could set loose a lot ofmurderers to hang on the skirts of our army, to "bushwhack" an honorablefoe, burn villages, destroy farms, and drive whole counties intoconditions as frightful as war was in the Middle Ages. Only savageIndians fought that way. Yet Quantrell's band of murderers was said tobe on the payroll of the Confederate States. Here and there, however,his guerrilla outlaws met with awful punishment, and horrible incidentsbecame the order of the day and night.
I recall now how a prize was once offered by one of our commanders forthe head of a certain man among those desperate murderers, a desperadowith a band of men that knew no mercy. His troop of riders hadambuscaded almost scores of our soldiers, and innocent farmers who didnot happen to like his ways were strung up to trees as unceremoniouslyas one would drown a kitten. The offered prize of a thousand dollarsstimulated certain of our men in taking chances with this beast of theConfederacy, and a corporal of our cavalry learned of the desperado'soccasional visits at night to his home, only a dozen miles away fromwhere we were camped. Several nights he secretly watched from a thicketnear the cabin for the bandit's return. Once in the darkness he heard ahorse's hoofs, and then a man dismounted and entered at the door. Theevening was chilly, and a bright fire in the open fireplace of the cabinshone out as the man entered.
The corporal, who had disguised himself in an old gray overcoat, knockedfor entrance, and pretended to be a sick Confederate going on a furloughto his home not far away. He was cautiously admitted and given a seat bythe open fire. He had no arms, and to the bandi