Charles H. Hover

I am not an orator nor one skilled in composition, neither can I boast of gems of rhetoric, but the story I herewith narrate is true in every respect. My story opens on October 18^th, 1864, and terminates with my discharge at the close of the Civil War, in July 1865. During the period of these events I traveled over fifteen hundred miles. 

My story opens at the battle of Cedar Creek, which resulted in one of General Philip Sheridan’s most famous victories, - though he had to “Ride from Winchester, twenty miles away” to win it; as the poet says in the grand poem entitled “Sheridan’s Ride”. This short campaign of Sheridan’s, with an army of only thirty thousand, in which the dashing leader won such fame, will always remain a brilliant page in the annals of our nation.

On the afternoon of October 18^th, 1864, the army of the Middle Military Division, consisting of the 6^th, 8^th, and 19^th corps commanded by Major General Philip H. Sheridan, lay along the north bank of Cedar Creek, where we had been resting for a few days after over two months of almost continuous  marching. During these two months we had fought two famous battles and a number of skirmishes. 

At the sound of the bugle for guard-mount, the boys who had been notified by their orderly that they were to report for picket duty at the call, fell in and with the indifference of a soldier marched away to the front. The picket line was about two miles from the main camp. At each post three men were stationed. The posts were within easy speaking distance of each other. 

“Boys, don’t leave this position until you are relieved”, were the orders. We all knew enough of a soldier’s duty to understand this order. It meant that if an enemy approached in front, we were to fight our way back and warn the army of the attack, so that it might have time to prepare for action before the enemy was upon it.

 Nothing unusual occurred until a half hour before daybreak when all at once muskets began to crack. First by the dozens; then by the hundreds; and, in a few moments, by the thousands. As it was at the extreme left of the picket line, we could do nothing but wonder what was up. Our guns were ready for service at a moment’s notice. At the end of twenty minutes the firing almost ceased and the 8^th  Corps fell back. They were stationed about 2000 yards distant from the 19^th, so we did not know the result. When the 8^th fell back, it left an intervening space between the pickets and the 19^th; the rebels formed a heavy skirmishing  line in this vacancy. As soon as it became light an officer in Federal uniform rode up to us and gave the order to deploy as skirmishers and to fall back on the reserve. The pickets obeyed and had not gone far towards our lines, when they saw a line of men with blue overcoats approaching, and had every reason to believe that they were sent to strengthen the line. When we were within a few rods of them they brought their guns to a ready and very politely told us that they were Confederates and that we were prisoners of war; they also advised us to throw down our guns as we would not need them for some time to come. 

Oh, how our hearts sank within us to think how easily we had been trapped. Now the famous battle of Cedar Creek had begun and was raging with all its fury; cannon were booming, muskets crackling and rebel cheers rent the air. Our position was such that some of the shot of the 19^th was dropping among us. The grand old 19^th Corps was falling back and the army of  Phil Sheridan was whipped. Our captors told us that our army would be driven to Harper’s Ferry and then we would be paroled. We lay near a bridge which was but a few rods from our camp. But from nine o’clock until three but few shots were fired. 

About 3:30 P.M. skirmish firing commenced and, in a few seconds it sounded as if ten thousand little boys had ten thousand bunches of firecrackers and were trying to shoot them all off at once, with a cannon cracker about every second. Oh, how anxious we prisoners were to know who was getting the best of the fight. 

About an hour later an orderly came galloping across the bridge and delivered some orders, - we could not hear them - but they had a very startling effect. The doctors who were working on wounded men nearby began to gather up their tools; the wounded in the ambulances were taken out and left to care for themselves. The drivers of the wagons started up the hill to the rear. Soon the order came “Prisoners, fall in”, and we were marched away to the rear. When we had reached the top of the hill we had a view of the whole battle. What a grand sight it was. The Union lines extended as far from east to west as we could see, and looked as straight as if the boys were on dress parade. How they did shoot! Never will such a scene be forgotten. The line seemed at all times to be a blaze of fire, the smoke arose in clouds. In the rebel lines confusion reigned; officers were riding to and fro trying to rally their men, but to no avail, The rear was a confused mass of stragglers. Hundreds were running down to the bridge; some jumped into the creek. The Confederate army, for the time being, was transformed into a raging mob. 

How glad we were when we knew that our army had won the victory. But we were not allowed to enjoy this for long, for the topography of the country soon hid the battlefield from our view. We told the “Johnnies” that they would never get to Harper’s Ferry on the road they were going. They told us that they were taking us to Hades, and we found, if there be such a place on earth, they spoke the truth. 

Starting from cedar Creek at five o’clock, we were kept marching all the night until ten o’clock the next day. When we complained of being tired, they told us that it was our men’s fault, for the Yanks were in pursuit. We had had nothing to eat since leaving our camp over forty hours ago. At last we drew the long looked for rations, and what do you think they were? - a pint of flour. We were told to be ready to move in half an hour. Now it takes considerable skill in cooking to prepare a meal in half an hour from a pint of flour, with no fire or anything to help you. For your benefit, if you ever get in such a snap, I’ll tell you what to do: find some way to get some water with the flour and make it into a dough and eat the dough. It is a grand idea and saves a deal of troublesome cooking. If you are as hungry as I was, it will be as good a meal as you will ever eat. 

For the next 24 hours we spent the time sleeping a little and marching a great deal. We arrived in Stanton (Staunton, Va.) on the afternoon of the third day of our march. Here we drew rations again, - two hard crackers this time, and it didn’t take near so long to eat them as it did to get them. After each man had received the fortune allotted him there was nearly a barrel of crackers left. This was taken to the top of the hill, on the side of which we were lying and with one head of the barrel out, they started and rolled it down the hill, leaving a trail of crackers as it went. Some of the boys captured a few crackers and some lost what they had drawn. The “Johnnies” said they did it just to see the fun. 

On the evening of October 22^nd we were loaded on a train of common freight cars, about sixty men to the car, and after some delay the train started over the “Stanton, Gordonsville, and Richmond R.R.” for Richmond Virginia. 

When the train started, the last hope of being recaptured by our cavalry died out. If they had known how thoroughly the Confederate force was demoralized, they could have easily have made a dash and recaptured us. As the train wound its way through the pass of the Blue Ridge every soldier appeared to be contemplating his fate. Had they known that only three out of every fifteen would ever see the old flag again, I doubt if the single guard who sat in the door of the car could have kept them. 

An incident that occurred soon after the train had emerged from a mountain tunnel showed that at least one man was not thinking of home and friends, but that his mind and actions were in keeping with his profession - that of a soldier. He was a son of the Emerald Isle. The train was running at the rate of thirty miles an hour. The guard was sitting, leaning against the half open door, probably he was napping; 0- however suddenly he ceased to be there. When he was missed there was a general row, for all felt that they would be held responsible for the missing guard, - all but Pat. Our Irish friend was accused of pushing the guard out of the car. At first he said nothing. It was decided by the majority that he ought to be thrown out after the guard, or, at least, that the officer of the guard be informed who had done the deed. This aroused Patrick to his defense and with some emotion he said:

“Boys, when I hired out to work for Uncle Sam, I was told that he wanted me to kill rebels, and I think that is what he hired me for; and I always try to work to the interest of my boss. You say I did the deed; I want you to let me do the rest. All I ask is that when the train stops and the officer comes to ask where the guard is, let me do the talkin’. Nary a one of yees say a word, and be sure all of yez is all sleepin’ and snorin’ when he comes.” 

Partly to know how Pat would defend himself and partly because we did not want to have him punished if there was a way to avoid it; all agreed to let Pat do the talking. After a time the speed of the train began to slacken and as it came to a standstill, Pat again cautioned every man to be asleep. He lay down near the door and set us a good example by snoring so lustily that some of us found it difficult to keep from laughing. 

In a few minutes there was a loud “Hello” accompanied by an oath, as an officer came to the door. No one moved but all gave evidence of slumber. Then another “Hello” accompanied by more oaths. Pat thought it was proper time for him to speak, so he raised up drowsily and said:
“What the Devil is the row? Can’t ye let a mon sleep and not be hollerin’ ‘round ‘nough to wake the dead?”
“Keep still you Irish  _ _ _  _ _  _  _ _ _ _ _”, shouted the officer.
“What does ye want anyhow?” chimed Pat.
“Where is the guard belonging to this car?”
“Guard! What does we know ‘bout yer guard? Was wees put here to keep guard, or the guard to keep us? What do yer ‘spose wees know about yer guard?” cried Pat in a voice of astonishment. When he had finished speaking he dropped to his former position and was soon fast asleep. With some more grumbling the officer went away and we were not bothered with a guard any more that night. From that time on, Pat was the hero of the car, but he did not seem to enjoy it. 

We arrived in the city of Richmond soon after daylight the next morning and, as we stood in line after we had left the cars, we created quite a sensation. It seemed as if all the small boys in the city had been notified of our coming. Some of their remarks were quite amusing and at the same time cutting. One lad said:
“Gee, Bill, they got most of Grant’s army this time!”
Another observed: “You Yanks got here before Grant, didn’t you?”
And still another inquired: “How long youins goin’ ter stay?”
All they said showed us quite clearly how they had been educated in the way of their fathers. 

When we left the cars we were marched to the vicinity of Libby Prison; some of us were quartered here; the remainder in the Pemberton building and Castle Thunder. Thus we spent the next two days; many were our anxious thoughts for the boys at the front, and how our friends at home would find out what had become of us. 

On the morning of our third day in Richmond an officer came into the prison and wanted all men who had come in last to come out. We complied and each was given a dried cod fish which would weigh about two pounds. Then we were marched to the “Richmond and Danville R.R.”, ordered on the cars and started south. We spent the time talking and thinking of where we were going, and the cod fish, - the latter being the fresher subject, though it had been out of the water I know not how long. The salted cod fish made us desperately thirsty and our sufferings were intense. In the morning the train stopped near Danville and even the guards could not stop us from leaving the cars and getting a drink in the stream nearby. 

About  four o’clock we arrived in Salisbury, N.C., and were marched through the town to the prison yard, through a cold drizzling rain which made us as wet outside as we had been dry inside the day before. 

We had been two days and nights on the cars and had had nothing to eat but the codfish. When we arrived in the yard we were marched to a part of it where there were no tents, - nothing but mud, three or four inches deep. The officer told us that it would be impossible to get us any tents or food until morning, so we would have to “make ourselves as comfortable as possible”. What mockery there was in that sentence! Only one in our circumstances could realize it. 

                I was a young man then, about twenty years old; strong and healthy; had served about two years and a half in the army, and never had cause to regret having left a home of comfort to serve my country. But now for the first time my courage failed me. I sat down on the ground near a large oak tree and what do you think I did? I just cried. Yes, I just cried like a girl. Then I thought; then, I just started to pray, but with all the bitterness in my heart toward my captors, I doubt sometimes if those prayers were ever recorded; - and so the night slowly and painfully wore away. 

                In the morning I came very near being shot by one of the guards, for in the darkness, I had wandered too near the “dead line”. Consequently this did not increase my love for the Confederates, and then and there I made a vow that I would live to stamp out such tyrannical inhumanity. I believe that it was to these resolutions that I owe my life, and am able to tell the story of the squalor and extreme wretchedness of that prison pen. 

During the day they gave us a small piece of corn bread. We whiled away our time by looking over the camp. Here we found some of our regiment and company who had been captured a month before at the battle of Winchester. They were eager to hear the news from the front. 

                Oh, what a long, weary, wretched winter we spent, - drawing thirteen ounces of corn bread in the morning and eating it all up in thirteen seconds, and waiting, - not very patiently - until the next day for more. In a few weeks the lack of food and shelter began to tell on the boys, and from ten to twelve died every day. Along in December a raid on the guard was organized for the purpose of breaking out of the yard, but the result was a disastrous failure; twenty of the raiders were killed and some sixty more wounded.

                  About this time my schoolmate and companion died. We had been boys together in New York. He had been in the army only a few days before the battle of  Cedar Creek and his capture. I tried to persuade him to think that it was foolish to give up and die. But my efforts were in vain; he was thoroughly discouraged and disheartened and said that he did not want to live any longer under such circumstances. He lies in an unknown grave in that prison yard, - in a trench with many others of like fate. 

                The death rate began to increase steadily from this time on, and from twenty to thirty died every day. We spent most of our time speculating on the anticipation of being exchanged. The guards told us that it was the fault of our government that we were not exchanged. This, in part, was true, but history tells us that it was seemingly unavoidable. 

                Every now and then a few prisoners would elude the guards and get out of the yard, but they were usually captured or shot before they got far away. It is said that out of seventy-five who got out of the yard, only eight reached the Union lines. 

            Nothing occupied the minds of the men more than the question of how to get more to eat. Men who under other circumstances would have shrunk from such deeds, would, when opportunity offered, lie and steal to get their comrade’s food to appease their own hunger. The gnawing pangs of hunger were so strong that they could not resist the temptation to take a comrade’s rations if they got the chance. I saw a comrade shed tears as he confessed to a sick soldier that he had stolen his bread and begged him not to leave it again in sight, as he was so hungry that he could not help taking it. I saw a man receive his rations of thin soup - which was given us a few times, in his shoe rather than lose any of it. Rats and mice were caught and cooked. A dog that came to the prison with one of the soldiers furnished a meal for four men; what they could not eat they sold for twenty dollars, Confederate money. A bone as long as your hand brought a dollar; by breaking it into small pieces and boiling it in some water it would be better than nothing. Perhaps a spoonful of fat would help keep soul and body together. 

            And so we lived, - but more died. Only those men who were possessed of the strongest will power and courage are alive to-day.  I kept reminding myself and my comrades that we had read of men going through greater hardship and that we could live through this, if we only thought so. 

                It was dangerous to go out in some parts of the prison yard after night, as men were robbed of anything that could be taken from them. It may seem strange to us now, that young men, the majority of whom had been raised under good influences, should so soon become such degraded wretches. But we must remember the horrible scenes they were compelled to look upon. 

                The burial of the dead was one of the worst. A rough wagon, such as we would use for hauling stone, drawn by four mules, would be driven up to the dead house and as many bodies as could be piled upon it were hauled out and thrown into the trench which we prisoners had dug for the purpose. The dead were always stripped of their clothing, for the use of the living, before they were taken to the dead house. These scenes reminded us that perhaps we would be the next to go, and suffering, desperate men, do not always use mild means for preservation. Such loose things as shoes (if they were off), haversack, or pails had to be securely tied to our person or else they would be stolen while we slept. 

                It is also memorable that there was no Sabbath observances nor religious services of any kind. And I am sure that we would not have cared to hear of the future when the present looked so dark. There were two exceptions to my statement of having no religious services, I think. One of these I attended, partly out of curiosity. It was February 2^nd. It seemed only the vilest mockery to hear him preach of a Savior’s love to us who were famishing in that wretched pen. If he had given us food we would have blessed him, or if he had gone to the authorities and pleaded with them for our better treatment, he would have been a true missionary. But, what cared we for words coming out of such lips? Our only thought was to appease our sufferings. 

                Well dressed women would come now and then, and from the guard’s platform look down on our suffering and misery as if  we were some kind of beasts. I have seen them point out some poor wretch who was almost naked and laugh at his condition. Men were suffering everything they could suffer, and dying by the thousands within a mile of their homes in the village of Salisbury, and not one of them had raised a hand to better our condition. I do not doubt but that some of these people were members of some church and often repeated in prayer: “Thy will be done on earth, as it is in Heaven.” What blasphemy! No wonder that, at the close of that religious service, I turned away in disgust and quoted to myself: “There is none good, no, not one.” and since I have often thought that under certain circumstances no one possesses the spirit of the loving Master. 

                There were several of us from the same regiment who lived under a small building that was used for a hospital. We took out the foundation in one place and dug out the ground so that we could sit upright. This was better than hundreds of others had, but on the floor above us there were men dying and at times their cries rendered our quarters most unpleasant. 

                By this time more than a hundred of our boys died every day. But I must pass over much that transpired in this prison yard asit is not my purpose to relate to coming generations all of the misfortunes and sufferings of this ghastly hole. Now we are a reunited nation and all love the old flag. Nearly three score years have passed and it will be better for the rising generations if some of the bitter experiences die with us. Better to leave the horrors of these prison pens to kind obscurity. 

                  At one time the question arose in our little crowd: “Shall we not go out and join the rebels?”, as they would take us and at least we would have enough to eat. “To be loyal must we stay here and die like dogs?” We argued the question for days, pro and con. When we put it to vote three of the seven wanted to go; four to stay and die, if need be. Strange to say, the three who voted to go lie buried in the trenches of that prison yard and I am the only one of the four who voted to stay that is living to-day. 

                While we were in prison a comrade found a rebel soldier who, for a certain sum of money, was willing to take three men and lead them two hundred miles to the Union lines in Kentucky. Another young man from my native state and I were chosen. We talked it over and made arrangements with the soldier to meet him at a certain gate on a night when he was on guard there. We were to give him three hundred dollars each when we got home. He was to take our word for payment. On the night we were to go one of the boys concluded that he could not afford to pay so much for his freedom and refused to go; this broke up the plan and we did not meet the guard. This same man died in less than a month after; in fact, both of the others died in prison. 

                About the middle of February eight new men were brought to the prison. We were all much interested, as no one had been brought there for some time. They turned out to be some of Sherman’s men captured near Savannah, Ga. From this time on three to ten men were brought in each morning. From these we learned that Sherman was moving in our direction and hope began to revive. 

                It seemed almost too good to be true. Men died of joy. But, oh, what a small company there was compared with four months ago. Over eleven thousand men were buried in those trenches in one short year, over seven thousand of them during the six months we were there. It would have taken but one month more, at the time of our release, at the death rate of the time, until not one of us would have been left to tell the story. Our guards now told us that we were going to be exchanged, but we hardly dared believe them; it seemed too welcome for truth. 

                We started north by rail, - that is, we walked the railroad. Whenever a train came along, it would stop and take on what it could carry. On the evening of the second day from prison we reached a small town. I told the guard that I could go no further, and he gave me permission, with some others, to wait for a train. In the town that evening, I sold my blanket, - a legacy from a dead man- for eighty dollars. With this money I bought for myself and a comrade, as he was to let me sleep under his blanket; a peck of sweet potatoes for twenty dollars; two small fish for forty dollars; and two plugs of tobacco for twenty dollars. We had eaten nothing for thirty-six hours and the potatoes and fish made a very good meal, - we thought. We gave a portion to a sick man and still had enough left for our breakfast. 

                On the evening of the fourth day from prison we arrived in Goldsborough. Here an incident occurred which will illustrate how anxious we were to get to Union lines. Most of the men had had nothing to eat for three or four days; the officer in command told us that we could take our choice of going on that night or staying, and in the morning they would give us something to eat. Every man voted to go on. Next day at about 4 P.M. we reached Stony Point, North Carolina, nine miles from Wilmington. Here we met the boys in blue and although we had never met these men before, we fairly hugged them for joy. 

                On a pole in their camp floated “Old Glory”, and in reverence to her I think nearly every man offered a secret prayer and vowed a new allegiance to her. None knew how to love the old flag better than those who have suffered for her sake; those whose devotion has been tried and not found wanting. We were given a light meal and then started on our walk to Wilmington, where we arrived that midnight. 

                I will not attempt a description of the prisoners farther than to say that I was barefooted; my pants were off at the knees; my coat and shirt at the elbows; and my hat was gone, - lost while sleeping on top of the cars; my hair had six months growth; and to sum it all up, I don’t think my mother would have known me. 

                Next day some of Sherman’s men gave me a suit of clothes and then I began the task of getting rid of that little friend that sticketh closer than a brother, the lice of the prison pens. As a rule they love a soldier better than he loves them. They were patriotic and stayed all through the war, and it has always been a mystery to me what became of them after the war. 

                On every ship that left Wilmington some of the ex-prisoners were taken north. It was ten days before our party was taken. We had a pleasant voyage and arrived in due time at Annapolis, where Uncle Sam gave us a new suit of clothes, paid us for the time we had been in prison, and gave us a furlough of thirty days. 

                What a change in two short weeks. Very few have the fortune, or rather misfortune, to see so much of life in so short a time. And during that thirty days I occupied most of my time eating, but for all that, to this day I have never regained the weight of which I could boast before my capture, one hundred and fifty pounds. After a week’s stay in Wilmington I weighed just eighty-seven. 

                I arrived at home in Germantown on March 13^th, 1865, and was welcomed by my parents and friends almost as one returned from the dead. While I was yet at home, on the morning of April the tenth, the newspapers told us of General Lee’s surrender, and of the mutual ending of the war. To tell the truth, I was half sorry that I was at home instead of with the boys to see the last kick of the mighty beast “Secession”. 

                Little more remains to be said. I went to Savannah, Georgia to meet my regiment. On July 12^th we received our discharges and then returned to Albany, New York and were formally mustered out of the United States service. Then we parted to take up the occupations of civil life, which we had laid down three years before; some to succeed, some to fail, as is with all classes of men. And when we look back in our declining years to those times of excitement, peril, and adventure, how dear they are to us.

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