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INCIDENTAL TO BULL RUN.

THE CAPTURE OF UNCLE HAWLEY.

Henry Hawley was his name, but the boys of Company H always called him “Uncle,” and so he appears on our company record.

Hawley was not cut out for a soldier—in fact he was several sizes too large. His corpulency made him appear rather ludicrous when he tried to line up with the slender youths of the company on dress parade.

Tom Murphy, the orderly sergeant, was always yelling out “right dress there, Hawley.”

One Sunday morning the regiment was being inspected by an Irish major and as he came to Hawley he looked him over and remarked that he didn’t know what the h—l anybody was thinking of to enlist a man of his build, and he should think the best thing to do with him was to send him home. “All right, sir,” says Hawley, “I’ll go today, if you please.”

The man was a natural wit and an adept in the use of sarcasm, and had a way of talking back to his superiors that usually put the laugh on them. The truth is the boys of ’61 didn’t stand much “putting on airs” by the officers, and if one did make a show of his authority the men made life miserable for him.

Hawley was finally made to earn his $11 a month (that was our munificent pay then) by doing duty as company cook, a position he filled with credit to himself and satisfaction to his boarders. He was not content to serve up “salt hoss” and boiled beef in the easy manner of most army cooks, but was ever fixing us a nice treat of hash or an “Irish stew” with dumplings, and Hawley’s dumplings became famous throughout the Second Heavy.

Evenings we used to gather around the cook house and listen to Hawley’s impersonations of Shakespearean characters, in which he was very clever, and from Shakespeare he would turn to the Bible, with which he was exceedingly familiar.

When we went to the front Hawley left his camp kettles behind and shouldered a musket. On the retreat from Bull Run Hawley became played out and he declared he could go no further. The boys urged him to keep along with them and not get captured, but Hawley said if they wanted him they would have to take him, which they did and got an elephant on their hands too. Hawley’s account of his experience with the rebels was very funny. They found him lying by the roadside and ordered him to get up and go along with them. He told them he could not march another step, and if they wanted him to go to Libby prison they would have to furnish a conveyance. The rebel officer coaxed, swore and threatened, but all to no purpose. Hawley would not budge an inch. Finally a horse was brought and he was told to mount. Hawley declared he could not and then the officer directed some of the men to assist him, and two guards were ordered to walk by the side of the horse and hold him on. Hawley’s comments about the razor-backed horse and other sarcastic remarks made sport for all except the officer in charge, who threatened more than once to gag his tormentor. The Confederates probably thought the best thing to do was to get Hawley off their hands, so after keeping him in captivity a couple of days they paroled him and sent him inside our lines instead of to Andersonville prison, where so many of his comrades had to go, many never to return.

FINISHED HIS SMOKE IN LIBBY.

An incident of the stampede from Manassas illustrates how unconcerned some are amidst danger and excitement. Jimmy West, a little Irishman of our company, was a character and an inveterate smoker and never lost a chance to indulge himself. After the retreat was well under way, Jimmy bethought himself of his pipe and tobacco, but a match was lacking and none of his nearby comrades had one, so he yelled out to our first sergeant, at the head of the company:

“I say there, orderly, hev’ you a bit of a match about ye?”

“To thunder with your pipe, Jimmy,” responded Sergt. Murphy. “You better be using your short legs pretty lively or you’ll be smoking in Libby prison tomorrow evening,” and sure enough Jimmy was among those captured.

The most ludicrous incident connected with the Bull Run affair occurred near Fairfax Court House when we supposed we were safe from the Confederate cavalry.

Between Centreville and Fairfax we passed the 14th Massachusetts, that had formed a line of battle across the turnpike to arrest the pursuing Confederates.

We breathed somewhat easier after we had put the troops between us and our pursuers.

The day was an intensely hot one, and the hundreds of horses galloping over the turnpike, hauling the heavy wagons, raised clouds of dust that were nearly suffocating, so when we crossed a little stream of water most of the teamsters halted in a large field near by for the purpose of refreshing and resting their exhausted steeds.

The two boys got out of the wagon, stretched their legs and with many others went over to the creek for a wash up.

Among the bathing party were William McNeil and “Hod” Clair of our company, who had made the retreat from Bull Run, one mounted on a mule with nothing but a halter and the other on the confiscated horse of some officer who had been killed in the battle.

While we were splashing the water and having as much sport as any party of youngsters ever did in an old fashioned “swimmin’ hole” in their school boy days, somebody shouted “The rebs are coming,” and sure enough there was a squadron of Confederate cavalry coming at a gallop down a cross road about a mile away. You may be sure that there was some right-smart hustling.

Some grabbed a blouse, cap or shirt while others buckled on their equipments in undress uniform.

My partner and I saved our clothing, but deferred dressing until we were safely in our wagon with Charley Rogers urging his four horses to their utmost speed.

Hod Clair made a most comical figure on the horse, dressed in nothing but his cap, blouse and cuticle, and the officer’s sword dangling against his naked left leg.

IN AFTER YEARS.

A quarter of a century had elapsed after the disbandment of our regiment before I saw the comrade who rode with me from Bull Run. I sat writing at my desk one afternoon when I heard some one asking up in the front part of the store if “Del” was in.

The familiarity with which the questioner handled my name excited my curiosity and looking up I beheld two rather seedy looking individuals with hats in hand elbowing their way down through the store.

The one in advance was apparently a stranger. His companion, however, was a resident of the city, a veteran of my regiment, who bore the scars of battle on his body.

He returned home from the war to learn that while he was away fighting the battles of his country one of the stay-at-homes had been making love to his wife. She went west with her paramour, and the veteran laid down under the load and let the battle of life go against him. He was no common bum, however, if he did try at times to drown his misery in strong drink. He kept pretty clear of evil and low-down associations, even if he had dropped below the level of respectable people. The veteran was a man of intelligence and spent much time with good reading, and it was my pleasure for many years to keep him pretty well supplied. Strange to relate, a publication that was his especial favorite was the old “Christian Union,” now known as the “Outlook.” Of course he held me up now and then for the loan of a dime or quarter. If I hesitated about going into my pocket, he had a way of looking up and reminding me that it was “Just for old acquaintance sake.” Perhaps it would have been better to have refused him, but I had not the heart to say no to one who had blackened his coffee pail over the same campfire with me, had carried part of my traps on many weary marches and had touched elbows with my father on the fighting line. I cannot forget such things and would not if I could.

As the two approached me they halted, saluted, and the old “vet” gave me two or three sly winks, as much as to say, I’ll bet you a “V” you can’t tell who I have here.

I was puzzled, but instinctively felt it was one of the old Co. H. The man had evidently seen better days. He carried his hat in his hand like a well-mannered man, and there were other unmistakable traces of birth and good breeding.

We looked hard at each other. A twinkle came into a pair of black eyes that had once been the handsomest I ever saw in a man’s head. A smile hovered around his mouth, and then out of the misty past came my companion of that memorable ride of long ago. I reached out my hand and said, “It’s George,” and I believe he was more pleased than as if I had handed him a hundred-dollar greenback, which is saying a good deal, for it was plainly evident that his finances were low.

It was the old story. A young man, the son of an officer of our regiment who had been the leading merchant of—well, a smart town not a hundred miles from Watertown, well educated, with prospects in life that were the best, and now the follower of a circus. Always going somewhere and never getting anywhere was the way he put it. Still, my comrade.