154 Norta Carotina Troops, 1861-’65.

pated, and always with honor, and while I would be glad to
tell the story of their devotion and fortitude and bravery on
all these bloody fields, still I have not the time to go into these
matters; and will confine myself to a brief synopsis of the
doings of this regiment during the great siege of Petersburg.
I do not believe that any soldier in any war, either civilized
or savage, ever suffered more than the men who filled the
ditches around Petersburg from June, 1864, until the last of
March, 1865.

Half-clad and half-rationed these brave, devoted men held
the lines for nine long months, including one of the most ter-
rible winters that ever spread its white mantle over the earth.
Barefooted in the snow, the men stood to their posts on picket,
or at the port-holes. Lying in bomb-proofs, so-called, with
mud and water to the ankles, and the constant drip, drip, of
muddy water from above, clothing and blankets saturated,
with a fire that only made smoke, these men passed through
the winter of 1864 and 1865. The mortar shells from the
enemy’s guns fell in the ditches or crashed through the bomb-
proofs day and night, while the sharp, shrill hiss of the minie
ball, and the shriek of shell and solid shot madé the hours
hideous day after day, and night after night. For nine
months it was certain death for a man to raise his head above
the works. Yet with joke and laughter these men dodged the
mortar shells and elevated their old ragged hats on ramrods to
see how many holes would be shot through them in a given
time. I have seen a dozen men gather in the ditch to watch
for the coming of a “mortar” as they called it, and when they
saw the awful thing curving towards them, they would run
with shout and gibe around a traverse while it exploded in
the ditch. I saw one of these mortar shells fall in the ditch
and lie there frying, when a brave soldier from Lincoln
county rushed out of his bomb-proof, caught it up in his
hands, and tossed it over the breastworks. When asked why
he had gone out of a place of safety to do such a rash act, he
said: “I thought maybe the pieces might hit some of the
fellers.” One night there was a fearful rainfall and the next
morning it was discovered that a part of the dam across a
small stream had been washed away and all the water in the

Forry-Ninto REGIMENT. 155

pond had disappeared, leaving an opening of some fifteen
feet through which the bullets from the Yankee lines could
come on the least provocation. Being officer of the day, my
attention was called to a crowd of soldiers gathered on either
side of the chasm, and upon investigation, I discovered the
amazing fact, that these men were trying to see who could run
across without being killed, or wounded. There was not the
slightest necessity for any of them to cross, but in a spirit of
wantonness and fun, they were making the effort. A fellow
would take his old hat in his hand, step back to get a good
start, then with a shout, he would rush across and kick up his
heels at a great rate, if he happened to get over safe. I had
to place a guard there to make tuem stop such foolishness.
I give this incident to show how, under constant danger, men
became indifferent to it.

The morning sun, as he came from his chamber in the east,
day by day, made plain the path for the minie ball, and the
“torch” of the mortar shell lighted up the heavens by night.
The morning was a call to battle and the night was hideous
with bursting shell. No wonder men became inured to dan-
ger, and sought excitement in playing with death.

Tn all these months I do not remember a single, solitary
complaint made by any of the men, because of short rations,
or cold or nakedness. No intimations were made against
the character of canned beef—we had none—a piece of fat
bacon and a hard and mouldy cracker were luxuries. A sol-
dier in the trenches asked me to write a letter to his wife at
home. This is the letter in substance:

“Dpar Wire:—The Captain is writing this letter for me,
and I wish to say that I am well and getting on first-rate.
George Gill had his brains shot out yesterday and Jack Gib-
bons’ son and three others were tori all to pieces with a shell,
but thank God they haven’t hit me yet, and if I get home I
will make up for all lost time in taking care of you and the
children. I was sorry to hear that you didn’t have enough
to eat and the children were crying for bread, but you must
be brave, little woman, and do the best you can. I think we
will whip the Yankees in a little while longer, and then I can
come home and everything will be all right. I pray for you