A son of the Emerald Isle, but not himself green, was taken up (for he was at the time down) near a rebel encampment, not far from Manassas Junction. In a word, Pat was taking a quiet nap in the shade, and was roused from his slumber by a scouting party. He wore no special uniform of either army, but looked more like a spy than an alligator, and on this was arrested.

“Who are you?” “What is your name?” and “Where are you from?” were the first questions put to him by the armed party.

Pat rubbed his eyes, scratched his head, and answered:

“Be me faith, gentlemen, them is ugly questions to answer, anyhow; an’ before I answer any o’ them, I’d be afther axin’ ye, by yer lave, the same thing.”

“Well,” said the leader, “we are of Scott’s army, and belong to Washington.”

“All right,” said Pat; “I know’d ye was gintlemen, for I am that same. Long life to General Scott.”

“Aha!” replied the scout, “now you rascal, you are our prisoner,” and seized him by the shoulder.

“How is that,” inquired Pat; “are we not friends?”

“No,” was the answer. “We belong to General Beauregard’s army.”

“Then ye tould me a lie, me boys; and thinkin’ it might be so, I tould you another. And now tell me the truth, and I’ll tell the truth, too.”

“Well, we belong to the State of South Carolina.”

“So do I,” promptly responded Pat, “and to all the other States uv the country, too; and there, I’m thinkin’, I bate the whole uv ye. Do ye think I would come all the way from Ireland to belong to one State, when I had a right to belong to the whole uv ’em?”

This logic was rather a stumper; but they took him up, as before said, and carried him for further examination.

Originally posted 2010-01-25 19:09:48.

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The following stories by an officer show the temper and spirit with which the advent of the Yankees was looked for by the negroes. A couple of officers were advancing some distance apart from their men, when they were hailed by an old negro woman standing in the door of her rude cabin. “Bless de Lord, bless de Lord,” she exclaimed as loud as she could, “yer’s come at last, yer’s come at last! I’ve looked for yer these many years, and now yer’s come. Bless the Lord.” Nothing could exceed the old woman’s delight at seeing the Yankees. This means something, and how much! In the childish delight of that old woman what a history is suggested. Long years she had waited to see this deliverance. Slave she was, and the slow years dragged their weary lengths past her youth, and still hope whispered that the hour would come when the bondage would be broken. At last it comes, when the spring of life is gone, and yet her aged lips are eloquent with joy.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The battery of which I spoke is in charge of the First Connecticut artillery, and is built in front of a large and stately brick mansion, which is surrounded by peach orchards. It is the property of Mrs. Farrenhold, whose son and husband are in the rebel army.

Mrs. Farrenholt is a lady somewhat advanced in years, very secesh in opinion, who has remained on her estate; but she is now dwelling in a small house removed from the danger resulting from the guns of her own friends. The other day an officer belonging to the artillery corps had some little conversation with the lady, to the following effect:

Federal Officer.–Madam, good morning; I desire to purchase a horse from you.

Secesh Lady.–I require what horses I have to plough; I cannon spare one.

F. O.–(Referring to the shells from the enemy.) That will be quite unnecessary; your people are ploughing up your ground for you.

S. L.–Are they planting also?

F. O.–They haven’t planted any of us yet. But as they have not concluded their work yet, I cannot tell you what they will do.

S. L.–Ah! well, if they plant any of your blue-coated comrades, I hope they wont sprout. Good morning.

The officer withdrew. Evidently the secesh lady thought Uncle Sam’s sprouts were quite thick enough on her estate.

Originally posted 2010-01-22 14:53:26.

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A correspondent, writing from the army of the Potomac, in June, 1862, says: “Speaking of the spirit of the men reminds me of an incident, both grand and beautiful, which took place in Butterfield’s brigade. For months there has been a standing order against the playing of bands in camp, and in not one instance of the numerous late battles have our splendid bands been allowed to inspire the heart of the brave soldier by the strains of patriotic music. A great mistake, all will say. During the fight yesterday afternoon, an order came for Morell’s division to repair to the hill near where the battle was going on, and act as a support for the reserve artillery. The men obeyed the order to fall in promptly, though the weather was scorching hot, and they had been four days without rest or sleep.

“A happy thought struck Captain Thomas J. Hoyt, of General Butterfield’s staff, who saw that the men looked weary and exhausted. He immediately gathered all the regimental bands, placed them at the head of the brigade, and oedered them to play. They started the ‘Star-spangled Banner;’ and the first note had hardly been struck when the men caught the spirit, and cheer after cheer arose from regiment after regiment, ans was borne away upon the bosom of the placid river, The band continued to play, and other regiments and other brigades caught the spirit, and the air resounded with tumultous applause at the happy hit, until all the columns on that vast plain were vying with each other to do homage to the inspiriting strains of the band. After several tunes, Major Welch, of the Sixteenth Michigan, in a brief speech, proposed three cheers for the hero of the command, General Daniel Butterfield, which were given in magnificent style. To add to the enthusiasm, General McClellan happened to ride through the field just then, and was received with an outburst that fairly astonished him.
“The scene was continued, the brigade moved off with the band playing, and had there been a fight in the next field, the men would have gone into action on the double-quick to the tune of Yankee Doodle, if every one had known that death would be his fate.”

Originally posted 2010-01-22 00:35:29.

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A soldier of the Confederate army, writing from Missionary Ridge, in October, 1863, says: “I presume you know Father Challon, a Catholic priest of Mobile. Well, he has a brother, an old man of, perhaps, sixty years, who is a member of Captain Hurtel’s company. This old man was in Kansas when the war broke out; he immediately turned his steps homeward, and coming across a Louisiana regiment, he joined it as a private. General McCullough, with whom the regiment was, happening to notice this brave old man, and also seeing how cheerfully he bore the fatigues and dangers of camp and battle, offered him a staff appointment; but Mr. Challon refused it, preferring to fight as a private in the ranks, until he could find some of the Mobile or Alabama troops. This was not effected, however, until he got to Corinth with Price’s army. Soon after, he was transferred to the 24th Alabama regiment, company A, commanded by your fellow-citizen, A. Hurtel, where he has remained ever since, discharging his duties faithfully and well, so much so, indeed, that he was noticed by the General of the brigade, and other officers, with whom he was a great favorite;any was the time that he might have been noticed sitting around the General’s fire, in free conversation with that officer, always eager for news, and when he obtained any that was good, would hurry off to impart it to his regiment. But for the incident.

“It was on the ever-memorable day of the 20th of September (battle of Chickamauga), that Mr. Challon took his place in the front ranks to attack the enemy in a strong position on a hill. Gallantly did all set on this occasion; but conspicuous among those brave men was the subject of this anecdote. They rushed on, driving the enemy from his breastworks, capturing three pieces of artillery, &c..; but the enfilade fire from the right and left was so very heavy that we were obliged to fall back. Here Mr. Challon fell with his thigh broken. Lieutenant Higley, passing by, and seeing his condition, tendered him assistance; but the old man waved him off, telling him to go and whip the Yankees, and let him alone; that he would take care of himself. We moved on, leaving the litter-bearers to take care of the dead and wounded; but in a few moments the news reached us that the enemy had set fire to the woods by their guns, and that the wounded would all be burned to death.

“Several officers immediately volunteered to take a party, and rescue the sufferers. They hastened to the spot, and succeeded in saving all our men, but not until some of them had been scorched. Among these latter was my old friend, who was manfully battling with this new enemy. He had crawled some distance from the spot where he fell, and many of the surgeons think that he, in these efforts, broke his thigh entirely, that was only fractured in the first instance by the ball. The old man is still alive, and strong hopes are entertained of his recovery, his cheerfulness aiding in it. Many of the brigade have visited him. He is always cheerful, and says, ‘No matter–the old man can die; he whipped the rascals.'”

Originally posted 2009-11-21 16:17:42.

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