REMINISCENCES OF GENERAL SUMNER.–

6. February 2009 by admin.

When the history of this war is faithfully written, Sumner’s name will be one of the brightest in that noble army which has illustrated the discipline and valor of Northern troops on so many bloody fields, but which, through a leader infirm of purpose, never yet gathered the ripe fruits of victory. At Fair Oaks and Malvern Hill he decided the fate of the day; and through the whole Peninsular campaign he was in the hottest, deadliest of the fighting.

He had the true soldierly temperament. Not only was his whole heart in the war, but if it is possible for any man to love fighting, to feel what the ancients called “the rapture of the strike,” Sumner was that man. He snuffed the battle afar off. He went into it with a boyish enthusiasm. Our generals usually expose themselves not too little but too much. If they participated less in the peril, they might often economize the lives of their men more and yet achieve the same results. But in this soldiery imprudence Sumner eclipsed them all. The chronic wonder of his friends was that he ever came out of battle alive; but at last they began to believe with him, that he was invincible. He would get bullets in his hat, his coat, his boots, his saddle, his horse, sometimes have his person scratched, but always escaped without serious injury. His soldiers used to tell, with great relish, the story that in the Mexican war a bullet which struck him square in the forehead fell flattened to the ground without breaking the skin, as the hunter’s ball glances from the forehead of the buffalo. It was this anecdote which won for him the soubriquet of “Old Bull Sumner.” He desired, when his time should come, to fall in battle; but it illustrates the fortunes of war that the officer who for forty years had thus courted death should at last die peacefully in his bed, surrounded by his family.

At Fair Oaks, when his troops were staggering under a pitiless storm of bullets, Sumner came galloping along up and down the advance line, more exposed than any private in the ranks. “What regiment is this?” he asked. “The fifteenth Massachusetts,” replied a hundred voices. “I, too, am from Massachusetts; three cheers for our old Bay State!” And, swinging his hat, the general led off, and every soldier joined in three thundering cheers. The enemy looked on in wonder at the strange episode, but was driven back by the fierce charge which followed.

This was no unusual scene; it was the way Sumner fought his battles. Staff officers will tell you by the hour, how, when the guns bagan to pound, his mild eye would light up with flashes of fire; how he would take out his artificial teeth, which became troublesome during the excitement of battle, and place them carefully in his pocket; raise his spectacles from his eyes and rest them upon the forehead, that he might see clearly objects at a distance; give his orders to his subordinates, and then gallop headlong into the thick of the fight.

How many soldiers, as they read and talk of his death, recall the erect form, the snowy hair streaming in the wind, the frank face of that wonderful old man, who,

“In worst extremes,
And on the perilous edge of battle
When it raged,”

would ride along their front lines, when they were falling like grass before the mower, encouraging the fearful, and shouting through the smoke, “Steady, men, steady! Don’t be excited. When you have been soldiers as long as I, you will learn that this is nothing. Stand firm and do your duty!”

For a man of sixty-four, his health was marvellous. His long, temperate life in the pure air of the great plains and the mountains–a region of which he was enthusiastically fond–retained in his vigorous frame the elasticity of boyhood. Upon a march he usually quite wore out his staff with hard riding. When he left the field a short time previous to his death there were few officers as nimble and agile as he; few who could spring upon a horse more easily, or ride with more grace and endurance.

There was no straining for dramatic effect about Sumner. He never advertised his exploits. He sometimes displayed heroism which would illustrate the brightest pages of history; but he did it unostentatiously, unconsciously. It was the act of a soldier quietly performing a soldier’s duty.

At Fair Oaks, on Saturday evening, after Casey and Heintzelman had suffered greatly, and been driven three or four miles, Sumner crossed the Chickahominy at an unexpected point, and attacking the enemy vigorously in flank and rear, turned the tide of battle. On Sunday morning the fight was renewed; many a gallant officer fell. Gen. Howard lost his arm at the head of his brigade, and our triumph was gained at a heavy cost; but Sumner held his advantage. During a lull in the battle, McClellan crossed the river, remained long enough to write his famous despatch censuring Casey’s men, and then succeeded in returning upon a log over the swelling stream. Our bridges were swept away; our army was thus cut in twain; and Sumner, with his three shattered corps, was left without hope of reinforcements. The weakened half of our army was at the mercy of the enemy’s entire force.

On that Sunday night, after making his dispositions to receive an attack, Sumner sent for Gen. Sedgwick, who commanded his Second Division,–one of his special friends and most trusty soldiers. “Sedgwick,” said he, “you perceive the situation. the enemy will probably precipitate himself upon us at daylight. Reinforcements are impossible; he can overwhelm and destroy us. But at this most critical period the country cannot afford to have us defeated. The enemy may win a victory; but we must make it a victory that shall ruin him. There is just one thing for us to do: we must stand here and die like men! Impress it upon your officers that we must do this to the last man–to the last man! We may not meet again; but we will at least die like soldiers.”

And so Sumner wrung the hand of his lieutenant and bade him farewell. Morning came; the rebels failing to discover our perilous condition, did not renew the attack; in a day or two new bridges were built, and the sacrifice was averted. But Sumner was the man to carry out his resolution to the letter.

After Fair Oaks, he retained possession of a house on our old line of battle; and the head-quarters’ tents were brought up and pitched there. They were within range of a rebel battery which awoke the General and his staff every morning, by dropping shot and shell all about them for two or three hours. Sumner implored permission to capture or drive away that battery, but was refused, on the ground that it might bring on a general engagement. He chafed and stormed: “It is the most disgraceful thing of my life,” he said, “that this should be permitted;” but McClellan, whose prudence never forsook him, was inexorable. Sumner was begged to remove his head-quarters to a safer position, but he persisted in staying there for fourteen days, and at last only withdrew upon a peremptory order from his superior.

The experience of that fortnight shows how much iron and lead may fly about men’s ears without harming them. During the whole bombardment only two persons at the head-quarters were injured. The surgeon of a Rhode Island battery was slightly wounded in the head by a piece of shell which flew into his tent; and a private, who laid down behind a log for protection, was instantly killed by a shell knocking a splinter from the log, which fractured his skull. There were many hairbreadth escapes; but not another man received a scratch.

During the artillery fighting, the day before Antietam, Sumner lay upon the grass under the shade trees, in front of the brick house which served for General Head-quarters. A few yards distant, in an open field, a party of staff officers and civilians were suddenly startled by a stray shell from the enemy, which dropped about a hundred feet from them. It was followed by another which fell still nearer, and the group broke up and scattered with great alacrity. “Why,” remarked Sumner, with a peculiar smile, “the shells excite a good deal of commotion among those young gentlemen!” The idea which seemed to amuse him was that anybody should be disconcerted by shells.

At Fredericksburg, by the express order of Burnside, Sumner remained on this side of the river during the fighting. The precaution probably saved his life. Had he ridden with his usual rashness out on that fiery front, he had never returned to tell what he saw. Still, he chafed sadly under the restriction. As the sun went down on that day of glorious but fruitless endeavor, he paced to and fro in front of the Lacey House with one arm thrown around the neck of his son, his face haggard with sorrow and anxiety, and his eyes straining eagerly for the arrival of each successive messenger.

He was a man of high ambition. Once, hearing Gen. Howard remark that he did not aspire to the command of a corps, he exclaimed: “General, you surprise me. I would command the world, if I could!” But it was the ambition of a soldier and a patriot. He gave to his superiors not merely lip-service, but zealous, hearty, untiring co-operation. It was a point of honor with him, even when he believed them mistaken of incompetent, never to breathe a word to their disparagement.

He was sometimes called arbitrary; but he had great love for his soldiers, especially his old companions in arms. One of his officers tell a laughable story of applying to him for a ten days’ furlough, when the rule against them was imperative. Sumner peremptorily refused it. But the officer sat down beside him, and began to talk about the Peninsula campaign, the battles in which he had done his duty, immediately under Sumner’s eye; and it was not many minutes before the General granted his petition. “If he had only waited,” said the narrator, “until I reminded him of some scenes at Antietam, I am sure he would have given me twenty days instead of ten.

He possessed great kindness of heart: he was intrinsically a gentleman–an example which some of our Major-Generals might study to advantage. His intercourse with women and children was characterized by peculiar chivalry and gentleness. There was much about him to revive the old ideal of the soldier–terrible in battle, but with a heart open and tender as a child’s.

To his youngest son–a captain upon his staff–he was bound by ties of unusual affection. “Sammy” was his constant companion; in private he leaned upon him, caressed him, and consulted him upon the most trivial matters. It was a touching bond which united the gray, war-worn veteran to the child of his old age.

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