Monthly Archives: April 2009


“Captain Harris, of the Nineteenth Indiana battery, stood by his guns, after being twice wounded; and when he became weak from loss of blood, he made his men support him while he sighted the guns.

“A man, by the name of Brock, in the Eleventh Ohio regiment, was wounded through the neck and lower jaw at Perryville. He had not been in the engagement over ten minutes, on Sunday, when a ball struck him in the same place, taking the same course with the other, making a horrible wound.

“George Kizer, of the Seventy-fifth Indiana regiment, company F, was killed on the field. Before he was killed he had requested his mess-mate to send his photograph, with some other things, to his mother, in case he was killed; but there is not often a chance to attend to such things on the field. On Saturday night the rebels thought we were evacuating the place, and they threw forward their right to attack us. They soon found out their mistake. They were scooped in no time. We took thirty prisoners, and killed and wounded as many more. On one of the dead rebs the Indiana boys found Kizer’s knapsack, with his likeness and all his things, which the boys have now sent to his mother. I saw the likeness myself, and the boys were positive in the identity.

“At one of our pickets and posts a sharp-shooter had annoyed the men for some time, and no one could find his whereabouts. At last one of the men thought he saw a small cedar tree move. The boys laughed at him, but he blazed away, and down cam the bush. On examination they found that a rebel had stuck cedar boughs in his boots and belt, so that he looked just like a small tree a little way off.” –From a correspondent.

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HUNTED by his rebel master
Over many a hill and glade,
Black Tom, with his wife and children,
Found his way to our brigade.

Tom had sense, and truth, and courage,
Often tried where danger rose–
Once our flag his strong arm rescued
From the grasp of rebel foes.

One day Tom was marching with us
Through the forest as our guide,
When a ball from traitor’s rifle
Broke his arm and pierced his side.

On a litter white men bore him
Through the forest drear and damp,
Laid him, dying, where our banners
Brightly fluttered o’er our camp.

Pointing to his wife and children,
While he suffered racking pain,
Said to our soldiers round him,
“Don’t let them be slaves again!”

“No, by Heaven!” outspoke a soldier,–
And that oath was not profane,–
“Our brigade will still protect them–
They shall ne’er be slaves again.”

Over old Tom’s dusky features
Came and staid a joyous ray;
And with saddened friends around him,
His free spirit passed away.

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Captain Boggs, of the Varuna, tells a story of a brave boy who was on board his vessel, during the bombardment of the forts on the Mississippi River. The lad, who answers to the name of Oscar, is but thirteen years of age, but he has an old head on his shoulders, and is alert and energetic. During the hottest of the fire he was busily engaged in passing ammunition to the gunners, and narrowly escaped death when one of the terrific broadsides of the Varuna’s rebel antagonist was poured in. Covered with dirt, and begrimed with powder, he was met by Captain Boggs, who asked “where he was going in such a hurry?” “To get a passing-box, sir; the other one was smashed by a ball!” and so, throughout the fight, the brave lad held his place and did his duty.

When the Varuna went down, Captain Boggs missed his boy, and thought he was among the victims of the battle. But a few minutes afterwards he saw the lad swimming gallantly towards the wreck. Clambering on board of Captain Boggs’ boat, he threw his hand up to his forehead, giving the usual salute, and uttering only the words, “All right, sir; I report myself on board,” and passed coolly to his station.

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A correspondent of a Southern paper says:

“A gentleman informs us of the death of one of McClellan’s sharpshooters, on the Peninsula, under circumstances which possess interest sufficient to give them to the public. Several of our men, it seems, were killed while going to a spring near by, but by whom no one could imagine. It was at last determined to stop this inhuman game, if possible, even at the cost of killing the hireling himself, who was thus in cold blood butchering our men. So a sharp lookout was kept for this sharpshooter, and the next time he fired the smoke of his rifle revealed the locality of his pit.

“That night a pit was dug by the Confederate soldiers, commanding the position of the Yankee sharpshooter, and arrangements made to get rid of the annoying creature. For this purpose a young Kentuckian was placed in our pit, with a trusty rifle, and provisions enough to last him until the next night. Next morning early a man was despatched, as usual, with two buckets to go to the spring. He had proceeded about two hundred yards, when the Yankee marksman elevated himself, and placing his rifle to his shoulder, was about to pull trigger; but the Kentuckian was too quick for him, for he pulled his trigger first, and simultaneously therewith the Yankee fell.

“Upon repairing to the spot, which the Kentuckian did immediately, he discovered a riflepit, and a sturdy Yankee in it, in the last agonies of expiring nature. The pit was provided with a cushioned chair, pipes and tobacco, liquors and provisions. But the rifle which had been used was really a valuable prize. It was of most superb manufacture, and supplied with the latest invention–an improved telescopic sight upon its end. The pit had been dug at night, and its occupant had been provisioned at night; so, but for a sharp lookout for the smoke of his gun, there is no saying how long this Yankee vandal would have enjoyed the luxury of killing Southern men, without even a chance of losing his own worthless life.”

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