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Malvern Hill (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.29
ognise you, Corporal, in this wanton act — for do not all the members of the family adhere to old friends? The jacket may have been sun-embrowned, but so is the face of an old comrade. Lastly, it was not more brown than that historic coat which the immortal Jackson wore-whereof the buttons have been taken off by fairy hands instead of bullets. After Cold Harbour, Corporal Bumpo began marching again as usual. Tramping through the Chickahominy low-grounds, he came with his company to Malvern Hill, and was treated once more to that symphony — an old tune now — the roar of cannon. The swamp air had made him deadly sick-him, the mountain born-and, he says, he could scarcely stand up, and was about to get into an ambulance. But well men were doing so, and the soul of Bumpo revolted from the deed. He gripped his musket with obstinate clutch, and stayed where he was-shooting as often as possible. We chatted about the battle when I rode to see him, in front of the gunboats, in Charle<
Harper's Ferry (West Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.29
o stalked off with his rifle on his shoulder-outraged as Coriolanus, who, after having fluttered the Volsces in Corioli, was greeted with the same opprobrious epithet. Obstinacy is not a praiseworthy sentiment in youth, but I think that young Bumpo was right. He would have died of chagrin at home, with his comrades in the service; or his pride and spirit of haute noblesse would have all departed. It was better to run the risk of being killed. So Bumpo marched. He marched to Harper's Ferry-and thenceforth Forwardmarch! was the motto of his youthful existence. Hungry?-Forward, march! Cold?-Forward, march! Tired?-Forward, march! Bumpo continued thenceforth to march. When not marching he was fighting. The officer who commanded his brigade was a certain Colonel Jackson, afterwards known popularly as Old Stonewall. This officer could not bear Yankees, and this tallied exactly with Private Bumpo's views. He deeply sympathized with the sentiments of his illus
North Carolina (North Carolina, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.29
was elected lieutenant of artillery in a battery which he had never seen, and on report of his merits only, and returned with his certificate of election in his pocket. The old luck attended him. In a fortnight or so he was in the battle of Fredericksburg, where he kept up a thundering fire upon the enemy --roaring at them all day with the utmost glee; and now he has gone with his battery, in command of a section, with plenty of brave cannoneers to work the pieces, to the low grounds of North Carolina. Such is the career of Bumpo, a brave and kindly youth, which the letter received yesterday made me ponder upon. Some portions of the epistle are characteristic: Last night I killed a shoat which kept eating my corn; and made our two Toms scald it and cut it up, and this morning we had a piece of it for breakfast. We call the other Tom Long Tom, and Thomas Augustus Caesar! Bumpo! Bumpo! at your old tricks, I see. Shoat has always been your weakness, you know, from the
Manassas, Va. (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.29
he Macbeth-witch disappeared with floating robes toward her den. From the Valley, Private Bumpo proceeded rapidly to Manassas, where he took part in the thickest of the fight, and was bruised by a fragment of shell. Here he killed his first man. ball through his breast. He went down, and Bumpo says with laughter, I killed him! He was starved like all of us at Manassas, and returning to the Valley continued to have short rations. He fought through all the great campaigns there, and woreey broke and fled. The Corporal followed, and marched after them through Culpeper; through the Rappahannock too; and to Manassas. A hard fight there; two hard fights; and then with swollen and bleeding feet, Bumpo succumbed to fate, and sought thatnd with this in his pocket, the Corporal went home to rest a while. I think this tremendous tramp from Winchester to Manassas, by way of Richmond, caused Corporal Bumpo to reflect. His feet were swollen, and his mind absorbed. He determined to
Carolina City (North Carolina, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.29
and no worse, often better. No hardships made them quail. They were cheerful and high-spirited, marching to battle with a gay and chivalric courage, which was beautiful and inspiring to behold. When they survived the bloody contest they laughed gaily, like children, around the camp fire at night. When they fell they died bravely, like true sons of the South. I have seen them lying dead upon many battle-fields; with bosoms torn and bloody, but faces composed and tranquil. Fate had done her worst, and the young lives had ended; but not vainly has this precious blood been poured out on the land. From that sacred soil shall spring up courage, honour, love of country, knightly faith, and truth-glory, above all, for the noble land, whose very children fought and died for her! So ends my outline sketch of the good companion of many hours. Send him back soon, O Carolina, to his motherland Virginia, smiling, hearty, gay and happy, as he left her borders! Ainsi soit-il!
Port Republic (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3.29
no fire, but a plenty of snow. I saw him on his return at Winchester, and compared notes. The weather was bad, but Bumpo's spirits good. He had held on to his musket, remaining a high private in the rear rank. Some of these days he will tell his grandchildren, if he lives, all about the days when he followed Commissary Banks about, and revelled in the contents of his wagons. Altogether they had a jovial time, in spite of snow and hunger and weariness. The days hurried on, and Port Republic was fought. Private Bumpo continued to carry his musket about. He had now seen a good deal of Virginia-knew the Valley by heart — was acquainted with the very trees and wayside stones upon the highways. Riding with me since, he has recalled many tender memories of these objects. Under that tree there, he lay down to rest in the shade on a hot July day. On that stone he sat, overcome with weariness, one afternoon of snowy December. There's the road we fell back on! Yonder is the hol
Stonewall Jackson (search for this): chapter 3.29
When not marching he was fighting. The officer who commanded his brigade was a certain Colonel Jackson, afterwards known popularly as Old Stonewall. This officer could not bear Yankees, and thi rapidly approached. They arrived in time — the order passed along the line — the corps of General Jackson went in with colours flying. Yesterday was the most terrific fire of musketry I ever heard. Such were the words of General Jackson an hour past midnight. On that succeeding morning, I set out to find Corporal Bumpo --for to this rank he had been promoted. I met General Jackson General Jackson on the way, his men cheering the hero, and ascertaining from him the whereabouts of the brigade, proceeded thither. Corporal Bumpo smiling and hungry — a cheerful sight. He was occupied in stockual, got into a battle immediately. He says the enemy pressed hard at Cedar mountain, but when Jackson appeared in front, they broke and fled. The Corporal followed, and marched after them through <
Carey (search for this): chapter 3.29
g to frighten her-or behind, to put a ball through her flying skirts-but Bumpo upbraided him with his bloody real intentions. We regret to say, however, that he afterwards retired behind a tree and indulged in smothered laughter as the Macbeth-witch disappeared with floating robes toward her den. From the Valley, Private Bumpo proceeded rapidly to Manassas, where he took part in the thickest of the fight, and was bruised by a fragment of shell. Here he killed his first man. His cousin, Carey--, fell at his side, and Bumpo saw the soldier who shot him, not fifty yards off. He levelled his rifle, and put a ball through his breast. He went down, and Bumpo says with laughter, I killed him! He was starved like all of us at Manassas, and returning to the Valley continued to have short rations. He fought through all the great campaigns there, and wore out many pairs of shoes in the ranks of the Foot Cavalry. At Kernstown he had just fired his gun, and as he exclaimed By George!
Coriolanus (search for this): chapter 3.29
he famous Pilgrim Fathers. Upon this subject Bumpo absorbed the views of his ancestors. April, 1861, arrived duly. Bumpo was in the ranks with a rifle. Much remonstrance and entreaty saluted this proceeding, but Private Bumpo, of the --Rifles, remained obstinate. Young? Why he was fifteen! The seed corn should be kept? But suppose there was no Southern soil to plant it in? A mere boy? --Boy!!! And Private Bumpo stalked off with his rifle on his shoulder-outraged as Coriolanus, who, after having fluttered the Volsces in Corioli, was greeted with the same opprobrious epithet. Obstinacy is not a praiseworthy sentiment in youth, but I think that young Bumpo was right. He would have died of chagrin at home, with his comrades in the service; or his pride and spirit of haute noblesse would have all departed. It was better to run the risk of being killed. So Bumpo marched. He marched to Harper's Ferry-and thenceforth Forwardmarch! was the motto of his yo
Toms (search for this): chapter 3.29
here he kept up a thundering fire upon the enemy --roaring at them all day with the utmost glee; and now he has gone with his battery, in command of a section, with plenty of brave cannoneers to work the pieces, to the low grounds of North Carolina. Such is the career of Bumpo, a brave and kindly youth, which the letter received yesterday made me ponder upon. Some portions of the epistle are characteristic: Last night I killed a shoat which kept eating my corn; and made our two Toms scald it and cut it up, and this morning we had a piece of it for breakfast. We call the other Tom Long Tom, and Thomas Augustus Caesar! Bumpo! Bumpo! at your old tricks, I see. Shoat has always been your weakness, you know, from the period of the famous Engagement in Culpeper, where you slew one of these inoffensive animals. But here, I confess, there are extenuating circumstances. For a shoat to eat the corn of a lieutenant of a battery, is a crime of the deepest and darkest dye, and
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