University of Virginia Library

IV.
MY FRIEND LIEUTENANT BUMPO.

Yesterday I received a letter from my friend Lieutenant N.
Bumpo, Artillery Corps, P. A. C. S. To-day I have been
thinking of the career of this young gentleman from the outset
of the war.

“Representative men” are profitable subjects for reflection.
They embody in their single persons, the characteristics of whole
classes.

Bumpo is a representative man.

He represents the Virginia youth who would not stay at home,
in spite of every attempt to induce him to do so; who, shouldering
his musket, marched away to the wars; who has put his
life upon the hazard of the die a thousand times, and intends to
go on doing so to the end.

I propose to draw an outline of Lieutenant Bumpo. The
sketch shall be accurate; so accurate that he will be handed
down to future generations—even as he lived and moved during
the years of the great revolution. His grandchildren shall thus
know all about their at present prospective grandpa—and all his
descendants shall honour him. His portrait over the mantel-piece
shall be admiringly indicated, uno digito. The antique cut
of his uniform shall excite laughter. Bumpo will live in every
heart and memory!

He is now seventeen and a half. Tall for his age; gay, smiling;
fond of smoking, laughing, and “fun” generally. I have
said that he is an officer of the Artillery Corps, at present—but
he has been in the infantry and the cavalry.

He was born in the Valley of Virginia, and spent his youth
in warring on partridges. His aim thus early became unerring.
When the war broke out it found him a boy of some fifteen and
a half—loving all mankind, except the sons of the 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 “Forward—
march!” 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 illustrious leader, and loaded and fired with
astonishing rapidity and animation. At “Falling Water” he
“fought and fell back.” Thereafter he marched back and forth,
and was on the Potomac often. A slight historic anecdote remains

of this period in the Bumpo annals. He was on picket
near the river bank with a friend of ours, when suddenly an old
woman, of hag-like, Macbeth-witch appearance, came in view on
the opposite bank, gesticulating violently to hidden observers
that yonder were the Rebels! The friend of our youth, in a
jocose spirit, fired, as he said, ahead of the old hag 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! I got him that
time!” received a ball which tore his coat-sleeve to pieces, and
numbed his wrist considerably. He regards himself as fortunate,
however, and says Kernstown was as hot as any fight he has
seen. Thereafter, more marching. He had been back to the
Fairfax country, where I saw him two or three times—and now
traversed the Valley again. The Romney march, he says, was
a hard one; no blankets, no rations, 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 hollow where
we advanced! Consequent conclusion on the part of Private
Bumpo that he has graduated in the geography of that portion
of his native State.

The lowland invited him to visit its sandy roads, after Cross
Keys. The stones of the Valley were exchanged for the swampy
soil of the Chickahominy.

On the morning of the battle of Cold Harbour, I saw a brigade
in the pine woods as I passed, and inquiring what one it
was, found it was Bumpo's. I found the brave youth in charming
spirits as ever; and surrounded by his good comrades, lying
on the pine-tags, he told me many things in brief words.

Bumpo, like his brave companions, had the air of the true
soldier—cheerful, prone to jest, and ready for the fray. He was
clad in gray, or rather brown, for the sun had scorched his good
old uniform to a dingy hue—and the bright eyes of the young
gentleman looked at you from beneath an old drab-coloured hat.
Bumpo, I think, had an irrational admiration for that hat, and, I
remember, liked his black “Yankee” haversack. I had a fine
new, shiny one which I had purchased, at only fifteen times its
original cost, from a magnanimous shop-keeper of Richmond;
and this I offered to Bumpo. But he refused it—clinging to his
plainer and better one, but slenderly stocked with crackers.

Suddenly the drum rolled. Bumpo shouldered his musket.

“Fall in!”

And the brigade was on its march again.

Poor Colonel A—! I pressed your hand that day, for “the

first time and the last time!” Your face was kind and smiling
as you told me you would always be glad to see me at your
camp—but four hours afterwards it was cold in death. The fatal
ball had pierced your breast, and your heart's blood dyed that
hard-fought field with its crimson.

Such are the experiences of a soldier.

The battle was already raging—the brigade 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
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 stocking his old haversack with biscuits—excellent
ones. They had been sent to an officer of the command,
but he was killed; and his comrades divided them. Corporal
Bumpo had charged, with his company, at sundown, near the
enemy's battery, on their extreme right. A piece of shell had
bruised him, and a ball cut a breast button of his coat in two.
The under side remained, with the name of the manufacturer
still legibly stamped thereon. Magnanimous foes! They never
interfere with “business.” That button was an “advertising
medium”—and even in the heat of battle they respected it.

Corporal Bumpo ought to have preserved that jacket as a
memorial of other days, for the honours of age. But its faded
appearance caused him to throw it away, part company with a
good old friend. What matter if it was discoloured, Bumpo?
It had sheltered you for many months. You had lain down in
it on the pine-tags of the valley and the lowlands, in the days of
July, and the nights of January; on the grass and in the snow;
with a gay heart or a sad one, beating under it. I do not recognise
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 Charles City; and,
though “poorly,” the Corporal was gay and smiling. He had
got something to eat, and his spirits had consequently risen.

“Fall in!” came as we were talking, and Bumpo marched.

Soon thereafter, I met the Corporal in the city of Richmond,
whither he had come on leave. I was passing through the
Capitol Square, when a friendly voice hailed me, and behold!
up hastened Bumpo! He was jacketless, but gay; possessor of
a single shirt, but superior to all the weaknesses of an absurd
civilization. We went to dine with some elegant lady friends,
and I offered the Corporal a black coat. He tried it on, surveyed
himself in the glass, and, taking it off, said, with cheerful
naiveté, that he believed he would “go so.” I applauded this
soldierly decision, and I know the fair dames liked the young
soldier all the better for it. I think they regarded his military
“undress” as more becoming than the finest broadcloth. The
balls of the enemy had respected that costume, and the lovely
girls, with the brave, true hearts, seemed to think that they ought
to, too.

I linger too long in these by-ways of the Corporeal biography,
but remember that I write for the gay youth's grandchildren.
They will not listen coldly to these little familiar details.

From Richmond the Corporal marched northward again.
This time he was destined to traverse new regions. The Rapidan
invited him, and he proceeded thither, and, as usual, 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
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 that haven
of rest for the weary soldier—a wagon not until he had his surgeon's
certificate, however; and 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
try the cavalry. Succeeding, with difficulty, in procuring a
transfer, he entered a company of the Cavalry Division under
Major-General Stuart, whose dashing habits suited him; and no
sooner had he done so than his habitual luck attended him. On
the second day he was in a very pretty little charge near Aldie.
The Corporal—now private again—got ahead of his companions,
captured a good horse, and supplied himself, without cost to the
Confederate States, with a light, sharp, well balanced sabre.
Chancing to be in his vicinity I can testify to the gay ardour
with which the ex-Corporal went after his old adversaries, no
longer on foot, and even faster than at the familiar “double
quick.”

His captured horse was a good one; his sabre excellent. It
has drawn blood, as the following historic anecdote will show.
The ex-Corporal was travelling through Culpeper with two
mounted servants. He and his retinue were hungry; they could
purchase no food whatever. At every house short supplies—
none to be vended—very sorry, but could not furnish dinner.
The hour for that meal passed. Supper-time came. At many
houses supper was demanded, with like unsuccess. Then the
soul of Bumpo grew enraged—hunger rendered him lawless, inexorable.
He saw a pig on the road by a large and fine looking

house; poor people living beside the road disclaimed ownership,
and declined selling. Impressment was necessary—and Bumpo,
with a single blow of his sabre, slaughtered the unoffending
shoat. Replacing his sword with dignity in its scabbard, he
indicated the prostrate animal with military brevity of point, and
rode on, apparently in deep reflection. The retinue followed
with a pig which they had found recently killed, upon the road—
and bivouacking for the night in the next woods he reached, with
the aid of some bread in his servants' haversacks, Bumpo made
an excellent supper.

This incident he related to me with immoral exultation. It is
known in the family as the “Engagement in Culpeper.”

Bumpo was greatly pleased with the cavalry, and learned fast.
He displayed an unerring instinct for discovering fields of new
corn for horse feed; was a great hand at fence rails for the
bivouac fire; and indulged in other improper proceedings which
indicated the old soldier, and free ranger of the fields and forests.
The “fortunes of war” gave me frequent opportunities of enjoying
the society of Bumpo at this time. We rode together many
scores of miles, with Augustus Cæsar, a coloured friend, behind;
and lived the merriest life imaginable.

Worthy Lieutenant of the C. S. Artiller, do you ever recall
those sunshiny days? Don't you remember how we laughed
and jested as we rode; how we talked the long hours away so
often; and related to each other a thousand stories? How we
bivouacked by night, and halted to rest by day, making excellent
fires, and once kindling the dry leaves into a conflagration
which we thought would bring over the enemy? Have you
forgotten that pleasant little mansion in the woods, where a
blazing fire and real coffee awaited us—where I purchased
“Consuelo,” and you, “The Monk's Revenge?” You were
Bumpo “by looks” and Bumpo “by character” that day, my
friend, for you feasted as though a famine were at hand! Then
the supper at Rudishill's, and the breakfast at Siegel's old headquarters.
The march by night, and the apparition of Rednose,
emissary of Bluebaker! Those days were rather gay—in spite
of wind and snow—were they not, Lieutenant Bumpo? You

live easier now, perhaps, but when do you see tableaux like
Rednose in your journey? Rednose, superior to the Thane of
Cawdor, inasmuch as he was “not afeared!”

The Lieutenant will have to explain the above mysterious
allusion to his grand-children. I think he will laugh as he does
so, and that a small chirping chorus will join in.

The young soldier soon left the cavalry. He went to see a
kinsman, 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 Cæsar!' ”

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 in this case that
swift retribution which visited the deed, was consistent with both
law and equity.

The natural historian will be interested in the announcement
that he had killed a good many robins, but none were good, “as
they live altogether on a kind of berry called gall-berry, which
makes them bitter.” “Bears, deer, coons, and opossum” there
are; but the Lieutenant has killed none.

“The weather,” he adds, “is as warm here as any day in May

in the valley. We are on a sort of island, bounded by dense swamp
on each side, and a river before and behind, with the bridges washed
away. We are throwing up fortifications, but I don't think we
will ever need them, as it is almost impossible for the Yankees to
find us here.”

Admire the impregnable position in which Lieutenant Bumpo
with two pieces of artillery, “commanding in the field,” awaits
the approach of his old friends. Dense swamps on his flanks,
and rivers without bridges in his front and rear, across which,
unless they come with pontoons, he can blaze away at them to
advantage! That he is certain to perform that ceremony if he
can, all who know him will cheerfully testify. If he falls it will
be beside his gun, like a soldier, and “dead on the field of
honour” shall be the young Virginian's epitaph.

But I do not believe he will fall. The supreme Ruler of all
things will guard the young soldier who has so faithfully performed
his duty to the land of his birth.

“I think,” he adds in his letter before me, “if luck does not
turn against us, we shall be recognised very soon. I don't care
how soon, but I am no more tired of it than I was twelve months
ago.”

Is not that the ring of the genuine metal? The stuff out of
which the good soldier is made? He is no more tired of it than
he was a year ago, and will cheerfully fight it out to the end.
Not “tired of it” when so many are “tired of it.” When such
numbers would be willing to compromise the quarrel—to abandon
the journey through the wilderness to Canaan—and return
a-hungered to the fleshpots of Egypt!

Such, in rapid outline, is the military career of my friend. I
said in the beginning that he was a “representative man.” Is
he not? I think that he represents a great and noble race to
the life—the true-hearted youths of the South. They have
come up from every State and neighbourhood; from the banks
of the Potomac and the borders of the Gulf. They laid down
the school-book to take up the musket. They forgot that they
were young, and remembered only that their soil was invaded.

They were born in all classes of the social body. The humble

child of toil stood beside the young heir of an ancient line, and
they lived and fared alike. One sentiment inspired them in
common, and made them brethren—love for their country and
hatred of her enemies. Their faces were beardless, but the stubborn
resolution of full manhood dwelt in every bosom. They
fought beside their elders, 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!