Adventures and Reminiscences of a Volunteer; Or, A Drummer Boy from Maine — John Shaqi
Adventures and Reminiscences of a Volunteer; Or, A Drummer Boy from MaineUlmer, George T.
History
Adventures and Reminiscences of a Volunteer; Or, A Drummer Boy from Maine
Ulmer, George T.
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal narratives
The entire regiment seemed paralyzed for a moment, but only for a moment,
the whizzing of the shells and the zip zip of the rebel bullets plainly
told them what caused the sudden change. I was dumbfounded, I didn't know
what to do. My brother yelled to me to go to the rear quick, but I didn't;
I kept on with them until it seemed to rain bullets, but on, on they went
unmindful of the awful storm of leaden messengers of death--on, on and
into one of the fiercest charges of the entire war. I saw men fall so
thick and fast that there didn't seem as if there was any of my regiment
left, and I made up my mind it was too hot for me, so started on the dead
run to the rear for a place of safety, and I didn't stop until I was
pretty sure I was out of harm's way.
I came to a place about one mile back where evidently there had been a
battery located; here I sat down to rest and meditate. I examined myself
all over to see if I was hit, found I was unhurt but my drum had received
several bullet holes in it.
Finding a green spot I stretched myself out and listened to the awful
sound of musketry firing which was going on at the front, around me on all
sides was the debris of a deserted camp, empty tin cans, broken bayonets,
pieces of guns, fragments of bursted shell, and occasionally a whole one
that had failed to explode. I had only sat here a few moments thinking
which was the best way to go when I was joined by another Drummer Boy from
a Pennsylvania regiment. We sat down and talked over our exploits, and I
thought he was the most profane lad I had ever met. Most every other word
he uttered was an oath.
I asked him if he wasn't afraid to talk so.
"What the h--l should I be afraid of?" he asked, at the same time picking
up an old tent stake and sticking it into the ground, trying to drive it
in with the heel of his boot. Failing in this he reached over and got hold
of an unexploded shell and used this on the stake, but it was heavy and
unwieldy.
"I wonder if this was fired by those d--d rebs," he asked.
"I guess it was," I replied, "and you better look out, or it might go
off."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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