A Stillness at Appomattox (103 page)

In
the
19th
Massachusetts
there
was
an
Irish
sergeant named
Mike
Scannell—the
same
who
won
his
chevrons
by carrying
the
flag
at
Cold
Harbor—and
in
the
II
Corps
debacle
over
by
the
Jerusalem
Plank
Road
Mike
and
his
flag were
out
in
front
and
were
taken
by
the
Confederates,
one of
whom
came
at
Mike
with
leveled
bayonet,
ordering:
"You damned
Yankee,
give
me
that
flag!"
Mike
looked
at
the Southerner
and
he
looked
at
the
bayonet,
and
he
replied:

"Well,
it
is
twenty
years
since
I
came
to
this
country,
and you
are
the
first
man
who
ever
called
me
a
Yankee.
You
can take
the
flag,
for
that
compliment."
³⁰

Nothing
much
had
happened.
A
German
who
could
not tell
Virginia
from
South
America
had
seen
a
sacred
thing in
the
war
and
had
died
for
it,
and
an
Irishman
after
twenty years
of
rejection
had
been
accepted,
at
the
point
of
a
bayonet
but
in
the
language
of
his
time
and
place,
as
a
full-fledged
American.

The
synthesis
was
taking
place,,

2.
I Know Star-Rise

The
ravine
was
broad
and
it
ran
north
and
south,
and along
the
bottom
of
it
there
were
a
little
brook
and
what remained
of
the
Norfolk
and
Petersburg
Railroad.
On
the western
crest,
which
was
the
side
toward
the
Rebels,
there was
a
line
of
Federal
entrenchments,
and
the
center
of
this line
was
held
by
the
48th
Pennsylvania
Veteran
Volunteer Infantry.

The
trench
was
high-water
mark
for
the
IX
Army
Corps —the
extreme
limit
of
the
advance,
the
place
where
tired men
who
had
fired
all
of
their
ammunition
lay
in
the
dark to
build
little
breastworks
out
of
earth
scooped
up
with
bayonets,
tin
plates,
and
bare
hands.

Since
the
fight
the
line
had
been
made
very
strong.
There was
a
deep
trench
now,
with
a
high
parapet
on
the
side
toward
the
Rebels,
and
out
in
front
there
was
a
cunning
tangle of
abatis.
A
quarter
of
a
mile
in
the
rear,
on
the
eastern
crest of
the
ravine,
there
were
gun
pits,
with
artillery
placed
so that
it
could
knock
down
any
hostile
parties
that
might
try to
storm
the
trench.
The
slope
just
behind
the
trench
offered
protection
from
Southern
fire,
and
to
make
traffic
toward
the
rear
even
safer,
there
was
a
deep
covered
way, which
left
the
trench
almost
at
a
right
angle,
crossed
the ravine
and
ended
behind
the
guns.

On
the
Confederate
side
things
were
much
the
same.
The trench
was
deep
and
strong,
and
the
point
directly
opposite the
place
where
the
48th
lived
had
been
made
into
a
fort, with
brass
cannon
emplaced.
Like
the
Federals,
the
Confederates
had
an
abatis
out
in
front,
and
covered
ways
leading to
the
rear,
and
batteries
posted
to
beat
back
any
attack. Five
hundred
yards
behind
the
Confederate
trench
the ground
rose
to
a
long,
rounded
ridge,
and
just
over
this
ridge was
the
Jerusalem
Plank
Road,
which
had
once
been
an
undefended
avenue
leading
into
Petersburg
but
which
was
undefended
no
longer.

As
far
as
men
could
make
them
so,
the
opposing
lines
here were
proof
against
assault.
The
soldiers
who
occupied
them were
always
on
the
alert.
They
had
to
be,
because
the trenches
here
were
closer
together
than
at
any
point
along the
front.
Everyone
kept
under
cover,
and
any
man
who
exposed
himself
for
an
instant
was
immediately
shot
at—and usually
was
hit,
too,
for
the
sharpshooters
were
keen
and
the range
was
short.
There
were
mortars
back
among
the
gun pits,
and
they
were
active.
And
although
the
trenches
were deep
and
the
men
took
care
of
themselves,
it
was
very
expensive
to
hold
this
part
of
the
line
and
divisional
losses could
run
to
12
per
cent
in
one
month
just
from
sniper
and mortar
fire.
¹

The
48th
Pennsylvania
came
mostly
from
Schuylkill County,
up
in
the
anthracite
region,
and
it
fancied
itself
a crack
regiment.
When
the
IX
Corps
was
sent
West,
in
the spring
of
1863,
the
48th
was
briefly
assigned
to
provost guard
duty
in
Lexington,
Kentucky,
and
the
men
proudly
remembered
that
they
had
done
the
job
so
smoothly,
and
had kept
themselves
looking
so
trim
and
neat,
with
well-shined shoes,
polished
buttons,
clean
uniforms,
and
white
gloves, that
the
citizens
petitioned
Burnside
to
keep
them
in
that
assignment.
Burnside
was
willing,
and
so
the
48th
spent
nearly six
months
in
Lexington,
living
comfortably
and
missing
a great
deal
of
hard
campaigning,
including
the
latter
part
of the
siege
of
Vicksburg.
When
the
48th
was
finally
ordered away,
the
whole
town
turned
out
to
say
good-by,
and
a
band paraded
the
boys
down
the
street
to
the
tune
of
"Auld
Lang Syne,"
while
the
girls
on
the
sidewalks
waved
handkerchiefs and
cried
sentimentally
and
the
soldiers
said
that
leaving Lexington
was
harder
than
leaving
home.
²