From Capt. Hobbs we learned more definitely about the others whose fate was uncertain. His 2nd Lieutenant, Orison Smith, was found to be dead. He was a gallant soldier and a true man everywhere, and his loss was deeply felt. All suspense, too, was ended about the fate of Capt. Wakeman. Some had assisted him to a sheltered spot behind a tree, after he was wounded, and we hoped, even against hope, that he might survive, but most probably he died almost at once after our line retired. "Dad," as he was familiarly called in Company A, while yet in a subordinate position, was one to be loved by those who knew him. Beside his noble qualities as a soldier, he was exceedingly companionable as a man; well read, of fine tastes and elevated views, in sympathy with all that was pure and good. He had a special love for fine scenery, and his fellow officers call to mind many a pleasant talk they had over their pipes, while he would point out whatever was attractive in the scenery or the occurrences of the day. He was the fast friend of the Chaplain, and sought in every way to advance the highest interests of the regiment. His 1st Lieutenant, Myron A. Smith, reported wounded, was also found to be dead, and much other information was gained in regard to those who had been left on the field. Those who were brought into our lines gave sad proof, in their wretched condition and haggard looks, of the rough treatment they had received. Some of them had had nothing to eat for four days. Two narratives, which have been secured, may stand as representative of the rest. One from J. L. Dryden, of Company C, and one from P. A. Johnson, of Company D. DRYDEN'S NARRATIVE. The first Rebel I got sight of, I fired at; and while loading, a buck shot struck me in the knuckles of the left hand, causing no inconvenience, however. I finished loading as quickly J. L. DRYDEN'S STORY. 491 as possible, drew up and fired at a Rebel who was capping his gun. The instant I fired, a musket ball struck me, glancing across the upper side of my left wrist (which was then turned under, holding the gun in position for firing), and passing through my left shoulder and top of left lung, caused my left arm to drop as if struck with a club, turning me partly around, but not causing me to lose my balance. My gun fell at my feet; I saw at a glance that my share of the work was finished, and taking a farewell look of my faithful Enfield, I started for the rear. I walked perhaps twenty rods before I fell, exhausted from loss of blood. A Sergeant of Company H passed just as I fell. I called him. He came, and with his knife freed me of my knapsack, cartridge box, haversack and canteen. He lifted me up and we managed to walk a little further until we met the fifer of Company G, Bennie Sawin, Lon Hays and Daniel Baldwin, with a stretcher. I was placed on this and carried to a little cabin where I remained until an ambulance came along, when I was conveyed to the hospital at Craw-Fish Springs, lifted out, and laid down under an oak tree, where I remained until Monday night. About sundown of Sunday evening the black-whiskered surgeon of the 21st Michigan came along. I asked him to do something for me. He replied that it was useless, as I would never see morning, and with this morsel of cold consolation, passed by on the other side. I have no distinct recollection of anything that passed from that time until Monday night. I was then carried into a tent, stripped, and my wounds dressed by Federal nurses and surgeons. I did not know until the next day that our forces were defeated and we prisoners. Tuesday afternoon the rebel cavalry came flocking in, stealing everything they could find. Fortunately, I had nothing left but my hat, and that they took, and would have taken my pants if they could have got them off. I lived on boiled wheat, and but little of that. For nine days On Wednesday, September 30th, five hundred ambulances reached us with crackers and coffee, and the work of assorting and paroling commenced. We were put to all manner of tests to discover how badly we were injured. The surgeons, nurses and those barely able to care for themselves were sent, God knows where, and such of us as were not able to take care of ourselves were paroled and sent back to Chattanooga. This was my good fortune; and on the morning of October 1st they commenced piling us into the ambulances, filling them as full as they could hold. It was raining hard-bitter, bitter cold to a man without clothes. About daylight we were ready for the road, and looking back, I could see the long line of my poor, starved, crippled comrades on foot, taking up their line of march for the nearest railroad station, and thence to Southern prison pens. It was the saddest sight I ever saw. In a short time after starting we passed through the fated battle-field of ten days before, and within fifty yards of where we formed our first line. I did not see a single Rebel unburied; neither did I think it possible that one of our men could have been buried, they lay so thickly on the ground and so closely to the road that the driver, through carelessness or spite, ran our ambulance over many of them. It rained hard all day. Oh, the horrors of that day's ride! Many of the streams we crossed were so swollen that our ambulance box would be filled with water, and the poor boys who were lying down in the bottom were nearly drowned once or twice. Our driver, a gruff, sour, old Rebel, wouldn't hear to one word of complaint, saying "it was all good enough for d-d Yankees." About midnight we reached Chattanooga; were carried up stairs in a large, brick building, washed, had our wounds dressed, and felt satisfied that we were "just inside the borders" of civilization once more. I remained in Chattanooga two days; crossed the Tennessee river to the field hospital, two miles in the country, where I remained two weeks. All this time the "Cracker Line" remained closed, and our rations were by no means large enough to be used as evidence at the bar of "conscience" in making out an indictment against us for the sin of "gluttony." But herethanks to the Northern fingers which made it, and blessings on the Sanitary Commission which brought it-I once more reveled in the luxury and gloried in the possession of a shirt, having DRYDEN'S STORY CONTINUED. 493 been seventeen days without hat, coat, shirt or socks; it was a blessing not lightly to be esteemed that shirt was. On Wednesday, the 21st of October, we started with a large ambulance train for Stevenson, Alabama, distant thirty-five or thirty-six miles by the river road, but by the "pole road," which we were obliged to take, it was almost one hundred, occupying five days and nights, and those were days and nights of the most fearful and most causeless suffering, hardship and privation that I ever endured in my life. The train was placed in command of an old German surgeon-I know not who he was, where he came from, or where he has gone to, and I care less. His first care was to crawl into the ambulance containing the hospital stores and get drunk, and he remained drunk until we reached Stevenson. The train started, winding its way up miserable little ravines and cracks, on the east side of Waldron's Ridge, which we crossed on the morning of the third day after starting. There are not adjectives enough in the English lauguage to express the condition of that road. Rocks about the size of a sentry's box, lying right across the road, would raise the front end of the vehicle up straight, then the hind end, causing us one moment to be lying full length on the bottom of the ambulance, and the next standing on our head in the corner. Our driver was a jolly, good fellow, but he couldn't help the jolting, except as he lightened our burdens by laughing at our odd predicament. The third day we crossed Waldron's Ridge, and started down the beautiful Sequatchie valley, when our road gradually became better as we neared the river. During the whole of this trip I know of no one who had his wounds dressed from the time we started until we reached Stevenson. We were almost starved. There was provision along, but our head being muddled with whisky, there was no one to issue it; the strong helped themselves and the weak did without. At night the driver would gather me a hatful of persimmons, and after supper I would lie down under the ambulance and dream of the "gal I left behind me." I got but one square meal in the whole time, and I got that just as the skunk secures many privileges-by my smell. We reached Stevenson, Alabama, at last, starved, wearied, jolted and used up generally, when I stretched my wearied limbs upon a bona fide hospital cot, and lay and wondered whether the whole world, inhabitants and all, had not been passing through "the mill of the gods." I seemed to be ground down exceedingly fine. Here Add. found me, after a long, dangerous search, furnished me with a new blouse and cap, and bound my feet in slips of red flannel, in lieu of socks. After many more ups and downs we started for home, and on the 22nd day of November we crossed Mason and Dixon's line, and were in God's country again. J. L. DRYDEN, Company C, 36th Illinois Volunteers Infantry. JOHNSON'S NARRATIVE. Sept. 20th, 1863, I was wounded at the battle of Chickamauga, and like a great many others, left on the battle-field. After we broke from the first line of battle, Gen. Sheridan ordered us to halt, face about, make another charge and drive the Rebs back. While making this charge, I was somehow a little in advance. I kept right on, and the first thing I knew, all our forces were gone and I was alone. I started back, when I was wounded in the leg. The Rebs came right on, and as soon as they came up to me, one asked if our men were in full retreat; to which I replied, "Well, I guess they are going back rather lively." "Have you any cartridges?" was his next question. "A few," said I. "Well, let's have them," said he. So I pulled off my cartridge-box and gave it to him, and while so doing, some other Reb stole my rubber blanket. By this time, the main line came up and all pushed on, so I turned my attention to my wound. I began to think I was going to bleed to death, so I tied a little bag, about the size of a common pillow case, around it, and poured some water on it. as the water struck the wound I fainted. A couple of straggling Rebs happened to be near by, saw me faint and instantly came and rubbed my forehead with water and brought me to. Soon the Rebels retreated and stragglers began to come on to the field, among them our drummer, Billy Burgess. As soon as he saw me, he said, "Hallo, Pete, are you badly wounded?" "I As soon |