Joe Bellows was climbing through mud; he had fallen into a sluggish, twenty-yard wide boggy stream and was up to his knees in the muck. Above his head artillery shells were passing over with thunderous roars and the battle sounds filled the air around him. Screams and cries of the wounded sounded loud and the repeated crack of rifle fire and heavy guns made the air quiver with a vibration that seemed to shake the earth. Around his knees Joe watched as rippling pools formed on the surface of the water following the crump and explosion of landing shells.
Joe had been detailed off as a stretcher bearer with men of the Union’s reconnoitering Vermont regiment and it had not taken long before he and his accompanying convict fellow bearer were forced to advance with the army to a Confederate held mill situated on the boggy stream. His companion was a man named Obie Tallant, who although a thuggish man was not above a certain sly intelligence and when Joe had suggested they make a run for it over to the other side the convict had readily agreed.
Ducking through a hail of bullets they had successfully picked up a soldier with a shattered leg. The wounded man lay demented and bellowing with pain at the dreadful wound, which had stripped one bloody leg down to the bone. Joe and Obie humped him dutifully downstream until they were out of sight of any other troops then they ignominiously dumped the sobbing man in a gully before shedding the stretcher and running off to cross the river.
Above the bend in the river where they crossed unseen, lay the mill under siege. The river was dammed there and it was from the dam that the Confederate artillery kept up a pounding on the Vermont men. A battery of the Federal’s New York Artillery soon answered them and a cannon duel commenced ripping the air with the sound of shellfire.
Although they did not know it Joe and Obie were crossing the Warwick River and entering the thin Confederate defense line that stretched across the entire peninsular to stand against the Union advance towards the town of Yorktown on the road to Richmond.
The two men were not out of danger once they were safely across though and it was not easy to advance towards the Confederate lines through the constant cannon fire and air bursts. Joe had thought to lie up until later, hiding in a suitable place until the way was clear to see but the Union advance was coming up behind them on the riverbank and the two were forced to keep going.
‘Give me a hand, will you?’ he called up to Obie, who, being the stronger of the two, had climbed the opposite bank of the shallow river with relative ease.
The brutish man reached down and caught Joe’s wrist. He pulled hard and Joe was free of the sucking mud and dragged up to lie alongside the other man.
‘How the hell we going to get out of this?’ asked Obie, who generally deferred to the wilier Joe. ‘We’re walking into hell here. Don’t know if we should have stayed where we was, them Union boys is coming on fast. Could be they’ll take these Rebs and then where will we be?’
‘Anywhere’s better than a Federal prison with a noose hanging over your head.’
‘’Cept maybe a Confederate one,’ observed Obie morosely.
‘We’ll buy our way in, I’ve got enough information about the Union force to make it worth their while to treat us well, don’t you worry.’
‘You sure are smart as a new pin, Joe. I never thought to look twice at all that stuff we was lugging aboard ship.’
‘Well, I got it down pat and it’s worth more than gold to them Rebs.’
‘All we have to do is get there in one piece then.’
‘That’s the plan,’ said Joe, working his way forward on all fours.
‘What? We got to do crawl the whole damned way?’
‘I don’t know, Obie,’ said Joe irritably. ‘You want to stand up and run, you go for it. But I tell you its raining lead up there and I ain’t about to chance it.’
Below them on the river was a road bridge and they could see determined defenders in gray gathered around it with their rifles ready, upstream the battle continued at the mill and before them over more sludgy ground was the outline of dense woods.
‘What about the bridge?’ asked Obie. ‘We could surrender there.’
‘Not the way these boys are. They’re jumping for the mix, they’d soon as shoot us as we stand up, hands raised or not. No, I’m heading inland a piece where the troops ain’t so ready for blood.’
‘You aiming for the woods then?’
‘That’s it, Obie. I’m heading for the trees.’ He continued to crawl forward, worming his way through the mud and dank pools of water that lay in his path.
By noon they had reached the woods and as they did so the battle eased off, with Union troops settling down to hold the ground and bring up reinforcements. Covered in mud, the two men loped off through the cover of the trees. The wet clinging uniforms made their going unpleasant but both men felt a jubilant sense of liberation as they left the battle lines behind.
They broke from the woods to find themselves above a busy road and Joe led the way down towards the stream of traffic where the Confederates were bringing up more troops to strengthen the line along the river.
With hands raised high Joe and Obie walked towards the troops on the road.
‘Lookee here!’ called a Confederate soldier. ‘We got us a couple of Federal mud babies coming in.’
‘Will you look at that?’ laughed another. ‘They’re surrendering already. Looks like we got them on the run and I ain’t even fired a damned shot yet.’
A corporal stepped forward, his face hard as he glanced at the two coming towards them. ‘You boys go fetch them in,’ he ordered. ‘Guess the officer’s will want a word with that sorry looking pair.’
General Magruder was a fanciful man with a theatrical frame of mind. Mustached and wearing mutton-chop whiskers down to his jaw he struck an imposing figure as if he had just walked onto a stage. He was singing and shaving himself when they brought Joe and Obie into his headquarters tent. A good light tenor voice that he would interrupt occasionally as he swept another dash of lather from his cheek with the cutthroat razor and then waved the blade in a conductor’s cadence to the beat of his song.
Wiping off the remaining foam he turned to his adjutant as the two men were brought in. His nose wrinkled at sight on the mud stained pair.
‘My God!’ he lisped, for despite his clear singing voice when it came to normal speech the general had a distinct lisp. ‘What on earth is this? Stand back you men; I’ll not have that filthy mud falling in my tent. Lieutenant, who are these men?’
‘Two deserters, sir. Just come over at Warwick River.’
‘Deserters! What have I to do with such a breed, remove them from my sight.’ His speech was flamboyant and had all the extravagance of a performer, which he was, with such a liking for amateur theatricals that the men nicknamed him ‘Prince John’.
‘I think you may want to hear what they have to say, sir.’
‘What is it? Some sneaky comments on General McClellan’s underwear no doubt.’
‘No, sir. They have number and disposition of the forces against us. A most comprehensive report by this one here,’ he indicated Joe. ‘Who claims he is committed to our Southern cause and all it stands for.’
‘Indeed,’ said Magruder, studying Joe with a new eye. ‘Very well, Lieutenant. Take a disposition from him, get it written up in full and have copies dispensed to both General’s Longstreet and Hill along the line and then have these two sent back to Richmond, I’m sure the powers that be will want to hear everything they have to say.’
By the next day, a newly washed and combed Joe Bellows and Obie were transported back to the capital and presented to Captain Meriwether at Castle Thunder for holding until called before the Confederate Army’s intelligence officer.