Karl Bacon (12 page)

Pine trees nearby stirred and swayed in the frigid northerly wind. Swirls of tiny snow crystals drifted down upon the men, their icy touch finding the back of the neck of any man who had not turned up the broad collar of his greatcoat. Chaplain Stevens appeared to notice neither the swirling snow nor the fidgeting of the men.

“I was overwhelmed by the horror of it,” he continued. “I was powerless to do what I knew I ought to do. Fear and dread overcame me and held me in their power for a time. But then most mercifully I was overcome by something else, something exceedingly simple and glorious that I will now share with you. It can be summarized in one short statement from Scripture, simple words I have known from my youth and repeated often,
words from the book of Revelation, heralded throughout the heavens by an angel of the Lord: ‘Fear God and give Him the glory.’

“I say that I was overcome for indeed the transformation within me was as instantaneous as it was powerful. No longer was I gripped by fear, no longer was I helpless and trembling. I knew in that moment that God’s hand was at work in all that stormed about me, that He was accomplishing His purposes in that moment and so I asked a very simple question, a question that to me now seems obvious and necessary, but in that moment could only have been prompted by the Holy Ghost Himself. ‘What would You have me do, Lord?’

“My thoughts were fixed on these words from Mark’s gospel, ‘For whosoever will save his life shall lose it; but whosoever shall lose his life for my sake and the gospel’s, the same shall save it.’

“Immediately I set about in search of the most grievously wounded, those wretched men most near unto death, and I began to speak the words of life to them. After some hours of this, I found that in the comforting of others I was being comforted. In praying with the dying as their lives slipped away, I discovered that my spirit was being renewed within me. The goodness and faithfulness of my Heavenly Father was confirmed to me over and over again so that at the end of my ministrations, when indeed I could not have gone further, I was filled with the nearness of His presence and fullness of His peace and, yes, I dare to say it, I was filled with His joy.”

That evening, John, Jim, Charlie, and I enjoyed the warmth and comfort of our new dwelling. A fire blazed in the fireplace, and most of the smoke went up the chimney, a fact that I considered a major success.

I retrieved a square metal box, tied with a bright red ribbon, from under my bunk. I opened the lid and held the box under my nose for a long moment, allowing the familiar home-sweet-home aroma to fill me. “Shortbread cookies,” I said, “Jessie Anne and Sarah made them. I thought we should eat them now,” I said, “as they’re as fresh as they’re ever going to be.”

That Sabbath evening, the four of us sat upon cracker box stools, drinking coffee and pleasuring in the munching of those deliciously sweet cookies. We talked about our lives before we were soldiers and shared news of loved ones at home.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Since I was seated closest, I rose, opened the door, and was greeted with the fire-lit face of our chaplain.

“Chaplain Stevens, how good it is to see you, sir. Come in and warm yourself. There are still a few shortbread cookies from home.” I offered the box to him.

“No, thank you, Mr. Palmer.” Chaplain Stevens always called the enlisted men “Mr.” He nodded his greeting to each of the others in turn. “Mr. Robinson, Mr. Merrills, of course from the band, and Mr. Adams, is it?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim said.

“As our numbers have become fewer,” the chaplain said, “it has become easier for me to remember your names. Friends, this is not a social visit. I was just given some sad news. Your friend Harry Whitting has died.”

“When, sir?” asked Jim.

“Early this morning.”

“We have not heard anything about Harry since we left Fredericksburg,” John said. “Do you know anything, sir?”

“I understand that Harry was taken by horse cart over to the landing at Belle Plain we are all so familiar with, then by steamship to a hospital in Alexandria. He probably did not succumb to his wound but to a resulting infection. They say he was
fevered and not in his right mind at the end. Maybe he should have stayed here in Falmouth. I know he was your friend, and I’m sorry to bring you this sad news. Let us pray together for God’s mercy upon Harry’s family and the men of the regiment.”

From that day forth we rarely mentioned Harry Whitting, and never again did we speak of his death, but for me the matter weighed most heavily. I had seen to my duty to Harry personally. I had not left it to another and no obligation went unattended to. Yet in the end in mattered not—the boy still died. My noblest efforts had been in vain.

For the Army of the Potomac, Christmas came and went almost without recognition. The band did not assemble. I was not asked to sing, nor was I at all displeased about it, for of all men I felt particularly unblessed and the thought of my blessing the men by singing the carols of my youth seemed most hypocritical. Perhaps others felt the same, for I heard no singing in the streets of the camp, and except for a lone cornet player, who for almost an hour on Christmas Eve stood outside our hut playing those blessed hymns of the nativity, the lovely tunes were not heard at all.

On Christmas Day the army saw fit to issue a special ration of beef and a couple of onions per man. John, Jim, Charlie, and I took our meat and onion rations and, along with some crumbled hard crackers, made a more than passable lobscouse. Jim surprised us when he produced a fistful of salt and added it to the pot. “I’ve been saving a little here and a little there for a special occasion,” he explained, “and I guess Christmas is special enough.” After it had simmered about two hours, our hunger got the better of us and we devoured the stew with great relish.

After dinner I slid my crate from under my bunk and pried open the lid. “We sell Hickham’s outdoor boots at the Palmer
General Store, and in my opinion, they are the best a man can have.” The three men looked down at their feet. Red socks had started to show through the sides of the boots of John and Jim, and Charlie’s boots were in only slightly better condition.

“John, here is your pair, size twelve, and yours, Jim, size ten. And Charlie, I ordered a pair for Harry, size eight. Can you use them?”

“I can try,” Charlie said. “They’ll be a little tight, but I might be able to stretch them.” And he did. Over the next few weeks, he wore his new Hickham’s a little longer each day until he could slide them on and off quite comfortably.

It was John’s usual practice, after the evening meal, to tamp fresh tobacco into his cherry-wood pipe and have a smoke. This night was no exception. For him, it was one of those calming, individual pleasures that added to one’s sense of contentment and was easily afforded by any poor foot soldier. Several times I had commented that I would like to take up smoking, but I had never gone so far as to purchase the necessary pipe and tobacco from the sutler, probably because I wished to support the sutler’s usurious habits as rarely as possible.

John walked over to his greatcoat, hanging on a nail by the door. He reached into the deep pocket and returned to the table carrying two small plainly wrapped packages tied with string. He placed one in front of me, the other in front of Jim. “Merry Christmas, Michael and Jim.” A few seconds later the paper lay in shreds and Jim and I each held up a new pipe made of hickory wood and a pouch of smoking tobacco.

“A local farmer made them,” John said, “and he was eager to sell when he saw that I carried real dollars instead of Confederate scrip.”

“Thank you, John!” Jim fairly shouted with glee.

“Yes, thank you, John,” I said. “How do I light it?”

“Just remember child, mother, father,” John said.

My look told him I thought army rations had finally driven him mad.

“No, no, it’s easy,” he said. “Fill the bowl with tobacco. Good. Now press it down very gently, as if a child like little Ed was doing it. Good. Now, fill it a second time and press it down like a woman would, like Jessie Anne. Fill the bowl once more and press it down hard the way you, the father, would.”

I lit a match, drew in the first of the aromatic smoke, and immediately started to cough. “Slowly at first, Michael,” John said, slapping me on the back, “until you get used to it.”

“And you, Charlie, would you like one as well?” John asked. “You’ve been with us only a few days, so I know nothing of your thoughts on the matter, but if you do, I will get one for you.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Charlie replied. “I’ve never taken to it.”

Then Jim opened the small crate he had received from his mother. “I sent for this stuff from home,” he said quietly, shy now that the moment of revelation was at hand. “I wanted enough for all four of us to share, but with Harry gone … and now with Charlie …”

“Go ahead, Jim, show us,” I said.

The crate was filled with culinary delights the likes of which had only been the stuff of whimsical musings for the last several months. There was a sack of onions, a jar of dill pickles, several tins of canned fruit, a box of chocolate confections, four cans of condensed milk (a boon for the enjoyment of our coffee), a small wheel of cheese, a fruit cake, and the crowning item, a smoked ham wrapped tightly so as to retain all of its savory goodness. For the next week or two, we would eat very well. After that the memories would remain.

“I don’t have much to offer,” Charlie said, producing another small sack. “I bought these six potatoes, but they should go very well with that ham.”

The day after Christmas was spent on picket duty, so we
planned our feast for the twenty-seventh. And such a feast it was. The ham was devoured so that only the bone remained, and Jim had the honor of gnawing at the last savory bits. The potatoes and onions were boiled together and quickly consumed as well. And when our bellies were full, we took to nibbling at the cheese and the chocolates and pieces of the fruitcake. Then we sat and smoked our pipes peacefully.

A cold rain fell during the night of December 31
^st
. The roof leaked in places, but not severely. We retired early, for we would be up at first light for picket duty. The others fell quickly asleep, but I tossed and turned in my bunk. No place or position offered comfort. Finally, I rose and sat by the fire. I tamped tobacco into the bowl of my pipe—child, mother, father. Then I sat and smoked and stared into the fire. The flames beckoned, drawing me in. Sarge was there, and Harry too. General Richardson was there, as was the man of the Irish Brigade, along with a host of others I had seen but didn’t know. I searched the faces for my own—it was not there. No good was to be found, no lasting significance, no glorious purpose, none of the joy Chaplain Stevens had spoken of, only more longing, more hunger, more suffering, and more death—more of what already was.

I sink in deep mire,
where there is no standing:
I am come into deep waters,
where the floods overflow me.
PSALM 69:2

T
HE SPIRIT OF THE ARMY COULD NOT HAVE BEEN AT A LOWER
ebb as the New Year began. We were disheartened, weakened, depleted, wounded, and sick. Before, we had been going forward, chasing the enemy, bringing the war to his hearth. Now we were discouraged and defeated; our cause was reversed; every effort ended in futility. Camp life settled into a tedium of mud and drudgery. Food was always the same—coffee, hardtack, salt pork, and some boiled meat from time to time—unsuitable for maintaining our weakened bodies, let alone for building the reserves of strength the army would need for carrying the fight to the enemy. Sickness was again widespread; almost everyone suffered from diarrhea or scurvy or both. Countless men went into hospitals and never returned. Memorials for the dead were held nearly every day.

Even the landscape reflected the mood of the army. When we had arrived at Falmouth in November, the place had been
verdant and well forested. With each passing week, everything green disappeared under the incessant tramp of army feet or fell to the constant chop-chop-chop of army axemen. The expanse of brown and gray expanded farther as the tree line receded in every direction.

Grumbling became our favorite pastime. We grumbled about everything, from rations to the miserable living conditions to the state of our health. Every ache was magnified and every sniffle became a deadly disease. No one had been paid since leaving Hartford so we griped about that too. We also complained about the weather. It was always cold and it snowed or rained often. Mud was always with us. We went on to grumble about General Burnside, President Lincoln, and anyone else in authority; we made disparaging remarks about their character and even sometimes about their kinfolk.

Jim Adams was particularly incensed. “Lincoln should go back to the woods of Kentucky.”

“What’s the matter?” John asked.

“He freed the slaves the first of the year. It says so right here in the
National Intelligencer.
As far as I’m concerned, the Johnny Rebs can keep their slaves if they just quit the war and come back to the Union. I didn’t sign up to die for darkies.”

I understood Jim’s frustration. Although the principal reason John and I enlisted was to rid the country of the scourge of slavery, many others had joined the army for different reasons, and these men seemed to care little about slavery. When Abraham Lincoln, with a single stroke of his presidential pen, declared all slaves to be free—including the freedom to enlist, if they chose, in the Union army—rumbles of discord echoed throughout our ranks. For many of the men, it was the final straw. They would sooner desert their posts than fight a war for the black man.

During January the regiment had few official duties except
for arms drill and picketing the river. We went out on picket duty every fifth day. Picket duty started at eight o’clock in the morning and lasted twenty-four hours. The regiment usually guarded a portion of the Rappahannock River near Banks Ford, and it was our duty to see that no unsavory Rebel activity occurred along our stretch of the river. We left camp at six o’clock and marched for two hours — west toward Warrenton for a few miles, then south toward the river, where we relieved the departing regiment and deployed. While some of the men patrolled the immediate bank of the river, others occupied dozens of rifle pits some yards farther back.

While John and I were patrolling the advanced picket line early one morning, one of the rifle pits partway up the riverbank attracted my attention.

“See that pit?” I pointed up the slope.

“What about it?”

“We’ve passed by here three times in the last thirty minutes, and he hasn’t moved at all. Maybe he’s asleep.”

“Or dead,” said John, since that option was just as likely.

At first, the pit appeared to be normally occupied, but as we approached, we saw that something was definitely amiss. A vacant soldier’s greatcoat had been stuffed with fallen leaves and carefully arranged in the rifle pit. A musket lay across the lip of the pit, propped up with sticks. The armless sleeves of the coat had been carefully draped over the musket to resemble the standard firing position. As a final touch, a cap with the telltale
14
on the top had been placed atop the empty collar, pulled low the way we always did on a cold night with just an eye-slit between the bill and the collar. In the dark of night, if one was passing casually by and cared not to engage the man in conversation, the phantom watchman appeared the model of readiness.

“Let’s find Sergeant Holt,” John said. “I think this was Warner’s pit.”

John was correct. The former occupant of that spectral uniform had deserted his post. Warner had probably written a letter to a sympathetic friend or relative or wife at home. “Please purchase with the enclosed funds,” he’d have written, “items of civilian clothing and send them along, possibly in separate packages, or along with some other shipment of foodstuffs or other necessaries, to the kind attention of the soldier.” Upon receipt, Warner had surely hidden his new civilian clothing at some secret location. Then, at an opportune time, the soldier had reported to his rifle pit, doffed his Union blues and stuffed them to create the phantom rifleman, donned his new garments, and started with impunity northward.

I stood staring down into the rifle pit. In recent weeks I too had entertained tempting notions to depart. I had even hatched a few illusory plans and half-considered schemes to that end, but I never said a word of these things to anyone nor did I ever take one step toward fulfilling them. Certainly the thought of abandoning John was unbearable, but what could I ever have said to Jessie Anne in my defense?

Another cold January night, again while picketing along the river, John called to me in a low voice, “Michael, you have to see this. There’s a Reb across the river. I think he wants to talk to someone.”

We edged our way through the brush to the water’s edge.

“Hey, Yank,” called the Rebel in a nasally twang, waving a small white flag or kerchief. “Y’all sure make a lot of racket. Careful or you’ll wake your dead back in Fredericksburg.” A low chuckle was distinctly heard across the water.

“What do you want, Johnny?” John called back, hands cupped to his mouth.

“Coffee. Got any coffee?”

“Don’t you have any?”

“Nah, Yank, that’s one thing Ol’ Bobby Lee cain’t get much of, and what we do get is more like floor sweepin’s than coffee.”

“What’ll you give for it, Johnnie?”

“I got lots of tobacca, Yank.”

“Yeah, Reb, what kind?”

“Virginny, of course. Best smokin’ a man can get.”

“How much coffee do you want, Reb?”

“How much you got?”

“I don’t know,” said John, reaching into his haversack to feel for his sack of coffee. “Maybe we can come up with a couple of pounds.”

“Yeah, Yank? That’d be all right. I think we can get up maybe four pounds tobacca. Two for one, okay?”

“There will be some sugar mixed with the coffee,” I said.

“Yeah? Sugar? Even better—almost never get sugar.”

“How do we do this?” asked John.

“You boys are new, ain’tcha? Put your coffee in a sack and tie it up tight. Up river about a hundred yards, there’s rapids, fast but not deep. Just go a ways out in the river, and we’ll meet ya.”

“It’ll take some time to get the coffee together,” John said.

“We got all night. How much time?”

“About an hour,” answered John.

“All right, about an hour.”

“John,” I whispered, “how are we going to come up with two pounds of coffee when we don’t even have one pound between us?”

“Let’s find Sergeant Holt. He smokes too. I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”

Holt’s eyes widened when John explained. He did indeed know what to do, and he was already savoring the thought of smoking fine Virginia tobacco. But it had to be done quietly, he said, because talking with the enemy was strictly forbidden.

“Go to every man in Company C,” he told John and me. “Ask ‘em if they want to trade coffee for tobacco, one handful of coffee for one share of tobacco. Make a list, ‘cause I won’t stand for no bickering over tobacco.”

Most of our men eagerly reached into their haversacks and put in a single handful of coffee, but several, including John and me, contributed two handfuls for a double share. As John collected the coffee in a sack, I noted each man’s stake in the deal on a piece of my journal paper. In no time at all, a goodly quantity of coffee had been collected, surely in excess of the required two pounds.

Sergeant Holt supervised the completion of the transaction in the middle of the river that night. I don’t know if it was his impressive stature or his consummate skill in parley, but he was able to get another pound of tobacco out of the Reb, and it was of the finest quality indeed, just as the Johnnie had said. Great clouds of aromatic smoke rose about our company’s campfires for weeks afterward, and the other men of the company looked upon John and me with a more appreciative glint in their eyes for several weeks.

Sunday, January 25, 1863 Camp
of the 14
^th
Conn. Rgt. Vol. Inf.
Near Falmouth, Virginia

Dearest Jessie Anne,

The boys and I remain in generally fine health while others have suffered more severely. We certainly credit your regular packages, along with those of Mrs. Adams, without which we would not have been able to supplement our rations with such necessaries as canned peas and beans and fruit. The arrival of a box every three weeks works well, and we are able to plan
our consumption accordingly. There was some talk of resuming Saturday evening band concerts, but there has been no official word, and now recent events have delayed them once again.

An incident occurred which, if it were not for the entirely pitiable nature of the affair, would otherwise appear quite amusing. Rumors always abound when the army is in camp. The most recent rumor with the greatest credibility was that General McClellan would be recalled to lead us in our next campaign, which should have begun under the sunny warmth of springtime. However, about two weeks ago, more rumors began to fly that the army was going to move against the Rebels. Indeed, orders were given that the army would move out on Tuesday the 20
^th
. Our brigade was detailed to be the rear guard of the grand army column, in case the enemy tried to sneak around behind us to steal our supply wagons.

Captain Bronson, acting commander of the 14
^th
, read the orders from General Burnside. The army was to march west along our side of the river, cross the river at an opportune place, then attack the Rebels at Fredericksburg from the rear. Of course, this was all supposed to be accomplished without those on the other side of the river finding out about it. After reading the orders, Captain Bronson exhorted us to greater effort for our noble cause.

“Three cheers for General Burnside! Hurrah! Hurrah! Hurrah!” he yelled, but almost no one else cheered with him. The commanding general of the recent foray into disaster is not a popular figure among the ranks of the army, so the thought of giving up a cheer of adoring appreciation was, of course, ridiculous.

Each man in the regiment received sixty rounds of cartridges from the quartermaster along with three days’ supply of coffee, hardtack, and salt pork. Charlie cooked up our pork rations while John and Jim stripped our hut of its shelter tent roof and I rolled
up our rubber and woolen blankets. We packed everything that would fit into our knapsacks.

The Army of the Potomac started to move. We had nothing to do until the entire column had passed, so we walked to the top of a small hill nearby and were afforded an excellent view of the road our troops were using as they headed off to the southwest. Column after column of blue infantry marched below us in an endless tide.

At first, progress was at normal army slow on the hard-frozen roads. Thousands of supply wagons, artillery pieces, and caissons accompanied the columns of infantry. Teams of horses drew hundreds of pontoon boats on wheeled carts. The whole mass of men, beasts, and machinery inched relentlessly forward in fits and starts.

From the top of our little hill, we could also see across to the opposite side of the river. It was clear that the steady tramp of tens of thousands of feet, the sound of countless straining animals, and the rattling of our wheeled pieces had drawn the attention of the enemy. In fact, I saw several distant figures across the way jumping up and down, waving their hats, and signaling others of their ilk to come and see the “secret” movements of our army. Some of the ragamuffins even called over to us with jeering offers of help in rebuilding the pontoon bridges so we could cross over and renew our futile assaults.

Clouds began to move in, just a few in the morning, then more numerous in the afternoon so that, by late in the day, the sky was completely overcast and ominous. By evening it was raining, lightly at first, but then the wind started to howl and the rain came pelting down in slanting, icy sheets. In just minutes, the road became a quagmire, thick and sticky as mashed potatoes that have been in the pot too long. Wagons, artillery pieces and pontoon boats sank into the miry depths, and normal army slow came to a full army halt. All that night and into Wednesday the army hardly moved a step forward, and from our vantage point we
continued to stand in the rain, awaiting orders to add our boots to this disaster.

The orders never came. Instead, seeing it was hopeless to go farther, Burnside ordered the army back to camp. We rebuilt the roof over our hut, unpacked everything we had packed the day before, and built a blazing fire in the fireplace. Then we sat smoking our pipes as the rest of the weary and muddied army stumbled and grumbled back in the other direction. It took two full days for that stream of wasted and dispirited souls to finally complete its passage in front of our hut, accompanied all the while by hoots and hollers of derision from the other side of the river. Our brigade was indeed the least pitiable part of that pitiful army, as we never had to endure the full experience of this latest fiasco that is already being called the “Mud March.” We were the first to put our huts back in order, the first to dry wet clothing, the first to enjoy hot coffee and hot food, the first to find warmth for both body and spirit.