Karl Bacon (22 page)

It is now my job to drill the men over and over until they are able to stand in line in the next fight and do their duty. I always recall the many lessons Sarge taught me and try to apply them to this new crop – I can hardly believe that in two short weeks he will have been gone a full year. When training the new men, I’m firm
and demanding and I make sure each man knows what’s expected of him. I’ve taught them how to load, fire, and care for their Springfield rifles. I’ve shown them how to march, and I’ve shown them so many things that will help them survive on the campaign, things I learned from Sarge. Jim Adams is a great help, for while I explain to the new men the steps of a new drill, Jim demonstrates each step, and this helps most of the men learn faster.

Otto Wehlmann has been a pleasant surprise, serious about the drill and quick to adapt to the disciplined life of the army. He does not chafe under the rules, and he never complains about the duties he is given, no matter how mean and low, as long as I keep him away from anything regarding the mules. He has learned the drills and the manual of arms faster than anyone in my memory. He has quickly become an excellent shot with his Springfield, and in time he should become a solid and reliable addition to our ranks.

It is not so with Caesar. I could excuse his lack of soldierly progress due to his difficulty with the language, but the repetitive nature of each drill, along with Jim’s skillful demonstrations, make it abundantly clear what is required. Regular and repeated discipline has failed to produce any lasting positive effect – Caesar simply accepts his fate with a sheepish grin and a shrug of the shoulders. I can only conclude the cause is futile. I now think that even the supreme efforts of the noble Needham would have met with no better success. No, it has become sadly apparent that the cheerful Italian is not soldier material. Tomorrow we will march away from this place, no doubt in search of the enemy to give him battle once again. I can only hope when the fighting resumes, that Private Ferretti will cause no harm to himself or any others of the regiment who happen to be close by.

My dear Jessie Anne, you have asked me to tell all of what has happened to me. Please understand that limitations of time, paper and ink prevent this. There are also some happenings which no
lady should ever have to envision, so I may never relate them. The reports you cited were largely correct; the 14
^th
was in a desperately hard fight at Gettysburg. Jim Adams again survived unscathed, and I also, except for a small scratch. In the end there were many enemy dead before our position. I did my duty, and I sometimes shudder that I am forever changed because of it. I fear you will not know your husband should you see him again.

With my new duties as sergeant, I was required to remain here when others were selected to return home to escort bands of conscripts to the front, and although I will be among the first to be considered for furlough, all furloughs have been delayed until all campaigning has ended and the army has gone into winter quarters.

For now my needs are all supplied. I have no specific complaint except that I weary of remaining distant from you, my darling wife, and our beloved children. In about three weeks I think you should send me the three greatcoats, along with whatever other goodies you might choose. Pray that this all might end soon in final victory.

I remain your most affectionate husband,

There was indeed much more I could have told Jessie Anne in my letters, but there was also much I could never tell her. How could I ever reveal all I had done at Gettysburg? How I had become no better than the murderous Cain? Did not Wyatt’s blood cry out from the ground against me? Would I not be cursed from the earth? Had God forever turned His face away from me? What would she think of me? How could Jessie Anne still call this man her “beloved”?

And the L
ORD
said unto Moses,
The man shall be surely put to death:
all the congregation shall stone him
with stones without the camp.
NUMBERS 15:35

T
HE NOTATION IN MY JOURNAL FOR
S
EPTEMBER 17
, 1863,
READS
, “weather—fine and warm, mch by Cedar Mtn to Robinson’s Run arr noon, execution 4pm,” brief and accurate to be sure, but the events of that day were permanently etched upon my memory. I never spoke of this day with Jessie Anne, nor have I ever spoken with anyone else about it or written about what transpired near Robinson’s Run on that day until now, yet I recall every grisly detail of the scene, and my part in it, as if it occurred only yesterday.

With over nine hundred names on its roster, and almost one-third of those listed as deserters, the Fourteenth Connecticut left Bristow on September 3
^rd
and rejoined the army. Of those present and fit for duty, five of every six had been drafted or were paid substitutes. Liars, cheats, and thieves thickly populated our ranks, and until each of these new men had been proven under fire and found trustworthy in his dealings, each old soldier
viewed each new recruit with a careful eye, keen and full of suspicion. From Bristow we marched southwestward to Culpeper. On the morning of September 17
^th
, we marched a short distance beyond Cedar Mountain to the banks of Robinson’s Run, a tributary of the Rapidan. We arrived there shortly before noon and began to set up camp.

At two o’clock I was ordered to Captain Coit’s tent across the camp in Company G.

“Sergeant,” he said, “I am about to give you orders that I want carried out to the letter. Listen carefully and don’t interrupt me. When I’m finished, I’ll ask if you have any questions. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“About a month ago two of our new recruits deserted. They were arrested in New York City, tried by court-marshal and found guilty of desertion and dereliction of duty. They will be executed this afternoon at four o’clock. I’ve been ordered to raise two firing squads of twelve men each. Each of our ten company commanders has selected two or three men—all veteran men and able shots. You come highly recommended by Captain Carpenter, and since neither man is from your company, you will be my sergeant. First, we will drill the two squads in the proper military procedure for execution. Check each man’s rifle, that it is in perfect working order and clean. Then you will draw fresh ammunition from the quartermaster. We just received a new issue when we passed through Culpeper, so make sure the cartridges and caps are from that lot. No old ammunition is to be used. We can’t risk any chance of a misfire. From the time you leave the quartermaster until the completion of the execution, you will not let the ammunition out of your sight. Do you understand, Sergeant Palmer?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Any questions?”

“Just one, sir. Does the captain wish me to report back here after I secure the ammunition, sir?”

“Yes, Sergeant, the entire division will assemble to witness the execution, so an order of march has been drawn up. The provosts will direct us where to go and what to do.”

With the Fourteenth in the lead, the division marched to a field near Robinson’s Run where it formed a three-sided square with the open end toward the base of a hill. The men of the Fourteenth stood in the front ranks because the two men were of the regiment.

With the division so placed, a second procession entered the field. Two ambulances were drawn slowly in front of the division toward the base of the hill. Each ambulance carried an empty pine coffin, and sitting atop each coffin, struggling hard with hands and feet shackled to maintain his unsteady perch, was one of the condemned. A watchful troop of provost guards accompanied the ambulances, with bayoneted rifles at the ready. Then came Captain Coit, saber drawn and held stiffly at his breast, leading the two firing squads marching in perfect step, their rifles carried at the shoulder ready. I was the last man in the procession. I carried no weapon, only my cartridge box, full of new, fresh cartridges and my cap box.

“Prisoners, dismount!” ordered the provost officer. Both of the condemned men jumped down from the ambulances; both fell to their knees; no one offered a helping hand as the pair struggled to their feet. A squad of guards carried the two coffins a short distance up the slope of the hill and placed them next to two graves that had already been dug in the red earth. The lid of each coffin was removed and leaned against the side of the coffin. The two men would be executed at the gravesites, and each man in the division would have an unobstructed view of the deadly proceedings.

With an ever so slight nod of the head, Captain Coit ordered
me to step forward. I went to each of the two dozen riflemen in turn. Each man took a cartridge from my box. When I reached the end of the line, I smartly about-faced. With a loud voice I called out the loading cadence. The twenty-four men moved as one man; each movement was sharp and crisp, just as we had drilled it. Once more I walked slowly down the line from one man to the next, this time giving each man a primer cap from my box. Once again I about-faced and shouted the order to prime muskets. Then I returned to my place next to Captain Coit.

The provost officer along with several guards marched the condemned men into the center of the open square. The provost officer read the official charges and the order for execution to each man in turn, Edward Eliott, a draftee, and George Laton, a paid substitute. Then the two men were marched slowly around the square formation of the assembled division, while Charlie Merrills led the band in the playing of “Adeste Fideles.” Charlie chose a tempo perfectly suited to the solemnity of the occasion, and surely he had altered some of the harmonies from major to minor, thus achieving a more melancholy but not unpleasant orchestration exactly appropriate to the occasion.

Their doleful circuit completed, the two men were marched into the center of the open side of the square and up the slope of the hill. Each man was ordered to sit on the edge of his coffin and face the firing squads, Eliott to the left, Laton to the right. Chaplain Stevens stepped forward. He read from the Scriptures and bowed his head in prayer. The provost officer tied a black blindfold about the head of each man and ordered Captain Coit to proceed with the execution.

“At the ready!” Captain Coit barked. The squads raised and cocked their rifles.

“Aim!” Twelve rifles drew aim on the chest of Edward Eliott, twelve on the chest of George Laton.

“Fire!” Only a few of the two dozen rifles discharged. Eliott
was struck once in the shoulder, knocking him over backward into his coffin. Laton was not hit at all.

“Reload,” screamed Captain Coit. I ran down the line, giving each man a new cartridge and primer cap. The squad to the left furiously set about clearing and reloading their fouled rifles while Eliott struggled to free his hands and get to his feet. About half the squad was ready just as he started to rise.

“Fire!” cried Captain Coit again. Once again, only two or three of the weapons fired, but Eliott’s chest erupted in red. He fell back into the coffin, obviously dead.

The squad to the right also cleared and reloaded their rifles. Laton managed to free his hands. He tore off the blindfold just in time to see twelve Springfields leveled at his chest.

“Fire!” Only the crack of the primer caps was heard.

In total disgust with the way the men of the Fourteenth were handling this episode of military justice, the provost officer ordered his guards to approach Laton. The first took careful aim at Laton’s forehead and pulled the trigger. There was just the weak pop of the cap again—Laton shook visibly. With each of the six provost guards it was the same—the terror for Laton dragged on and on.

Finally, the provost officer himself stepped forward and put an end both to Laton’s life and to this ghastly affair with a single shot from his revolver to the head of the trembling man. For a minute or two no one moved, no one spoke a word; there was utter silence.

“Sergeant.” Captain Coit’s voice was hushed, but furious nonetheless. “I gave you strict orders not to use old cartridges.”

“Sir, yes, sir. I followed your orders—to the letter, sir. Those are the new cartridges—straight from the quartermaster—dry as a bone—I checked them, sir.”

“I’ll get to the bottom of this mess, Sergeant, and if I find you did anything wrong, I’ll bring charges myself.”

The Fourteenth was ordered to march slowly by the two dead men lying in their coffins. Then we stood aside as the rest of the division filed by. A dozen of our new recruits, those deemed by the officers to be less reliable and more likely to take flight, were chosen from the ranks to nail the lids on the coffins and serve as the burial party.

The men returned to their new camp. Dinner was cooked and coffee was boiled, but I suspect little eating and drinking was actually done that night. I sat before the small campfire and let the horror of that afternoon’s events fall upon me. Once again it seemed that God’s hand was against me, this time in a manner most dark and sinister.

I went to my tent and got Wyatt’s Bible from my knapsack. I had been reading the book of Hebrews regularly of late, when duty allowed, and I thought to perhaps receive some solace from it that evening. As I opened the Bible to find my place, a verse in 1 John at the top of the page, just under the book and chapter reference, drew my gaze.
Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.
A great chill came over me. Not only had I hated the man Wyatt, I had truly killed him. Of course I would be crushed under the wrathful hand of the Almighty. Surely I would know only more affliction and torment, and in the end receive due justice for my crimes, perhaps even justice like that visited upon Laton and Eliott.

Word of the execution at Robinson’s Run and others spread quickly throughout the army. Thousands of deserters suddenly deemed it their patriotic duty to return to their units. Others who may have been considering how best to make their flight suddenly found the prospect of facing the lead of the Confederacy more appealing than facing that of the Union. Even so, many of these men were no better than Elliott and Laton, and with men such as these in its ranks, how could the Army of the Potomac
fight even one more battle, let alone bring this terrible war to a successful conclusion?

But the men of the Second Corps, old soldiers and new alike, would fight and they would fight exceedingly well. The Rebels tried to move northward again during the first week of October. A lengthy, collective groan went up from the men of the Second Corps as we turned around and headed north once more. We marched into Bealeton on Saturday and stopped at the supply depot. In one of the great ironies of this man’s war, the bungled executions of Eliott and Laton had uncovered a serious problem with the latest shipment of cartridges the army was distributing to the troops. Whether the crates had been left out in the rain or the powder was simply of poor quality from the factory, the plain fact of it was that most of those cartridges were worthless, and had we gone into battle with cartridge boxes full of defective ammunition, a great many of our boys would have been defenseless and needlessly laid low. The bad cartridges were destroyed and new, proven cartridges were issued. In this instance, the unnecessarily cruel deaths of two deserters served to spare the lives of many.

The armies came together once again near our old training camp at Bristow on Wednesday, October 14
^th
. Colonel Smyth’s brigade formed in line of battle along the railroad next to General Webb’s men, and our boys, including our new recruits, did some good work. The enemy charged us twice and they were twice repulsed with heavy losses. Otto stood steadfast, as did most of the others in the company, diligently following my drill cadence as I called it out. One or two men of the Fourteenth were killed and some wounded, and Jim Adams had his arm creased by an enemy ball, his first scratch since I had known him. He visited the surgeon and returned to duty almost immediately sporting a very impressive bandage.

It was not so with Caesar Ferretti. I saw no sign of him
during the battle or for several days afterward. I feared he was lost during the long, hard marching on the way to Bristow. I did not think him a deserter because I did not think him to be one to consider it, nor was he one with sufficient mental acumen to devise a plan for escape. Rather, I suspected he fell back during the march or perhaps merely wandered off, only to be snatched up by the Rebels and sent to one of their dreadful prison stockades. I had no choice but to report him as missing.