Merrick is downright restless. He’s tired of the parade ground, and thinks it’s time we found some Rebs. When we do, he’s the man I want by me. Merrick’s never shied away from a fight, and this will be no exception. He would never say this, but I know he’s looking out for me. You know Merrick.
Merrick and I went to Alexandria last week, and saw the Marshall House where the Union Colonial Ellsworth was killed. It’s vacated, and pretty well bullet-riddled. Union men don’t take kindly to an officer killed for raising his country’s flag. The place looks lonesome. The Union flag floats from a staff on the top, and will continue to do so, judging from the number of soldiers around. Merrick wished he had his rifle so he could add some holes to that sad hotel. Many more will die for that flag, I fear. The Ellsworth killing is this whole mess in miniature. Have you heard the story in Sandy Creek? The proprietor, a fellow named Jackson, decided to fly the Rebel flag on his property. Colonel Ellsworth took it down and raised the Union flag. Jackson shot Ellsworth with a shotgun, and was killed by one of Ellsworth’s men. What did Jackson think would happen? These Southern fools are itching to commit suicide, and proud of it! But Ellsworth will be missed. He was a good officer.
I think the 24th could use more rifle practice. I know I could, but maybe ammunition needs to be conserved. got a new Enfield and had my picture taken with it. With bayonet fixed, it’s as tall as I am. It’s a fine weapon. I believe I could hit a man at 300 yards. I don’t like to think about that, but I know when men shoot at us, we’ll shoot back—no qualms.
Have you heard from Gib? He is most on my mind. I wish Gib could see me with my Enfield. I wonder what he’s doing in Canada. Has he married? I’d like him to know I’m here.
Do you think we will have black Union troops? The boys often discuss this. Does Mr. Earl, who knows Secretary Seward, know what the Secretary thinks?
I have no doubt the ladies of Sandy Creek would be pleased to do something for us, but we are not in need of anything in the clothing line. If they wish to send anything, I think eatables would be more acceptable, although we have enough. Perhaps not too rich, please. We buy butter at $2 per lb, if you can imagine. We purchase sweet potatoes once in a while, and think we are kings.
Do you hear any word about Lincoln freeing the slaves? Some of us think we are fighting to end slavery, some assuredly do not. It’s amazing how many blame Negroes for the war, but we all agree we are fighting for the Union. It would be better if Lincoln freed the slaves. It would give clarity.
Give my best to everyone. Don’t forget cousins Sarah and Violet. Is Norman Scripture still courting Violet? And to Mother, of course.
Your son,
Moreau
11
On Sunday, July 22, 1861, Union and Confederate armies met near Manassas Junction. The 24th was held in reserve. We grumbled, hot for action, but not so hot for the thirteen-hour march over the “sacred soil of Virginia” in mosquito-filled summer heat. Company G’s first taste of war was not war but rumors of war.
Sunday was long. Reports came by telegraph, handwritten note, then voice. The first were good. Union doing well: Confederate line breaking, prisoners taken. We looked at each other and nodded. Rightness of cause leads to victory. David Hamer lamented that we “missed the fight.” All agreed a quick and decisive victory would end this damn Confederacy, so foolish to take on the United States.
Then rumors started. They arrived like the clouds of mosquitoes. No, the battle wasn’t going well. Confederate reserves arrived at the crucial moment by railroad from Winchester. Ten thousand, maybe twenty. General Patterson was supposed to keep them bottled up. He didn’t. No one did. The Federal line broke and the Army was retreating. No, counterattacking. No, running away. Jeff Davis himself led the last charge. It was a disaster. A rout. Defeat snatched from victory. No one was sure. Everyone was sure. Nobody knew anything.
As the day wore on, the news got worse. The Reb army crushed the Union Army. Men running, killed, wounded. There weren’t enough ambulances. Officers ran. Rebs will overwhelm Washington. They could walk in. The 24th was marching.
When? Three a.m.
Why? Someone must guard the route to the city.
Captain Ferguson told us to try to get some sleep. I tried but all I could do was sweat. I lay on my cot under the mosquito netting and stared into the dark. “We’re being thrown to the wolves, Merrick.”
Merrick, almost asleep, said, “That what we’re here for, ain’t it?”
“I suppose.”
“It don’t matter. Duty’s debatable, orders ain’t. Get some sleep, Ro.”
I lay in the damn heat. If this were the last night of my life, I wanted company. Talk. Words. It would make tomorrow easier. Profound words. Diverting words, anyway. Words? I was here because the time for words was over.
I volunteered. I didn’t have to be here.
Mill that.
I was here because I was sincere. Here for Helen. Here to die.
What else were soldiers supposed to do? It wasn’t all parades and pies and prayers and speeches or getting drunk and slapping backs and finding ladies. It was a game until now. Yes, a game. Drill, wait, play soldier. I milled that as mosquitoes hovered and Merrick snored.
Aw Jesus. I said I was sincere, not brave. Brave you’re born with, like tall or rich. Some have it, like Merrick or Uncle Lorenzo. And others, well, others are… sincere. Some, like father, are neither. This was a hell of a time to substitute one for the other. I thought about father and Uncle Lorenzo leaving the North Country and how it was their great adventure. That wasn’t war. That was a whipping, a scar. War for them was the Battle of Big Sandy. A tale, like that British cannon in the mud.
How could Merrick sleep? Philo Bass and Byron Eastman also slept. I figured we weren’t going into battle but defeat. The battle was over. The war too, maybe. We heard muddy defenders of the Union were already sitting in Washington bars. What would Helen think? Gib? Father? What did Corporal Salisbury think?
Corporal Salisbury thought: why fight when all is lost? But all wasn’t lost. We weren’t dead.
I got up and went outside. The air was heavy and damp. The night dark with clouds and no moon. Three men smoked by a fourth standing watch. It was the Davids, Hamer and Crocker, and tall Lyman Houghton. Tom Cox stood guard.
“Can’t sleep,” I said.
“I know,” said Hamer. “Too much to think about.”
“Thinkin’ don’t help,” said Crocker.
“I’m scared,” said Houghton.
I smiled in the dark. No one saw. “Lyman, you said that to make us feel better. You ain’t afraid of nothin’.”
“Don’t it feel like rain?” said the tall man. “Rain’ll slow everythin’ down. The Reb army don’t come if it pours.”
After sharing a pipe with Dave Hamer, I went back to the tent and fell asleep. It started to rain about three o’clock and we got up to the command to “Fall in! Fall in!” I hadn’t slept an hour.
We marched at four. New brogans got soaked and muddy as rain came in torrents. Fifty-pound packs stuffed with hard tack, dried pork and bits of bacon were heavier. The covers of canteens didn’t have to be wetted to keep the contents cool; everything was wet. Bayonets were fixed. Were Rebs that close? We hadn’t been issued bedrolls or tents. The 24th left in a hurry. No thought about when, how, or if we’d return. The regiment lined up in the rain, which came hard. Rain rolled off kepis and soaked skin, but held down the hoards of mosquitoes and gnats that would come when it stopped. I marched next to Merrick and was happy for it. I wished we’d had more practice with the Enfields. Merrick, still sleepy, was glad we weren’t “strollin’ on the parade ground.” We looked at each other. We could march, drill, and shoot. Who’d be alive tomorrow?
The regiment hadn’t gone a hundred yards before the city men started to gripe. “This is clodhopper weather.” “God, don’t you know it.” The “clodhoppers” didn’t look good doing it, but they could march all day and sleep anywhere. I wa
s wet and miserable but happy the city men felt worse.
The minute we got out of camp, soldiers came the other way. They came in ragged groups, alone, in carts, on horseback. It was worse by dawn’s light. Ambulances went by and the groans were terrible. Men passed who weren’t hurt but had no weapons. No hat, no cross belt, no cartridge box or knapsack. Just crazy, frightened eyes. They shivered and yelled, “We’re whipped!” or “We was betrayed!” Since no Confederates followed, it was difficult to tell who betrayed whom. A lanky fellow whose sleeves were ripped, limped, grimaced and said, “Niggers!” with every step.
A heavy-set corporal shook his head and answered in cadence, “Ain’t worth it!”
“Niggers!”
“Ain’t worth it!”
“Niggers!”
“Ain’t worth it!”
Lyman Houghton shouted, “You two shut up or you’ll get a real wound!”
The light got stronger in the gray morning rain, and we saw real wounds. Dark bandages soaked with blood, wet with rain, tied about heads, arms, thighs, legs. An arm with no hand. An ear gone, leaving a dark hole. Branches used for crutches. Mouths blackened with powder from biting cartridges to load rifles.
We marched half a day in the rain and took up a position on the woody top of a hill on the Warrenton Turnpike. If Rebs came, we’d be firing downhill. The road was crowded with troops, stragglers, and wounded in carts. The rain slackened, but Virginia mud is thick. The red clay slime was a foot deep in places. It was heavy glue, not like mud back home. Artillery pieces, ambulances, and carts got stuck. The 24th didn’t hear or fire a shot but put our shoulders to every sort of slippery conveyance and got mud caked to our waists.
“This is bad,” said Merrick, “and we ain’t seen a Reb.”
Soldiers on the pike asked for water. They told of the awful sound of the cannon. “Bullets ain’t so bad till they’re all around you.” “Sweet Jesus, the last time the Rebs charged, they made an inhuman noise. Turn your spine to jelly.” “The Rebs is fierce, dirty, savage. Got no fear at all.” “You see one close, he don’t look like much, but when they charge…when they fight.” We shook our heads. The 24th hadn’t seen any yet.
“Skedaddlers don’t take prisoners,” Merrick said.
Company G pulled together a makeshift breastwork of logs, branches and mud. It might stop bullets, but not artillery. At least we couldn’t be seen from the road. We dug a trench with bayonets and lined it with branches but there was no getting dry. I stood by Hamer, Crocker, Cox and Houghton, which made me feel better. Even soaked and covered in mud, Lyman Houghton was the model, handsome, unafraid, uncomplaining, and the best shot in the company.
“If the Rebs is comin’,” Lyman said, wiping his rifle, “they ain’t in a hurry.”
The regiment made a line on either side of the road. We felled trees, cut branches, gathered rock—anything for cover. Captain Ferguson, a Sandy Creeker, said, “Here we stay. There’s nobody between us and Washington that ain’t running. Dig in.”
We appreciated Captain Ferguson. At Elmira, he admitted he didn’t know “a diddly damn” about marching and apologized for the company’s poor showing. When there was talk of disciplining Merrick, Captain Ferguson blamed himself and offered to resign his commission on the spot. We respected that. Merrick wasn’t disciplined, nor did he fight again. The gouger became a barracks’ brawler and spent a lot of time on guard duty.
We were thirsty and hot, but no one complained. Seeing a stream of frightened, wounded, beaten men, covered with dust, blood, powder—men who looked as little like soldiers as the grass and twigs we rested on resembled carpet and floor—sobered us. We wondered how long we could stay.
“Not long if a bunch of Rebs comes through,” said Merrick.
As the afternoon and rout wore on, and no one saw or heard a Rebel, men began to stroll down the pike. Captain Ferguson let us go in groups. Merrick and I walked together in the deep ruts of the road. A dozen men slogged up the hill. They were glassy-eyed, dirty, and dragged along, looking at their boots. None were wounded. None had rifles. Some had lost their caps and had lost or thrown away their packs. Merrick said they looked like children who went to camp out, gave up, and went home. A short man accepted a drink and said, “Thanks and damn the Seceesh.” Another took a drink and muttered, “Our officers run ‘fore we got to the battle.” It looked like they all ran, but we didn’t say anything, and offered canteens.
A carriage caught up to the cluster of rifleless men. It was an expensive black barouche with a collapsible top that was down. The occupants squinted in the sun. The collapsible didn’t help the driver, a Negro in a top hat, who was spattered with mud from head to toe. The top did preserve the black suit, if not the dignity of a portly, older man in the back seat. A pretty women in yellow held a large picnic hamper in her lap as if it were a baby, and looked as miserable as any woman I have ever seen. A man not much older than Merrick and me took off a brown coat, rolled up his sleeves, and looked sheepishly at the soldiers.
“Stop them, Cicero!” yelled the man in black.
The carriage pulled into the middle of the ratty, disorganized men who paid no attention.
“Stop! I tell you stop!”
Not one stopped or paid attention.
A shot rang out. The man in black stood and pointed a pistol, an Army .44. “Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Several men stopped and looked at the carriage. The man’s black hair hung in stringy clumps to his shoulders. If combed, it might have aped the coif of Thaddeus Stevens. He waved his arms like a preacher. I was surprised at his energy. The woman ran a petite hand through lovely brown hair. The Negro looked bored. The soldiers started walking.
“I am Congressman Cook of New Jersey! Halt! Stop! This is disgraceful!”
Merrick and I looked at the Congressman, the woman, the younger man, presumably an aide, as if they had stepped out of The Arabian Nights. The horses, carriage, Cicero and his top hat, were so out of place on this road, in this mud, with this Army, that if the earth swallowed them, I wouldn’t have believed they were ever here.
“What are you cowards staring at?” shouted the Congressman and pointed his pistol.
“Point that at me and I’ll blow your damned head off,” said Merrick. He said it, didn’t shout it. The sucking noise of men tramping in mud, the rattle of a mule-drawn, heavy-loaded cart of wounded approached slowly, background to Merrick’s threat. Together, they were as dramatic as the Congressman’s pistol shot. The Congressman looked startled, as if he’d been slapped. He looked at his pistol, the men in clean uniforms, the tramping, beaten men, the cart with groaning, bloody men, and said, “Hang it.” He climbed out of the carriage, looked at Merrick and me, and said, “Who are you?”
“The Twenty-fourth New York Volunteers. Rear guard.”
The Congressman put his pistol in his belt. He didn’t know whether to be angry or friendly.
“It ain’t wise to fire a gun around men who have guns,” said Merrick. “‘Less you tryin’ to shoot somebody.”
“By the Infernal, I won’t stand for this!” said Cook.
“You’ll stand for it if you want to get back to Washington before dark,” said the woman curtly, as she, with Cicero’s help, climbed down from the carriage. Her shoes sank in the mud and mud clung to the hem of her skirt. Her clothes were wrinkled, but dry.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, resting on my gun—the bumpkin who knows the city folk need direction. “What are you doing here?”
“Trying to preserve some damned order,” said the Congressman.
“Stop it,” said the woman. “I’ve had enough of your order.”
The young man, well-dressed and clean-shaven yesterday, joined them. I eyed him closely. At his age, he should have been a soldier and, from his blushing face, he knew it. With those clothes and full, pleasing face, this dandy would be a staff officer. A man to hand maps to men who make decisions. A stand-in to escort ladies and provide handkerchiefs when oth
er men are killed.
“We came to see the battle,” said the young man. “Yesterday was Sunday,” he added, as if this explained gentlemen and ladies who would spend an afternoon watching men kill each other. “We thought….” He didn’t finish.
“We thought it would be glorious,” said the woman.
“And well it might have been,” said the Congressman, “if men hadn’t run. My God, the filthy Rebels may go all the way to the capital.”
“We’ve seen terrible things,” said the young man. “Terrible.”
“Terrible behavior,” said the Congressman.
“We thought,” said the pretty woman, as if explanation were suddenly needed, “it would be like a tale of Walter Scott. A great adventure.”
We didn’t have anything to say to that.
12
Later that day Merrick and I ate hardtack under a large oak whose leafy branches shaded the rising Warrenton pike. The road wasn’t so soupy now the afternoon sun had broken through. The crackers were hard as stone and tiny white worms squirmed inside. Some of the city men threw the hardtack away. I smiled. A miller has seen enough worms to know to “break it, rub it, forget it.” Eating worms doesn’t cause harm, unless you see them and get sick.
We stopped sharing food with the dregs of McDowell’s army. They’d see Washington before we would. The 24th supplied water, hope, medical assistance if possible, but when would we get supplied or relieved? Enough knapsacks were tossed away on the march to Manassas so the fools could damn well pick them up if hungry.
Merrick and I had a lively discussion about the pretty woman with Congressman Cook, and whether or not Merrick might see her again.
“Not before that aide fella,” I said. “See his excuse for shoulders? That man’s never worked a day in his life.”
No Common War Page 5
