by Jim Murphy
I also told the Capt. about what Sally and Davie had done for me, and asked if they could get help from anyone. “There is a new group running around camp these days — the Union Commission, from up in St. Louis or there-abouts. I’ll ask them what can be done.” I thanked him and then took lunch — a mighty heap of it — and wrote Sarah a brief letter to tell her I am very much alive, and that I was sure Johnny was, too. After, I went to the field hospital to help with arriving ambulances.
The ambulances stream into camp day and night fully loaded. Most of the wounded are being transferred from regimental hospitals close to the fighting and have already been treated. Many others have been wandering about for days and have only now found their way to the surgeons. The surgeons here are very busy — prying pieces of metal from torn-up flesh and sawing off mangled bone.
I ask about the 122nd and G Company whenever I can, but no one — not the ambulance drivers, surgeons, nurses, litter carriers, or wounded — has any news of them. When he heard me asking these things, one of the other litter carriers said, “If you ask too often, you’ll find them for sure, and then you will be back in it. I have been here four weeks and expect that I can stay, as long as I don’t make too much noise.”
I thought about what this soldier said all day. They certainly need help here, as the ambulances keep arriving. But the number of wounded tells me that they need help out there, too, and maybe more so.
Ambulance arriving with wounded.
7 o’clock
When my day was over, I went hunting for Sally and Davie and their family. It took a while, but I found them with some officers, all of them working at cleaning clothes and cooking and such. I arrived just as Sally was lecturing a capt. about leaving his clothes all about his tent, and the capt., who did not understand a word she was saying, just stood there nodding his head while his friends laughed at the scene. Davie said they had traded one dirty house for another, but at least here they can leave when they want. And it seems they will be doing just that in two or three weeks, according to Davie. A representative from the Union Commission said a train would take them to St. Louis, where the group has its head-quarters and is helping the refugees from the South.
Sally brought us bowls of potatoes, carrots, and beef — much different food from what we had just a day ago! While we ate, I asked Davie and Sally some of the questions that had come into my head — like where Sally had come from that she speaks French and not American? Davie told me, “Sally is from an island off the coast of South America. She and her sister was taken and sold to people living outside of New Orleans when Sally was seven. It was a big place and the white folk was decent enough, but then Yellow Jack fever came and lots of people died. My mother and father and brother’sfamily. Sally’s husband, too. Even our master’s wife — that was when he decided to leave, so his two children would be safe from Yellow Jack — and Sally raised such a fuss til he brought us all to Virginia. We was in Virginia ten years when you come along.” I asked if they had ever considered running North before now, and Davie said, “We considered it every day — even before the war — but Sally said no, we had to wait for the right time. Sally said you wanted to get back to your soldier friends something bad and knew you would, too. And so would we if we went along. She could tell you did not give up easy.”
We talked more, mostly about what they did — which sounded a lot like what I did on Uncle and Aunt’s farm! Except that I was never beat, no matter how bad things got, and I could leave and not worry that any-one would hunt me down.
Seems that Sally was such a talker and so stubborn that her owner thought the house might be quieter — and the other Negroes less “agitated” — if she wasn’t around all the time — which is why he let her live apart in the abandoned tobacca shack. I told them that I had included them in my journal and I took it out to show them. Sally spotted the minié-ball hole and touched it, looking from it to me. Then her face brightened and she spoke to Davie. “Sally says she is proud to be in your book. She said your words must be very strong to stop a musket ball like that.”
May 12
I think some would call it a miracle. Today I was helping with the wounded when I heard a voice say, “Sgt. Pease, we all thought you dead and gone!” It was Pete McQuade, who had bandages on both his hands, his right leg, and parts of his face, and he looked to be thinner besides.
He told me that after I was “killed” — because that is what everyone thought — wave after wave of Rebs came over and Maj. Pettit’s men finally called retreat. Most of those who could move themselves made it back to the main road, where the officers rallied them. They went up the road and joined the fight again, but then the woods caught fire and forced them to retire a second time. That is where Pete got shot in the leg and then the fire burned him as he was crawling off. “The Company’s been shot up bad, Sgt.,” he added, tho he didn’t remember exactly who had been killed or wounded. I asked about Johnny, and Pete thought him fine the last he remembered seeing him. “But the fighting has moved over near Spotsylvania and is very hot, I heard. They was headed for the Ny River, last I saw them.”
I told Pete I would be going over there myself just as soon as I could break free from my duties here. Pete said he thought they could use my help, and then he told me to fetch something from his vest pocket that I should keep. It was a coin — the silver coin Sarah had sent me for good luck and which I gave to Pete a while back. “This didn’t do you much good, Pete,” I said. “Oh, but it did,” Pete replied. “I count myself lucky to have gotten out at all. A lot didn’t.”
I tucked the coin into the pocket with Sarah’s letters, thanked Pete, and went back to my work. Later I found the officer in charge and told him I knew where my Company was and wanted to go back to them, but he said I would have to wait til orders was issued officially. I said it was important that I get back to them, but he said it was important to wait for the signed papers to come thru. “Otherwise we will both be in trouble, Sgt.,” he explained. “Gen. Grant is cracking down on stragglers and such, and he is a man who means business.”
I thought about what this officer said while I helped move the wounded from the ambulances to the surgeon’s tent. Sgt. Donoghue always said, “An order is an order, and it isn’t our job to go question them either.” That is true, I believe, but I do not recall the officer “ordering” me to stay in camp, and I have certainly not heard from Gen. Grant directly. So I have decided to leave — before anyone gets around to ordering me not to!
May 13
Said a tearful good-bye to Sally and Davie and the others, and thanked them over and over for helping me and wished them well in St. Louis. Next I found Pete McQuade and told him what I was doing. Then I hitched a ride out of camp on an ambulance, which took me up the road several miles. Have walked ever since — the roads being less congested at night, tho still busy with supply wagons going and coming, cattle being taken to the army for food, and ambulances, of course. The ambulances never seem to rest.
Came upon some soldiers having breakfast at sunrise and was invited to join them — for $1! These fellows had been near the center of the line of battle on the morning of May 6 and had been pretty well licked by the Rebs, too. When I asked one of them which was the fastest way to Spotsylvania Court House, he just shook his head and said, “Take my word for it, Sgt. You don’t want to go over there. It is a living Hell.” When I said I did, he handed me his musket and cartridge box and said, “You will need these more than me then. I am going home!”
His rifle felt heavy to me, not having held one in many days — heavier than I remember and much heavier than little Harriet. I had to smile when he wished me “good shooting.”
Later
I am down to the last pages of this journal — who would have believed I would be alive to say that — and so I must choose my words carefully. The road has been very busy as I get closer and closer to the fighting. Early in the afternoon I heard the rumble of the big siege guns in the distance. The sou
nd of artillery grew louder and stronger, booming and booming away, and when I pictured them — and what they could accomplish! — my legs wobbled some.
Came to several cutoffs in the road, with streams of men and wagons heading up them and away from the fighting. The crackle of musket fire could be heard now, too, mingling with the rumbling thunder of the cannons. I have to admit that I thought a second or two about turning up one of those roads and disappearing into the crowd. Most everyone thinks me dead, so I probably wouldn’t be missed.
But then I thought about Sally — who helped me when she really did not have to and put herself at risk. And Harriet. How many other Harriets are there waiting still for our help? And I thought about Johnny — who is like a brother to me — and Lt. Toms and the rest of the boys. I even thought about Charlie Shelp, who is as cussed as they come and no friend of mine, but I think I can handle him just as I can handle Reb sharpshooters, my curse, and Army coffee. And there is Sarah, too — who I never want to disappoint. Ever.
Which got me to thinking. When I left Uncle and Aunt, I left nothing and headed toward nothing. Now I am heading toward people who count on me and need me, even if just a little. I will probably never be a very brave soldier, but I think I can do my job and do it in an honorable way. And after this war is over? Who knows?
I looked up just then, and there, not many feet in front of me, was a capt. on horseback staring right at me. He had a crisp uniform, a perfectly clipped mustache, sat very straight on his horse — and seemed to be the sort who did not take much none-sense. When I was closer, he called out to me in a sharp voice, “Where are you going, Sgt.?”
I will tell you that my heart jumped a beat and my blood ran cold, thinking I had been caught absent without permission and would have to pay the price. But then I gave the Capt. a sharp salute like those the Lt. gave to the Capt. delivering our orders each morning. “I have deserted my post at the field hospital, sir,” I said, “and I’m heading to Spotsylvania and the fighting.” The Capt. looked at me a moment, trying to figure out if I was lying or just crazy. “What is your name, Sgt.?” he asked. “I am Sgt. James Edmond Pease, G Company, the 122nd Regiment, New York Volunteers, from Onondaga County, sir. But I did not volunteer to carry stretchers.”
The good Capt. looked at me closely, and I am certain he decided then I was indeed crazy. But he just smiled at me and said, “Then you had better hurry along, Sgt. They will be needing you about now.” “Yes, sir,” I said. I then turned to go on my way when the Capt. called out, “Oh, and Sgt., good luck to you.” “Thank you, sir,” I replied, “But I believe I have all the luck I will need.”
James located what remained of G Company near Spotsylvania Court House late in the day of May 13. He was warmly greeted and happy to be among familiar faces, but sad to see so many fewer of them. He learned then that the recent fighting had taken the lives of four of his comrades besides Willie Dodd and Spirit: Sgt. Donoghue, Niles Rogers, Lyman Swim, and Cornelius Mahar. Another twelve had been wounded, though only six had serious injuries: Lieutenant Toms, Otto Parrisen, Hudson Marsh, Benjamin Breed, Pete McQuade, and James Wyatt.
James had little time to mourn the loss of his friends. Confederate General Robert E. Lee had control of the land around Spotsylvania, and Union General Ulysses S. Grant was determined to have it — at any cost. By the time James arrived, Union forces had already spent several brutal days attacking strong Rebel defensive positions, but had failed to break through Lee’s lines. James and G Company were in the thick of it every day until May 23 — with James recording what happened in a brand new journal — when they were finally given two weeks’ furlough.
Free to do what he wanted, James accompanied Johnny to the Henderson farm in New York State. “We had a needed rest,” James wrote, “and I was able to meet many of Johnny’s friends and relatives, as well as Sarah.” The young couple’s meeting went extremely well for both of them, and on June 4, James and Sarah were wed in the local Episcopal church.
The celebration had barely ended when James and Johnny found themselves back in Virginia and in the middle of the fighting once again. G Company would take part in several major battles before the end of the war, including action at Cold Harbor, Petersburg, Cedar Creek, and Appomattox Courthouse. When Robert E. Lee finally surrendered his army, on April 9, 1865, James’s Company had been reduced to just twenty men, the rest either dead, wounded, or taken prisoner. At the time he left the Army, James was seventeen years old and had risen in rank to second Lieutenant.
It was during these final months of fighting that a sketch artist from Frank Leslie’s Illustrated Newspaper, Francis Schell, spotted James drawing in his journal. Schell thought James’s work showed great promise and suggested he send samples to his boss. Soon James began submitting sketches of soldiers in camp, on the march and in battle, several of which were reproduced in Leslie’s. He became a staff artist for Leslie’s at the close of the war and covered such important stories as the building of the transcontinental railroad, the exploration and settlement of the West, and the Indian Wars. Sarah accompanied James on these assignments and eventually wrote articles of her own. Sarah and James had one child, Kate.
As for the veterans of G Company, they met every year at the reunion of the 122nd New York Volunteers, where they exchanged recollections of the war and brought each other up-to-date on their lives. Johnny Henderson did indeed marry the girl from the neigh-boring town and became a successful farmer, but he was best remembered for spinning tall tales about the Civil War. His favorite was about the time James charged ahead of everyone else and drove off several hundred Confederate soldiers single-handedly.
Osgood “Little Profeser” Tracy went back to medical school and became a doctor with a successful practice in Albany, New York, while Washington Evans became a skilled carpenter and helped to construct some of the most beautiful mansions in Syracuse. Charlie Shelp took his fiery, no-nonsense personality west, first as a foreman on Union Pacific Railroad work gangs and later as manager of a fur-importing company in San Francisco.
But of all the personal stories, the most intriguing was that of the notoriously shy William Kittler. William was wounded in the leg by an exploding shell at Cold Harbor, but he refused medical treatment for several days despite the obvious pain. Infection set in, followed by a high fever, during which William became unconscious and was finally rushed to the surgeons. It was there, while having his uniform cut from his body, that William’s secret was revealed — William Kittler was in fact a woman! Her real name was Gabrina Sales, and she had cut her hair short and joined the army in the same patriotic fervor that had gripped most of the men and boys. She was discharged from the Army and shipped North to recover and no one from G Company ever heard from her again. Rumor had it, however, that a soldier looking remarkably like William Kittler — and limping noticeably — had been spotted during the fighting at Appomattox.
As for Lt. Toms, he recovered from his wounds and returned to lead G Company in January 1865, when the Army laid seige to Petersburg, Virginia. He was repeatedly passed over for promotion during the rest of the war, despite a clean record and many heroic acts. After being severely wounded at Fisher’s Hill, Virginia, he was discharged from the Army still with the rank of lieutenant. He returned to his hometown and family, where he took up his old position as schoolteacher.
James made several attempts to find out what had happened to Sally and her family, but was never successful. He did, however, receive a letter from a former volunteer for the Union Commission, the civilian organization in St. Louis that helped relocate many refugees from the war. While there were no records of where individuals had been sent, the volunteer recalled that a number of former slaves had been given farmland in the Dakota Territory near the Canadian border. Letters to the area received no reply.
James returned to the United States briefly in 1910 to attend the forty-fifth anniversary celebration of the end of the Civil War. Many of his comrades from G Company had passed on by
then, leaving just a handful to remember the men and boys who had fought to preserve the Union. James died of a heart attack four years later while staying on Palawan Island in the Philippines; Sarah died ten years after James while on assignment for National Geographic in New Zealand.
Almost a year after the death of her mother, a steamer trunk was delivered to Kate Pease’s home in Montana. Inside were the personal effects of her parents. At the bottom, carefully wrapped in a hotel towel were her father’s Civil War journals. The final entry in the second journal reads:
“June 5, 1865: Well, the war is over and we have made it thru alive! Johnny and I will walk home tomorrow, but today will be spent in saying good-bye to friends and having our last — I hope! — Army supper. Because Lt. Toms is at home recovering, I will take these journals with me and hold them til he decides to write his history of G Company. I only hope that something I say here will be of use to him, tho I don’t see how the words of a scared boy could interest him — or anyone else — very much. As I end this entry I believe I can truly say that now you have read it all.”
Stuck in the back of the journal was a small, yellowing envelope with a tarnished silver coin inside. On the envelope was written: “Luck is measured by the friends you make and the people you love.”
On April 12, 1861, Confederate cannons under the command of General Pierre G.T. Beauregard opened fire on Federal forces at Fort Sumter. With this act, the Confederate States of America — which would number eleven states from the South after the fall of Fort Sumter — declared war on its Northern counterpart. The war (referred to as a revolution in the South and a rebellion in the North) would last four bloody years and cost the lives of an estimated 600,000 soldiers.
