Karl Bacon (13 page)

The army as a whole, and this soldier in particular, is weary of the hardships thrown upon us through the bungling of our generals. Those in high positions seem to have little regard for those below them – basic human decency apparently is not taught in the military academy. There is so little I can do to improve my lot and disposition that I fear I am becoming as gray and dismal as the weather. Please continue to uphold us in your prayers.

I remain your most affectionate husband,

Whosoever smiteth the Jebusites
first shall be chief and captain.
1 CHRONICLES 11:6

I
MMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE DEBACLE OF THE
M
UD MARCH
, news raced through the Army of the Potomac—Burnside had been sent packing; General Hooker was now in charge. Over the next several weeks, Hooker brought several fundamental changes to the army. Most of these changes were welcomed by the soldiers in the ranks, none more so than the promise that each man would finally receive all wages due him. It was a promise kept, and every man in the Fourteenth received four months’ pay along with his Federal enlistment bounty. There were changes in command: Generals Franklin and Sumner were relieved of duty. General Couch still commanded the Second Corps, and General French was still our division commander, but General William Hays was given command of our brigade. For the first time since the Second Brigade was formed, it would be led by a general officer, rather than a colonel, and the Twelfth New Jersey regiment was added to the brigade to increase its strength.

On the third day of February, in the year of Our Lord 1863,
a single wagon entered the camp, its load draped with a large white cloth. Wisps of steam rose carrying a most pleasing aroma to any and all who happened to be nearby. Our appetites had craved this wagon’s cargo; our hopes and dreams had been filled with it—fresh bread. Every man in the regiment dropped what he was doing and raced to get his share. The civilian at home cannot imagine what a blessing it was for a soldier to finally hold in his hands a loaf of soft fresh bread, still warm from the oven, after months of hard crackers.

Rations of fresh meat, onions, potatoes, and other vegetables became more frequent. Prospects of better food immediately raised the morale of the entire army; grumbling decreased considerably.

A system of furloughs was instituted. Two enlisted men out of every hundred were given a ten-day leave of absence. This was a stroke of genius because the disposition of every man in the army brightened as he contemplated the prospect, dim though it might be, of a visit to his loved ones. Numbers were drawn for these furloughs and the names of the men of the Fourteenth were entered into a ledger kept by Adjutant Ellis. John drew number 35 and I drew 42, so the prospects of either of us receiving furlough before the start of the spring campaign season were small indeed, but now there was hope.

General Hooker’s stock seemed to improve daily in the eyes of all the men—except Charlie, because Hooker ordered all of the bands to disband, claiming they were a waste of men and resources.

Charlie was furious. “Philistine!” he said, his voice shaking. “How can he outlaw music?” But the order stood. Mr. McCarthy resigned and went home; the other band members joined the ranks and took up soldiering. As for me, the order meant little and I remained silent on the matter, for I had little desire to take up singing again.

By the end of February, our regiment nearly doubled in size to about two hundred men fit for duty. Some of the less-seriously wounded, such as Captain Carpenter, returned from convalescent leave. Also, some who had mysteriously disappeared, either just before or during the fighting at Fredericksburg, chose this time to mysteriously reappear. A few of the more serious delinquents were jailed, but most were severely reprimanded and awarded extra fatigue duty, such as chopping firewood, digging sinks, and burying dead horses and mules. A sufficient supply of delinquents meant that those of us who had remained at our posts were relieved of these onerous duties and had more time for relaxation and writing letters and smoking our pipes. It also had the benefit of shortening our wait for furlough, since a regiment with only one hundred men could only send two men at a time whereas a regiment of two hundred could send four.

As the health of the men began to improve, arms drills were carried out every day. Dress parades and inspections were more frequent. We started to look and feel more like an army again, rather than a ragtag mass of homeless wanderers. Every man in the Army of the Potomac was issued a badge that was sewn atop his forage cap. The shape of the badge indicated which army corps the wearer belonged to. For instance, the First Corps badge was in the shape of a circle, the Second Corps a trefoil (similar to a three-leaf clover), the Third Corps a diamond, and so forth. The color of the badge identified our division within the corps — red for the first division, white for the second, and blue for the third. So everyone in our regiment sewed a blue trefoil badge to the top of his cap, because we were in the Third Division of the Second Corps. Every soldier was now instantly identifiable as belonging to this or that division. He began to take pride in his new identity. He warmly greeted others along the way with similar badges as if they were old friends. He paid more attention to
his personal appearance, appearing taller and walking with a surer step.

Saturday, the 14
^th
of March, was the day of the great snowball fight. Adjutant Ellis, a staff officer with the Fourteenth from the start, was soon to be promoted to the rank of major and permanent command of the regiment. Upon seeing a fresh blanket of heavy, wet snow, and having nothing of import scheduled for the day, Adjutant Ellis challenged Colonel Powers, who was also newly in command of the 108
^th
New York, to a snowball fight, not adjutant versus colonel, but regiment versus regiment. Powers readily accepted the challenge, thinking Ellis, an officer of inferior rank, to be an easy mark.

One hour was given to prepare positions for the upcoming fray. Both sides threw up mounds of snow about twenty-five yards apart on the parade ground; the higher the mound, the better the protection from incoming ice bombs. As the agreed-upon time neared, Adjutant Ellis called the regiment together for last-minute orders.

“The rules are simple. This is a fight to the finish; last regiment standing wins. The officers of the Twelfth New Jersey will serve as marshals. If you’re hit squarely, you’re dead and you will be ordered from the field. Now, I have a plan for this little engagement. You all know how we drill the Sharps rifle companies in pairs? How one man loads both weapons and the other man fires them?”

Ellis looked from side to side as he spoke; attentive heads nodded slowly.

“Work in pairs. One will make snowballs as fast as he can. Pack them well so they do not come apart, and stay low so you do not get killed. The other will be the shooter. Aim carefully and make every shot count.”

Happy murmurs broke out as the men grasped the grand strategy.

“Aim at their best shooters first. Kill them and the day is ours. Listen to your officers. They will direct your fire just as they do in real battle. We will reduce their numbers to the point where we can successfully charge and carry their works. When I call ‘Fix bayonets!’ that will be the signal for everyone to stop throwing and arm themselves with two or three snowballs for the charge. Any questions?”

With a great cheer we took up positions behind our mound of snow. Jim and I were snowball shooters; John was my loader and Charlie was Jim’s loader. A revolver was fired into the air at the appointed hour. “Fire at will!” echoed up and down our line and the melee began.

The air was filled with snowballs arcing across the intervening space. Like most of the other men, my first few throws either fell short or went long as I homed in on the correct range, but one by one, my shots started to find their marks. As a young boy, I became very good at throwing rotting apples at tree trunks, a skill that had no particular purpose except that every direct hit was rewarded with a satisfying mushy
thwop.
I developed a technique that began with drawing the apple back behind my right ear in line with the direction of my target. After pausing for just a split second, I brought my arm over and across my body in an overhand motion, releasing my projectile with a flick of the wrist, much as they do in the new game of baseball. This practiced motion practically guaranteed that an apple would fly straight at a tree trunk or that a snowball would fly straight for a man’s head. One by one, dead but still cursing participants were ordered off the field by the marshals.

Ellis’s strategy had one other advantage. As a shooter, I never had to look away from the enemy to get another snowball. I put my hand down at my side, John put his finished snowball
in my waiting hand, and then I raised it and got ready to throw. After completing the throw I just put my hand down for another ball and did it all over again. Although I was exposed to incoming fire all of the time, I could see the shots coming and, if the shot appeared close to ending my day, I could dodge or weave. My eyes never left the target. I watched our opponents across the way and timed my throws with their movements. A New Yorker would throw his snowball, stoop down to make another, and, just as he started to rise up again, I would let loose with mine. Often, my ball struck him before he was able to focus on the instrument of his “death.”

Jim Adams was not as fortunate. Several times I saw him out of the side of my eye turning his back on the New Yorkers to receive a snowball from Charlie. “I’m dead!” Jim yelled when he was struck in the hip during the early stages of the fight, and he was forced to stand aside to watch the rest of the engagement. For several minutes, the issue was truly in the balance; we lost as many as the New Yorkers, but we had heard our commander, and the men we were picking off one by one were their better throwers. Gradually, the accuracy of their fire deteriorated.

Half an hour later the outcome was no longer in doubt. Both regiments had started with about two hundred men “fit for duty.” We had been reduced to about one hundred; the 108
^th
to about seventy, and many of their survivors were not major threats. They were expending greater and greater effort in throwing their snowballs, many of which fell short of our breastwork of snow. Our shooters were also tiring, and some changed places with their loaders to rest while fresh arms kept up the fire on the New Yorkers. The numbers in the 108th continued to dwindle, while only a few more of our men retired from the field.

“Fix bayonets!” ordered Adjutant Ellis. Wide eyes and bewildered faces appeared over the works across the way. The surviving members of the Fourteenth quickly made their small
arsenals of snowballs and waited only a few seconds for the anticipated order.

“C
HARGE
!”

Up we jumped over our mound of snow, screaming like wild men, racing toward the enemy, weaving this way and that to avoid snowballs fired frantically at us in a last-ditch effort to avoid disaster. We sped across to the enemy’s works, holding our fire until we were immediately upon them. To their credit, many of the New Yorkers died in gallant defense of their line, but others started to run for the rear and were shot in the back. No quarter was asked and none given. John and I and several others gave chase as some retreated back toward an encampment of tents and huts along the edge of the parade ground. Running as fast as our legs could carry us, we started in among the first line of huts.

“Yow!”
John yelled. I heard rather than saw him crash to the ground behind me. I left the pursuit to my comrades and turned back. John had fallen heavily against the base of a hut much like our own. He quickly struggled back to his feet, but stood hunched over, holding his right hand against his ribs.

“Are you all right, John?” I asked.

“Yeah—I think so.” John gasped for breath. “My feet just went out from under me. Hurts something terrible though — maybe broke a rib.” After a minute or two John was able to stand erect. He shook his head with a wry laugh. “I’m not a youngster anymore, and I should know better than to go racing off through the snow like that.”

The wet snow had soaked him through. The fight was over and the Fourteenth had clearly won a great victory that day. Except for John, injuries were limited to a smattering of black eyes, split lips, and bloodied noses. All would recover. There was celebration all around, and even the men from the 108
^th
New York, after conceding their humbling defeat, joined the
celebration. There was a special ration of fresh beef and vegetables that evening, and we retired to our huts to prepare our minor feasts. John painfully removed his clothes and sat shivering by the fire in an effort to warm up. He asked me to look at his back and side to see if I could see anything wrong, but there was no visible wound.

I heard John grunt in pain several times that night as he turned in his bunk. In the morning Doc Rockwell examined John and confirmed that John had probably cracked one or more of his ribs. The surgeon bandaged John’s torso and sent him to the hospital for a few days of “observation.”

John healed quickly, and while he was able to resume many of his normal duties, he could not engage in any strenuous labor. He was released from the hospital on St. Patrick’s Day, a day of great celebration in the Second Corps because of the Irish Brigade and the many Irishmen throughout the corps. It was a beautiful day for such enjoyment, a pledge of the full bloom of spring soon to come. Good food, whiskey, and rum were consumed in abundance. Merriment ruled the day, the noise of which I hoped would carry across the river to the camp of the enemy.

A curious thing happened during those long, trying winter months at Falmouth. The defeated, dispirited, and dejected army was transformed. Constant drilling, better food, changes in command, and a few dollars in our pockets all served to rebuild a quiet confidence in our abilities as men and as soldiers. Morale improved along with our health and spirit; resolve was reborn to see this war to a victorious conclusion.

The Army of the Potomac emerged ready to march. It was spoiling for a fight. It was hungry for victory. And so was I.