Karl Bacon (17 page)

Night fell and the army remained in place. Hours passed and not one regiment was taken out of line and sent rearward for the bridges. The heavy rain had caused the river to flood beyond its banks. Heroic engineers were forced to extend the length of the pontoon bridges and anchor them upon solid ground, a difficult enough task in the dark of night, but a truly perilous one when bridging a raging torrent.

Things finally started to happen about midnight, but I saw clear as noonday what was happening. General Hooker’s knock on the head had cost him his backbone.

One by one, units formed up and marched off to the north. The Fourteenth Connecticut left its stout breastworks at about two o’clock in the morning on Wednesday, May the 6
^th
. Rain continued to pour down as we marched up the new road we had seen the woodsmen cutting on Monday, hewn not for the purpose of communication and supply of a mighty army, but for retreat. How could it be that the Army of the Potomac, bloodied to be sure with thousands more dead and wounded, but with so
much energy and will for the fight untapped, should be withdrawn from as strong a defensive position as it had ever known, once again under cover of darkness?

The road was cut straight for the pontoon bridges, but in spite of its straightness, the going was most difficult. Stumps from hundreds of felled trees remained and sent every man time and again tumbling to the ground in the darkness. The road became an avenue of cries and tears. Curses profuse and profane filled that black, rainy night all about me in yet another testament of woe.

The Fourteenth finally arrived at the bridges with knees, elbows, shins, and arms bloodied from countless falls. We crossed over just as the new day began to lighten the black of night to darkest gray. We turned toward the east and marched back the way we had come only eight days before. The march was as silent a one as I had ever known. There was no grumbling, no singing, no jesting, just slogging along in the heavy rain, hour after hour through mud more than ankle deep, until we arrived back at Falmouth about midday.

Jim, Charlie, and I returned to our hut without a roof, where we sat on Jim’s bench beside the open door awaiting further orders. We had no greatcoats, for they were well on their way northward, and we had no shelter tents or blankets to wrap up in to ward off the chill, for the Rebels were making good use of them now. There was nothing to do but sit and shiver, soaked to the skin, waiting and praying for the rain to stop, and once again watch the remainder of our mighty army shuffle by.

I took my pipe out of my pocket, one of the few personal things that escaped the clutches of the Johnnies. I held the bowl close to my face under the bill of my cap to shield it from the rain and carefully pressed a fresh load of tobacco into it, just as John had shown me—child, mother, father. Then I struck a match against the heel of my boot.

It had become all too familiar, all too predictable.

But one thing had changed—now I was an instrument of death. I closed my eyes and saw the shabby man dressed in gray with the black slouch hat fall again and again before me. Strangely, I felt little as I watched, no sympathy for the dead man, no compassion for his family, no thankfulness for deliverance, not even mild satisfaction with duty well done.

I just felt … hollow.

For my loins are filled with a loathsome disease:
and there is no soundness in my flesh.
I am feeble and sore broken:
I have roared by reason of the disquietness of my heart.
PSALM 38:7 – 8

I
T HAD BEEN A WONDERFUL DINNER, THE BEST SINCE
I
HAD LEFT
home. Indeed, I
was
home.

Jessie Anne and Sarah had prepared the sumptuous dinner of roast beef, creamy mashed potatoes, early sweet peas, and freshly baked bread, while Mama watched little Ed and I was upstairs soaking in a hot bath. When dinnertime finally arrived, Jessie Anne sat down next to me instead of at the other end of the table as she usually did, to the great displeasure of little Ed. Several times she reached under the table to caress my hand softly.

Afterward, we went for a stroll along the bank of the river, husband and wife hand in hand, while daughter and son frolicked. How pleasant it was this early June evening with gentle westerly breezes stirring the lush, verdant bloom of late Connecticut springtime. It was warm. It was beautiful. It was tranquil. It was … oh … so … safe.

There was a gentle tap upon my shoulder; a soothing but insistent voice penetrated the veil of half-slumber. “Corporal? We’re coming into Philadelphia.” I yawned and willed my eyes open, forcing them to focus on the form standing over me. The whitest hair I had ever seen on a man escaped from under a black straight-sided pillbox-style hat. Above its narrow patent leather brim was a shiny, brass pin—the initials
P W & B
in an ornate script above the word
C
ONDUCTOR
in small block letters. White brows arched above small, round spectacles, a full white moustache drooped lazily from the man’s upper lip, partially hiding his mouth.

“You’re headed north, right, Corporal?” I stared blankly at the man; my brain had not yet awakened. “Where’s home, soldier?”

I finally found my voice. “Naugatuck, Connecticut, sir.”

“Sure, the Naugatuck Railroad. I’ve heard good things about that line. You’ll need to change trains to the P and T, Corporal. It leaves at two-thirty.”

“P and T?” I asked.

“The Philadelphia and Trenton Line; it goes to Trenton where the New Jersey Railroad takes over. They run express cars all the way to the Jersey City terminal so just stay on that train when you get to Trenton. Should get there about seven o’clock, I think. Then you take the ferry across the Hudson to Manhattan Island.”

“Thanks, … Mr. Tucker.” I read the conductor’s name from the pin on the breast pocket of his jacket.

“Henry, please, young man.”

“Henry it is. Does the P and T train leave from this station?”

“Oh, heavens no,” said Henry, “their depot’s up in Kensington. Look for an Ames Omnibus on Market Street just outside the station. They make regular runs to the P and T depot. Get you there in plenty of time.”

I stretched and looked out the window. In the bright sunshine, I saw that we were rolling up the west side of a river, the Schuylkill, according to Henry. We came into a switching yard, made a slow right-hand turn, and crossed a long bridge over the river into the city proper. A few minutes later the train stopped at the platform. The station clock showed ten past one.

“Let’s go, boys,” I said, standing up, “we have to go to another train station.” I had three companions from the Fourteenth traveling with me, and it was a small but satisfying realization that I was now the ranking member of this little furlough party.

Yes, I was now a corporal. At Chancellorsville, Corporal Fox went missing for six days and did not reappear until the regiment had returned to camp at Falmouth. He was immediately reduced to the rank of private. Apparently, Captain Davis had given a good report of my actions during the recent campaign to Captain Carpenter, who thereupon summoned me to his tent and informed me of my promotion. I received my new stripes on the first day of June along with an increase in my monthly pay to fifteen dollars.

Several important changes occurred during the days and weeks following our return from Chancellorsville. The Fourteenth moved to a new campground in pinewoods about a mile from the Rappahannock. Upon arrival we found two wagon-loads of supplies—new knapsacks, shelter tents, rubber blankets, and woolen blankets—all of the army issue we had lost at Bullock’s farm.

The pinewoods was a very fine site for a camp, shaded nearly all day, with a thick carpet of pine needles underfoot and a rippling stream of clear water nearby. Gone was the dreary landscape of the winter camp, with its dust in dry season and its
mud in wet. Gone were the ugly log huts made useless as shelter from the weather by the absence of their tent roofs. Gone was the view of the Confederate works around Fredericksburg, a constant reminder of our defeat there. We cleaned and boiled our clothes and bathed in the stream. In a short time our bodies were refreshed, and we settled back into the comfortable life of the soldiers’ camp.

Gone also was our brigade commander, General Hays, now a guest of the Confederacy. Colonel Thomas Smyth of the First Delaware Volunteers was promoted to command the brigade. Colonel Smyth had enjoyed the respect of all in the brigade ever since his Delaware boys’ courageous display in front of the sunken road at Antietam Creek. So within a few days after our second return from across the river we had brand-new equipment, a new, more peaceful and pleasant campground, and a new leader.

One day in mid-May, a rider galloped wildly into camp. “Jackson is dead!” he cried, “Stonewall Jackson is dead!” Then he was gone, off to spread the news throughout the rest of the army. It was indeed true. Jackson had mistakenly been shot by his own men. The great Rebel general died about a week later near Fredericksburg. Spirits rose immediately with the realization that we would never again have to face this foxy, indomitable man again in battle.

General Hooker reinstated the furlough system in an effort to boost morale. A bitter irony of this system was that my chances of getting furlough were improved by the misfortunes of others. When a member of the regiment died, John Robinson for example, all those after him on the furlough roster moved up one notch. The wounded still in hospital were displaced by the able-bodied, shirkers were moved to the bottom of the roster, and
deserters were removed altogether. As a result, my name rose to eleventh on the list after Chancellorsville, which meant that I would be in the third group of four to be furloughed, if all went according to plan. The time of departure was scheduled for six o’clock p.m. on Thursday, June 4
^th
.

Those were anxious days, the last few of May and the first few of June, as rumors flew that the Rebels were up to something and that the army was getting ready to move. It was also with no little uneasiness that the four shortly-to-be-furloughed comrades awaited the return of the quartet sent home before us. But return they did, and shortly before six o’clock that Thursday evening, we were summoned to Major Ellis’s tent.

Adjutant Doten filled out our furlough papers. On each, he wrote a physical description of the furloughed man; then the major signed the paper with a flourish. We accepted the documents with deepest gratitude and a crisp salute, our hands shaking all the while with excited anticipation.

“You are hereby granted ten days furlough to return to Connecticut,” the adjutant said. “Present these papers to the provosts whenever they ask for them. A steamship is leaving for Washington from Aquia at nine o’clock this evening and you had best be on it. You will return to camp no later than six o’clock in the evening on Sunday, the fourteenth of June. If you do not report by the appointed time, you will be placed on report as absent without leave and treated as deserters. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” four voices screamed joyfully.

“Enjoy your furloughs, men. Dismissed,” Adjutant Doten said, acknowledging our salutes with a quick one of his own.

Pockets had already been stuffed with fresh bread; canteens had already been filled, so the three men and I set off immediately at as fast a pace as we could manage. It was eight miles to the landing, and even though the Aquia Road had been greatly improved since our tour of duty at the landing in November, we
knew it would be better than two hours of brisk walking. Scores of other men were heading off for furlough too, and the mood of the men was joyful in the extreme. Many produced bottles of whiskey and freely imbibed of their contents, sometimes with staggering results. Some laughed and joked and told stories of great bravado or harrowing escapes. Others who surely had trouble keeping up on the shortest of marches while on campaign, ran and skipped and frolicked along tirelessly for the entire eight miles. As for me, I chose to remain silent all during that long evening walk, retaining only two thoughts in my mind, the first being my last traversal of this road when I accompanied John’s coffin to the landing, and the other of once again seeing Jessie Anne and my dear children. If things went smoothly, I expected to arrive in Naugatuck by noon on Saturday, and my mind fixed fancifully on the many things we would enjoy together during those blessed days at home.

The vessel was a fast river steamer, low and sleek, with twin side-wheels. Besides about two hundred happy soldiers headed home on furlough, several dozen wounded men were carried aboard on stretchers and taken below decks. Sacks of mail and other shipments were laded aboard and stowed. Tired and happy men staked out little claims of space on the open deck, “sleeping quarters” they called them. I found a space in the stern near the wheelhouse and leaned up against the side of the ship. Before long, the gangway was taken up, lines were cast off, and the mighty wheels began to propel the vessel out into the Potomac.

After a pleasant voyage lasting a little more than four hours, the steamer turned into the Anacostia River and docked at the Washington Naval Yard. Provost guards checked each man’s papers under the dim light of oil lamps on the wharf. Directions were given to the depot near the Capitol Building. At the station the schedule board on the wall showed that the train to Baltimore was not due to leave until six o’clock, but no rest was
to be had that night because revelers paraded through the depot all night, celebrating their temporary freedom.

We reached Baltimore at about seven-thirty in the morning, and our papers were again checked by the provosts. Most of the furloughed men, now much quieter and slower of step after a sleepless night, set off on the one-mile walk across Pratt Street toward President Street Station, the southern terminus of the Philadelphia, Wilmington, and Baltimore Railroad. Most arrived with time to spare, but some, I suspect, did not.

I went directly to the telegraph office. “A dollar for ten words,” the agent informed me when I asked the amount of the toll to send a telegram. I gladly paid the man and sent this wire to Jessie Anne, knowing how happy she would be to receive it:

The train left for Philadelphia at eight-forty. Upon reaching the Susquehanna River at the town of Havre de Grace, the train was carefully loaded aboard a steamship specially built with rails to carry the locomotive and cars. The ship ferried the train across the river, and our rail journey continued on to Wilmington, Delaware, after which I slouched down in my seat. I fell into a sound sleep and beheld ethereal visions of my beloved ones’ beautiful faces dancing through my dreams.

The P & T train departed on schedule, passed through Princeton, New Brunswick, and Elizabeth. It arrived at last at the end of the line, the ferry pier at Jersey City, at about quarter past seven that evening. The ferry had just departed, so we would have to wait forty-five minutes for it to return. I stood gazing
across the Hudson River, at the ferry inching its way across and the bustling city of New York. I pulled from my pocket Jessie Anne’s latest letter, which I had received the week before. One paragraph particularly warmed my spirit as I waited:

Your true brother in the Lord is gone. How sore is the ache in my heart – yours must be multiplied all the more. Abby was truly shattered when word came that John had died. Never have I seen someone I love fall to pieces so quickly and utterly, but I believe she is mending. Brothers and sisters at church have been wholehearted in their love for Abby and the children. Many have extended the hand of Christian charity above and beyond the barest necessities, loving words and tender embraces have been commonly shared, and many a sympathetic tear has been shed. There are many to help that family. For now they will endure. In time they may flourish once again. My worry is now for you, my beloved, for there seems no one with whom you might share a tender embrace or shed a sympathetic tear. Were you here, you know I would do so, and I pray these few words may be a poor substitute. Come home to me, my dearest husband. Come home to me in safety when the Lord wills it.

How I longed to touch the hand that wrote those words and to have that hand touch me. Less than a day—the Lord had willed it—a short river crossing, maybe some sleep at the station of the New York and New Haven Railroad, aboard the first train in the morning, a transfer at Bridgeport, and then the pleasant and familiar ride up the valley, one hundred miles at most. I certainly hoped that Jessie Anne would prepare something special for lunch, and I so longed for one of her strawberry pies; the berries should just be in season. But what of Abby? What should I say to her? What could I say to her?

A cheer went up when the ferry started back across the river.
When it was about halfway across, a commotion from behind caused every head to turn away from the river and the approaching ship. A provost marshal had appeared, along with several guards. Pistols were drawn and at the ready.

“Attention all you men on furlough,” he began. “We have just now received this wire from General Butterfield, Adjutant General, Army of the Potomac. ‘Per order of Joseph Hooker, General Commanding, Army of the Potomac, as of six o’clock p.m., June 5
^th
, 1863, all furloughs and leaves of absence are hereby immediately rescinded. All officers and enlisted men are ordered to return to their units immediately. Failure to comply with this order will result in swift and sure prosecution for desertion and dereliction of duty.’ All of you men must get back on this train and return to Virginia. Present your papers to me as you pass. Return the furlough papers to your commanding officers.”