Karl Bacon (7 page)

That evening John and I sat before the campfire reading our Bibles, as was often our custom when other duties allowed it. John began to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“I’ve been reading through Luke, and I just read the verse in which Jesus says, ‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of man hath not where to lay his head.’ It just struck me as funny, that for the last month we lived like our Lord with nowhere to lay our heads. The Lord’s timing is incredible, that I should read those words tonight when we finally do have a place to lay our heads.”

I nodded slowly, still not seeing the humor in it. When we closed our Bibles to pray, John said, “Michael, the Lord told us, ‘Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself.’ Think of the many simple blessings we see every day—food, shelter, clothing, fire, basic necessities all, but what of friendship, the birds of the air, the beauty of this land all around us, the love of our families? Give thanks tonight for each and also thank God for giving you His only Son. Only in Him is there lasting peace and hope.”

I wrapped myself tightly in my new woolen blanket and slid under the cover of our new shelter tent. I knew John was right, and my prayer ended in restful sleep, but in the morning I awoke thoroughly chilled once again. Another gloomy day lay ahead.

And he hath put a new song in my mouth,
even praise unto our God.
PSALM 40:3

I
T WAS DURING MANUAL-OF-ARMS DRILL ONE MORNING AT
B
OLI
-var that my compatriots and I were schooled in another form of warfare. As we formed into squads to start the drill, it soon became impossible to maintain order in the ranks as first one, then another, and another of the men began to fret and fidget. Fidgeting gave way to furtive scratching, such as using the toe of one shoe to scratch the opposite ankle, as we tried to conceal our movements from the watchful eye of Captain Carpenter. But soon all semblance of secrecy was gone, and each man scratched busily not only at his ankles, but also at his wrists, armpits, belt-lines, and nether regions.

“Cooties!” Captain Carpenter spat with disgust. “You all have cooties! Sergeant Holt, deal with these men!” The captain stalked off in the direction of his tent.

“Cooties?” a score of voices asked in unison.

“Yeah! Bugs! Graybacks!
Lice!”
Sergeant Holt was referring to the insidious little parasite known as the body louse, but
they were generally called by the names suggested by Sergeant Holt—or other names not fit to mention.

“What should we do, Sergeant Holt?” I asked.

“I’ll show you. You others gather round, ‘cause I’m only going through this once. Where are you itching?”

“My legs, my armpits, my back, my—”

“Okay, okay, just one place—your leg. Roll up your trouser leg.” I rolled it up to my knee. “Where’s it itch worst?”

“Right here,” I said, indicating a place on the inside on my left knee.

“Look for a small reddish bump there. See it? Feel it?”

“Yes, Sergeant Holt.” I ran the tip of my finger over the spot.

“That’s a cootie!” Sergeant Holt laughed a fiendish laugh. “It’s under your skin where it’s nice and warm, and it’s eating away at your flesh.” Sergeant Holt was the only one laughing. Sarge would have been sympathetic to our affliction. He would have forewarned us. How dearly I missed the man.

“How do I get rid of it, Sergeant Holt?”

“You need something sharp, like a small knife.”

“A sewing needle?”

“Sure,” Sergeant Holt responded. “It’ll hurt like the dickens, but just dig the little devil out and squish him between your fingers. Now, go get ‘em, men!”

I reached into my pocket for the small sewing kit Jessie Anne had given me, wondering how she would have reacted had she witnessed the purpose for which it was first employed. I clenched my teeth against the pain, forced the needle under the telltale bump, and pried the cootie out. The pest was about a tenth of an inch long, but occasionally I found them up to twice that length. He had a small head and six crooked legs that he used to attach himself to his host —
me!
The louse popped most satisfyingly as my fingers squeezed the life out of him. I went in search of another, dug him out, and popped him. In half an hour I had
found and killed a dozen of these vermin and quickly realized that, were I to engage in this pastime constantly, I could never defeat the enemy that way.

Doc Rockwell told us that the only real cure was to bathe often and well with strong soap, something a body is reluctant to do during pleasant weather, but especially so during the cold winter months. Our clothing could not just be washed in a stream; it had to be boiled for fifteen minutes to assure the elimination of this scourge. Bedding and outerwear also had to be boiled, and we had to take special care when we were near a dead or dying person. These little pests seemed to know when their host was sinking away and they would jump ship, as it were, to the nearest warm body. Yet even with the strictest regimen of bathing and boiling and wariness, it was never more than a few weeks before the cooties came back for another visit and battle commenced again.

It should not be thought that all of the time at Bolivar was spent in melancholy, with our only activities being drill, fatigue duty, guard duty, foraging and cooking, the exercises of religion, or digging for cooties. There were some especially memorable times that lifted our spirits and knit the men together in an unspoken bond of brotherhood. There was laughter aplenty, regular letters and news from home, and every evening there was music. The music would often start simply with a single man sitting at his campfire after supper slowly strumming his banjo or bowing his fiddle, and whether his tune was a mournful lament over a lost love or a lively Scottish reel, a few friends would gather round, one or two members of the band might join in, and others would soon draw close.

I was always eager to join in when the singing started. At first these army songs were new to me, but I learned them quickly.
Having learned in my childhood the many hymns of the faith, and having sung them continually ever since, these campfire songs came very naturally to me. Songs about life in the army, army food, national leaders, patriotism, loves left at home, and friends lost on the field of battle, written by George Root, Walter Kittredge, H. T. Merrill, and others, stirred the spirits of the men, and the singing of these soldiers’ songs became the usual manner in which I chose to end each day at Bolivar.

“Play the ‘Battle Cry of Freedom,’” a voice might ask, or “How about ‘Tenting on the Old Camp Ground’?” Then we might sing the new “Battle Hymn of the Republic” and follow it with the northern version of “Maryland, My Maryland,” since we were just across the river from her. If the mood was light, “The Army Bean” song might be next along with “Hard Crackers” and its many hilarious verses of both official and unofficial authorship.

Discordant voices joined together, softly at first as each man sought his place in the chorus, then more firmly and even boisterously as they became more secure with the words and the tune and with their singing brothers. My warm baritone must have stood out from the mix, for sometimes, when the men had tired of the singing in general, or perhaps of their own singing in particular, a voice or two might be heard during a pause, “Palmer … Michael Palmer … give us a song.” At first, I modestly tried to put off these requests, but the one or two voices bred others; firm but gentle hands propelled me forward into the full glow of the firelight.

And so I began to sing for the troops, nervously at first, but bright, fire-filled eyes looked to me and calmed me. I sang “Take Your Gun and Go, John,” a song that was dear to my heart, because it told the story of a wife telling her husband that she would tend to the farm and the children as he went off to war:

Don’t stop a moment to think,
John
;
Our country calls, then go.
Don’t fear for me nor the children,
John,
I’ll care for them, you know!
Leave the corn upon the stalk,
John,
The fruit upon the tree,
And all our little stores,
John
,
Yes,
leave them all to me.

This scene was repeated for several nights, but soon the men became dissatisfied with a single song from me. I understood that whenever the men wanted me to sing for them at the end of the day just before the final roll call, that they wanted to hear the soft, reflective, and often mournful tunes that brought to mind deeply etched memories they could cherish in silence as the words rolled over them. And so I added several more songs to my repertoire: “Brother, Tell Me of the Battle,” “Our Comrade Has Fallen,” “The Vacant Chair,” “Mother Would Comfort Me,” and “Weeping, Sad and Lonely.” Indeed, I preferred these somber, heartbreaking songs above all others, for they suited my general disposition, and I had no difficulty evoking the sorrowful mood required. I usually sang from memory with my eyes closed, thinking only of the story being told, for I knew that should I open my eyes and gaze upon the faces of the men gathered around, the firelight would doubtless reveal many a tear-streaked cheek.

One bright, sunny day during early October, as John and I sat about our campfire enjoying our midday coffee, a member of our regimental band sidled over and sat down with us. It was the notorious cornet player Charlie Merrills. He appeared very young, perhaps still in his teens. John offered Charlie a cup of coffee.

“No thank you, Mr. Robinson.” Charlie was polite and
respectful when addressing his elders. “I just came over to talk to Mr. Palmer.

“Some of the boys in the band have been talking with Mr. McCarthy,” he continued. “We’ve heard you singing at the campfires and we think you sing very well. You have great warmth and the men respond well to it. We would like you to consider singing with our band.”

I nodded a sheepish “Thank you.”

“Mr. McCarthy thinks you could do maybe five or six songs, some of the ones you sing now plus a few others. We would have to rehearse of course, but we all think it could be very good. You could be part of our regular Saturday evening concerts if you wish, and you would have the opportunity to perform for the officers as well as the troops.”

“I’ve never done anything like that,” I said. “I enjoy singing for the men, I really do, but that’s a personal thing between the men and me. I’ve never sung in front of a crowd of strangers.”

“You have a gift and you need to use it,” John said. “Your singing has warmed many soldiers around our campfires, but many more have never heard you sing. You should allow them to be blessed by your singing as well. Doesn’t that seem right to you?”

“But you’ve heard the band. They play very well, but also very loudly, too loudly for my one voice.” I knew it was my last desperate objection, but I voiced it anyway.

“That’s not a problem,” said Merrills. “We’ll make sure the audience can hear every word. Now, what do you think, Mr. Palmer?”

I heaved a large sigh and nodded my head. “All right.”

“Fabulous!” Merrills said, pumping my hand while John clapped me on the back. “I’ll tell Mr. McCarthy and he’ll see Captain Carpenter about arranging time for you to rehearse with us. This is going to be great!”

And so it was that on the evening of Saturday, the eighteenth of October, I, Michael Gabriel Palmer, debuted in concert with the band of the Fourteenth Connecticut Volunteer Infantry Regiment at a small Methodist church in Bolivar. When every pew was filled, some of the men stood quietly at the back of the church. After the band played several pieces, Mr. McCarthy motioned for me to come forward. I sang just two songs. The first was my favorite “Take Your Gun and Go, John.” The audience listened attentively and applauded warmly when the song was done. Then Mr. McCarthy struck up the rousing “Battle Cry of Freedom.” As I finished the fourth and last verse, every officer and enlisted man in the place stood up and joined heartily in the chorus:

Their singing done, the hundred or more voices gave way to wild cheering. I bowed stiffly once and returned to my seat. Afterward, several officers shook my hand and expressed their appreciation. Some wished for me to appear with the band at every concert. But any satisfaction was small and short-lived; there would be only one more concert at Bolivar. The army was, after all, an instrument of war, and the war could not be fought and won with band concerts.

And they shall march every one on his ways,
and they shall not break their ranks.
JOEL 2:7

M
ICHAEL, GET UP HERE AND TAKE A LOOK
. T
HE ENTIRE
Confederate Army is down there.”

I hastily clambered over a few more large rocks and finally reached John, who stood atop a stony crag overlooking the road through Snicker’s Gap, where the men of the Fourteenth had been posted to guard against possible flank attack. It was a crisp, cloudless night, and the view from the ridge appeared endless.

“There must be ten thousand campfires if there’s one,” I said. “How far away are they?”

“Five miles, at least, maybe ten,” John said. “That’s the Shenandoah Valley down there. Now, turn around and look back down the road.”

A few miles to the east the scene was repeated, perhaps on an even grander scale, with the fires of the Army of the Potomac spreading across the floor of the Loudon Valley.

“It’s a glorious sight,” I said, “like a tapestry of fiery tongues—but these two armies must come together again.”

“And Rebel pickets could be just out of sight down this road with us dead in their sights.”

“What’s your point, John?”

“Of late you seem to dwell on the darker side of things. I’ve never seen that in you before.”

“Is it so strange?”

“I look at all this,” John said, waving his long arms high and wide, “as a gift from God. There is glory before and behind and above and below, but you seem to see it as an omen of doom. Sure, I know, tonight could be my last here on earth—these words might be my last—and thoughts like these are never far off. But I know in whom I believe and I’m prepared to face the final muster out, as Sarge would say.”

“But the Rebs could storm up through this gap in the next hour,” I said. “How could our single regiment, only a few hundred men, stop thousands of them? Or—”

“Or we might die of pneumonia or typhus or some other disease. My times are in His hand, Michael; so are yours. I will do my duty and leave my end to Him. And I will try always to be prepared, come what may.”

Friday, November 14, 1862
Camp of the 14
^th
Conn. Rgt. Vol. Inf.
Near Warrenton, Virginia

My Dearest Wife Jessie Anne,

Your letter of October 24
^th
I have just received. The last several days have been cold. It snowed lightly for several hours on the 4
^th
when we were some miles north near Upperville and the north wind drove the flakes along almost horizontally. There was
naught to do but turn against the blast and shield my reddened, near-frozen face. The army has not seen fit to issue the promised heavy blue greatcoats, so I always wear every piece of clothing I have, and even then I shiver uncontrollably and stamp my feet constantly whenever I am away from the campfire. Your lovely letter has warmed my heart beyond measure and I thank God daily for loved ones at home, because the local folk seem as cold as the weather.

Please forgive the somber words in previous letters. This new soldier was unaware of the tolls this war would exact upon every part of his person. However, please do not think me entirely wretched. John’s friendship is as vital as ever—he lifts my spirits daily. The routines of the march and camp occupy my thoughts and my time, but I continue to yearn for you and the children.

I continue in reasonably good health. I do have food sufficient to my need, even though I wish it were more satisfying. Perhaps you might send me some canned fruits and other goodies in sufficient quantity that I might share with John, Jim, and Harry. Also, and I hope it is not too late for this request, I would like to give each of these men a new pair of boots for Christmas. Hickham’s are the best, and the warmest. Sizes: John (12), Jim (10), Harry (8), and the usual size 9 for me. Please send all packages in care of Captain Carpenter, Company C, 14
^th
Conn. Rgt. Vol. Inf. It seems that packages addressed to officers always reach their destinations, while those addressed to enlisted men often do not.

Last week Colonel Perkins told us that General Richardson died of the wound he received at Antietam. Our colonel said, “Warriors such as General Richardson are too few and this army will long lament his passing.” I think he was right. The only way to finish this thing is to fight and fight hard. The men are willing – they just need a leader like Joshua, strong and very courageous.

As you will have read in the newspaper long before this letter
arrives, General McClellan has been relieved of command by the President. The entire army stood and cheered with unrestrained vigor as General McClellan, perched tall and erect astride his prancing horse, passed slowly in review throughout the entire assembled army. Then he merely rode away, and I expect we’ll never see him again. Our new commander is General Burnside, and I do not know of one man in our regiment who is pleased with this change. It is now known that General Burnside was very slow to commit his corps to the fighting along Antietam Creek when decisive action could have turned the tide of battle heavily in our favor. Most judge him as a man lacking three qualities most necessary to a commanding general, a great military intellect, courage under adverse circumstances, and the ability to inspire others to greatness. Many think he will only lead us into disaster.

We have received orders to prepare to march tomorrow at daybreak. Our destination is near Fredericksburg, but I do not know how many days this move may take or what we shall do when we arrive there. Because of the lateness of the season, battle is unlikely. We will probably just build huts and go into quarters for the winter. I do not know when I shall have an opportunity to write to you again, but until then,

I remain your most devoted husband,

The army finally issued winter greatcoats on Monday the seventeenth at Falmouth, a town on the north side of the Rappahannock River opposite Fredericksburg. We marched the next day in a heavy, soaking rain, to Belle Plain, a landing on the Potomac River, where supply ships docked, some down from Washington, others up from the Chesapeake Bay.

Our duty at the landing was not to guard it, as we had been
told by our officers, but to serve as laborers to unload the cargo from the ships. Working in shifts, night and day, seven days a week, we labored alongside a gang of escaped slaves who were pressed into service in return for food and shelter tents. The men grunted and cursed under the heavy loads of cases of hardtack, sacks of grain, barrels of salt pork, and boxes of ammunition. Sweat soaked our clothing and chilled us to the bone equally as much as the constant rain did. Already weakened from poor food, hard marching, and exposure to the weather, nearly every man in the regiment fell ill during the stay at Belle Plain. Harry Whitting’s health worsened immediately, and he was unfit for duty at Belle Plain after the first day or two. The strength of our regiment dropped daily as the poor living conditions once again proved a more severe trial than any battle.

Thanksgiving morning Captain Carpenter ordered Company C to turn out for a special assignment.

“Men,” he said, “we have been detailed to procure Thanksgiving dinner for the regiment. You will assist the officers in every way to make this happen. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir,”
we all yelled enthusiastically, for the thought of better food made all of our prospects instantly brighter and merrier. The weather was pleasantly clear and mild, the best we had had in over a week, and there would be none of the backbreaking tedium this day.

“We will leave immediately and return this afternoon,” our captain said. “Take nothing except your muskets and cartridge boxes. We will cross the river to pay a visit to a few farms where we should find all we need in short order. Those of you of high moral character,” he added, looking in John’s direction, “might think that we intend to steal from those people, but I assure you this is not the case. The federal government fully intends
to compensate these people for their support of the Union cause. We are taking a wagon full of things to trade—soap, coffee, and so on—and each officer carries Federal claim certificates that may be tendered in exchange for the goods we obtain. The secessionists need only to present these certificates to the proper authorities to receive appropriate payment. I expect that each of you will behave in a manner that will be a credit to the regiment. Do you understand?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

Our column of about forty officers and men, with three wagons in the rear, boarded a steam barge, crossed to the other side of the Potomac, and invaded the eastern shore in a spirited fashion with high hopes for the success of our mission.

Things went downhill from there. Apparently, Captain Carpenter had received no clear indication where these flourishing Rebel farms were, so we scouted about the countryside until a suitably prosperous looking farmstead was found. To say that the farmer and his kin were not happy to see us, both because we were “Yankee scalawags” and because we had disturbed them mid-feast is, of course, an understatement. After the officers negotiated the “purchase” price, the downcast farmer was asked where the next farm was. He gestured vociferously and gave very detailed directions, but of course whatever directions he gave were wrong, and the search for that next farm would begin anew. This scene played out several times that day, but slowly the wagons filled and our anticipation rose as we looked forward to the good eating we would enjoy back at camp.

I can only assume the barge pilot was unfamiliar with that part of the Potomac, for merely a hundred yards offshore, the barge, with its cargo of jubilant and hungry soldiers and the wherewithal for a sumptuous feast, grounded fast upon a sandbar. The pilot apologized profusely for his error, but there was nothing to do but remain on that barge overnight with no warm
clothing or blankets to shelter us from the cold night air. The next morning, a steamboat put out from the opposite shore and towed the barge into deeper water.

Colonel Perkins, kept informed of the procurement party’s progress, or lack thereof, proclaimed the observance of Thanksgiving would continue through Friday. Upon Company C’s triumphant arrival at camp, we found a kitchen already prepared, fires blazing, and volunteer butchers and cooks waiting. Sacks of large onions and slabs of bacon were turned into a deliciously fatty and salty hot soup. Bushels of sweet potatoes were boiled and mashed and served with sweet, creamy butter. Sacks of cornmeal were baked into muffins and topped with fresh clover honey. Dozens of chickens were slaughtered, plucked, and roasted over the open fires and divided among the men. Several smoke-cured Virginia hams, by reputation the best on the continent, were sliced and served cold. But the crowning achievement of our little foray across the river was a large hog ready for slaughter. After splitting the carcass into several pieces, each piece was run through with a spit and roasted. Dozens of soldiers stood around the fires grinning widely, their faces sooty and their eyes teary with the smoke of the sizzling pork fat that dripped in a steady stream onto the hot embers. Each one eagerly took his turn at the spit, rotating the meat over the flames and relishing the anticipation of that first bite.

Albeit a day late, it was with great joy and genuine gratitude that the men of the Fourteenth enjoyed a Thanksgiving feast second to none. For the first time in several weeks, all went to sleep that night with full and contented bellies.

General Burnside was all threat and bluster when he appeared at the landing a few days later. Several large ships had arrived overnight with a cargo of pontoon boats.

“Quickly, boys, quickly—every hour is critical! Those boats must be taken to the Rappahannock without delay!” One by one the pontoon boats were unloaded and lashed to carts waiting on the landing. “Go get another one, step lively now!”

The general’s constant chatter from atop his mount quickly became tiresome, as there were only so many men at the docks and each man could only do so much before being completely exhausted.

John, usually one of the last to complain, finally could take no more. “Michael,” he said, “I’m almost done in.”

“As am I, and every other man.”

“I’m praying that something will take that man with the magnificent facial fur away from here so we can rest a spell.”

And something did take General Burnside away. Teams of horses and mules were necessary to draw the carts onto which the boats were lashed. But there were not nearly enough teams and soon, work slowed to a standstill.

“Captain Taylor,” General Burnside screamed at one of his aides, “where’s Butterfield? Tell him to send us every horse and mule he can find by noon today or I’ll bust him down to second lieutenant! Take them from the artillery, from the quartermasters, and from anywhere else he can. I must have these boats at the river now!” The general rode off in the direction of Falmouth, still casting invectives and curses at the wind in his face.

“Winter quarters will have to wait,” John said. “We’re in for another fight.”