Rebels at the Gate: Lee and McClellan on the Front Line of a Nation Divided (8 page)

Many Confederates sported a huge side knife. Hammered from old steel by local blacksmiths or imported from Europe, a “Bowie” knife or dagger seemed just the thing for hand-to-hand fighting. The boys all had “big knife fever,” recalled a Tennessee volunteer. “Our large bloody-looking knives were the only things possessing much similarity, and a failure to have one of these pieces of war cutlery dangling at your side was almost a certain sign of weakness in the knees.”
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The few cavalry companies mustered at this early date toted handguns, old “pepper box” pistols, shotguns, and antique sabers. Confederates in every branch of service rounded up whatever could be had, and then departed for a camp of instruction.

For many Virginians, the destination was Richmond (population: 37,000), the South's third-largest city. Chaos reigned as volunteers spilled in. Rustic backwoodsmen gawked at huge crowds in front of the state capitol while dignitaries such as Governor Letcher and President Jefferson Davis spoke.
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Two miles west of the city, at Camp Lee, many got their first lesson in soldiering. Drillmasters from the Virginia Military Institute guided recruits through their paces, a scene that played
out in camps of instruction throughout the South. Young women often came out to witness the drilling. John Worsham thought “they seemed to enjoy it as much as we did their presence.”

“The men formed messes,” Worsham recalled, “each consisting of about ten men and each employing a Negro man as cook. We got on nicely, as we thought. The regular rations were issued to us; but in order to become accustomed by degrees to eating them, we sent the cook or some other member of the mess into town to get such articles as the market afforded.” Marcus Toney recalled, “[W]e were novices as to cooking and washing. We knew that water and flour mixed made batter, and we knew that meat when fried made gravy; so with this much of the art acquired, we had fried dough, or what the boys called flapjacks. As to the washing—well, let that pass.”
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A Virginian described the schedule at Camp Lee: “We have drills of one hour each day and also a dress parade at 6 in the evening, between times we have to cook, wash, go after provisions, sweep and clean up in front of our bunks and (last but not least) we have to stand guard, having often to shoulder our muskets and march at least 5 miles to stand guard, way below Richmond. So you see we are kept pretty busy.”
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The novel discipline sparked rebellion. Cosmopolitan Richmond was most alluring to the recruits at Camp Lee. The fancy uniforms of John Worsham's company gave them the appearance of officers, a trait sometimes used to slip out of camp. “[W]e would march boldly by a sentinel on duty at one of the many openings around the grounds, give him the salute, and he would present arms as we passed out,” the fun-loving Worsham recalled.
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The specter of death also appeared. Recruits were accidentally shot, drowned, hit by trains, or bitten by rattlesnakes. Measles, normally a harmless childhood disease, had serious complications for the rural men never before exposed. “Many cases of measles, and many fatal, took place,” wrote Marcus Toney from Camp Cheatham, Tennessee, “and the doleful dirge of the dead march often touched our hearts.” But a sense of duty kept most
Confederates in line. “A soldier's life is a hard one,” admitted a young Virginian, “yet I would be cheerful and contented were it fifty times as bad for I believe we are engaged in one of the noblest causes on earth, namely the defense of our country, our liberty and the protection of our parents, wives and children, and all that is dear to a man.”
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Regiments were formed, consisting of ten companies led by a colonel. John Worsham recalled the formation of his regiment, the Twenty-first Virginia Infantry, at Camp Lee: “ We were mustered into service for one year…on the capitol square…. Each boy under twenty-one, and there were many, brought a written permit from parent or guardian…. The regiment numbered about 850, rank and file.”
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They came from a variety of backgrounds. “The pulpit, the bench, the bar, the farm, the anvil, the shop and every other calling was represented,” noted one recruit. The Forty-fourth Virginia Infantry, a typical regiment at Camp Lee, boasted a makeup of 36 percent farmers, 19 percent laborers, 16 percent carpenters and tradesmen, 12 percent students, 8 percent clerks and merchants, 4 percent doctors, lawyers, and ministers with a balance of apprentices and county officials.
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“Soldiers were coming into Richmond from all directions,” marveled John Worsham. “The streets were filled with marching men and the sound of the drum was heard every hour of the day and night.” Raw recruits mustered in as new regiments marched out for the seat of war—all to the frantic “waving of handkerchiefs by the dames and maidens and the huzzas of the men and boys.”
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By contrast, the mood was somber in much of Western Virginia. Private John Cammack heard few cheers while mustering at his county seat of Clarksburg, Harrison County. Cammack's “Harrison Rifles” shared the town with a company of Union recruits. Old friends and neighbors were now forced to choose sides. To avoid conflict, they drilled at the courthouse on alternate days, locking their weapons in the county jail at night.

“One of the most remarkable things that I have ever known of occurred there,” recalled Cammack of his departure. “The Union
Companies came around, most of them willing to talk and such expressions as these could be heard; ‘Well Tom, you're going South I see. Well, goodbye, I guess the next time I see you will be in battle.’ ‘So long, you'll catch the devil when we do get to fighting, alright, all right.'…Many of the men shook hands with their foes and sometimes there were kindly expressions of good bye.”
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Most Southerners could hardly have imagined it. The adoring citizens of Richmond followed Confederate troops everywhere; “fair maidens” waved and solicited uniform buttons as souvenirs. “Such requests could not be refused,” avowed a gallant volunteer. “So far was it carried that some of our uniforms were quite disfigured before we reached our destination.”
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The pageantry climaxed with the presentation of banners. John Worsham of the Twenty-first Virginia recalled the drama: “Quite a stir was created in camp one day by the announcement that a flag would be presented to Company B. This was a very handsome silk flag. Made by the ladies of Baltimore, it ‘ran the blockade’ into Richmond and was presented to the company by President Jefferson Davis. He made one of his brilliant speeches in the presence of the regiment and a large number of visitors from Richmond, most of them ladies. The occasion passed off with great enthusiasm.” Bestowal of a flag on Sam Watkins's First Tennessee Infantry “fairly ma[d]e our hair stand on end with intense patriotism, and we wanted to march right off and whip twenty Yankees.”
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” We are anxious to meet the foe,” wrote a Virginia Confederate, “for we have them to whip, and the sooner we do it, the sooner we will be able to return to the dear loved ones at home.”

Sixteen-year-old Marcus Toney left for war to the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” “I was too young to be leaving a girl behind me,” he recalled, “so I marched out with a light step and joyous heart, not dreaming of the shock of battle…. I looked to the right as we were passing the girls, and saw tears gathering in many eyes.”
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In the meantime, Northern volunteers rushed to President Lincoln's call. It seemed everyone wanted to be a soldier, to posture heroically and be adored. Recruiting progressed with marvelous “rapidity and ease.” Speeches and patriotic music roused large crowds until prospects bolted forward at the call, “Who will come up and sign the roll?” Billy Davis, a diminutive twenty-three-year-old dry goods clerk from Hopewell, Indiana, recalled his enlistment: “I know that I felt a trembling sensation when writing my name. Don't believe I ever felt so attached to the old flag as I do today.”

Like the Confederates, they were citizen-soldiers. Prominent men organized the regiments and were elected to command. “Hosts of charlatans and incompetents were thus put into responsible places at the beginning,” recalled General Jacob Cox of Ohio, “but the sifting work went on fast after the troops were once in the field.”
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The states of Ohio and Indiana provided most of the Federals bound for Western Virginia in 1861. Governor Oliver P. Morton of Indiana was no less active than Ohio's Dennison in organizing troops. The first enlistments were for three months. Most expected to be home in a few weeks, covered with glory, for it was “only a breakfast job.”
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Love of country compelled many to enlist. To Billy Davis of Indiana, the “all absorbing question” was “shall this union, this government of the people, live or perish.” An Ohio Buckeye spoke for most in his belief that “no State had a right to secede…and that the Union must and shall be preserved.” Some enrolled for monetary reasons—the pay for an infantry private started at thirteen dollars a month, not an insubstantial sum. A few were motivated by the abolition of slavery. Others were lured by that most compelling of incentives: “If a fellow wants to go with a Girl now he had better enlist,” swore one Indiana Hoosier. “The girls sing ‘I am Bound to be a Soldier's Wife or Die an Old Maid.'”
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Immigrants joined the Union army in great numbers. Notable were the Germans of Cincinnati, Ohio. Many had soldiered in Europe or trained in the paramilitary Turner Society. Turners flourished in a large German quarter of Cincinnati known as “over the Rhine.” During an immense gathering there on April 17, 1861, attorney Johann Stallo brought the crowd to its feet with a pledge of loyalty to the Stars and Stripes. An all-German regiment was proposed.

The rolls were filled in a single day. One young recruit remembered his enlistment: “A justice of the peace…swore us in at once. He wrote my good German name with heart-rending mistakes. Only the first letter and the last were right; all others wrong. I pointed out the flaw to him. He answered calmly: ‘That doesn't matter a bit! You are sworn and registered by that name, and it will be yours until you are mustered out of the service again.”

The Germans elected Johann Stallo's law partner Robert McCook as their colonel. One of a large Ohio family of military distinction known as the “Fighting McCooks,” he was the lone Anglo-American in the regiment. Modestly styling himself the “clerk for a thousand Dutchmen,” McCook took command of a regiment of Germans fighting for the Union—the Ninth Ohio Volunteer Infantry.
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Loved ones stitched clothing, socks, and quilts for the Northern volunteers prior to tearful departures. Friends presented Billy Davis with a pocket revolver, admonishing that he might “get into close quarters and need it.” Davis and a comrade visited a portrait studio to have their “ambrotype taken.” Posed sternly before the camera with a Bible in one hand, a revolver or Bowie knife in the other, they represented any number of soldiers, North or South.

Finally, the Union recruits boarded trains for a camp of instruction. The destination for many Hoosiers was Camp Morton in Indianapolis, and for many of the Buckeyes, Camps Dennison and Harrison near Cincinnati. Every stop created pandemonium. An Ohio volunteer watched citizens swarming the depot “with hot coffee, cigars, cider, and it appeared they could not do enough for
us…. When we left the ladies were at all the windows and on the houses…waving handkerchiefs and huzzahing. I never saw such a time and all along the road it is the same.”

Ebenezer Hannaford of the Sixth Ohio Infantry recalled a bevy of young ladies who entered the trains and “adroitly managed to let the cars carry them off. Despite their protestations, it was easy to see that the girls were happy as little birds. Of course the good-by and kissing part of the programme was repeated
ad libitum.
” Gushed a comrade, “Hurrah! who wouldn't be a soldier?”
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Recruits were given a physical on the Indianapolis state fairgrounds at Camp Morton. Doctors scrutinized the teeth; soldiers needed them to tear open the paper cartridges used in loading a musket. Lack of a single front tooth caused a member of Billy Davis's regiment to be sent home. Davis himself was nearly rejected as undersized, but most were sworn into United States service.