Journal of James Edmond Pease, a Civil War Union Soldier

by Jim Murphy

  I guess I would be there still except that the rain did not fall as expected in the summer of 1862 and we seemed to produce more rocks than vegetables. Uncle began quoting the Bible more and more and Aunt seemed even more uneasy — if that is possible — and both of them turned cold eyes on me as less and less food made its way to the table. They never did say it, but I think they blamed me for holding back the rain! Maybe they was right. I mean, I was bad luck for my parents, so who knows about such things?

  So one morning, to escape the stares, I went out and sat in the woods by the edge of the field. My thought was to join Uncle when he came out to work, only a strange thing happened. As I sat there, Uncle and Aunt began doing their usual chores — milking the goat, feeding the few chickens left, repairing a broken fence and so forth — and neither so much as looked up for me or called my name. All day I watched and all day they went about their business. I was hungry at lunch and hungrier still at supper, but I did not budge. And they did not call for me or in any way seem to miss me. Even then I kept hoping for some sort of sign from them. The sun went down, and a while after this the yellow light from the house candles was snuffed out and it was clear they had gone to sleep. Which was sign enough for me. So I started walking down the road, taking away the one burden of theirs that I could. I continued walking til the day, three months later, when I saw a call to a war meeting and signed on as part of G Company. And that is my story told in more words than it deserves.

  Drew this map of some of the places we have visited or might visit — according to Sgt. Donoghue. Johnny said I should have put little waves where the water is instead of straight lines; the Little Profeser said I should have put in the locations of mountains and lakes; the Lt. thought it nice, but said that Baltimore was closer to Washington than I have shown. I think some-one else should draw the map next time!

  Later

  A surprise. We was ordered forward in the afternoon to support the actions of the rest of the 122nd. Lt. Toms and some others looked happy with this, but I am not alone when I say that I was content to guard the supply train, as there is little to dodge back there but mule droppings.

  We was issued three days’ rations and forty rounds of ammunition — so we knew we would be very close to the fighting — then off we marched, joining up with several other companies along the way. My knapsack never felt so heavy as on that short walk.

  We followed the road for five miles or so, but as we got close to the sounds of fighting, we went to the right and crossed a field with a sorry-looking farmhouse sitting in the middle. The owners — a sour old man and his sour old wife — stood in the doorway watching us file by. She was saying over and over, “Yank murd’rers. Yu’ll burn ’n Hell,” tho she changed it every so often to “Thivin’ murd’rin’ Yanks. Burn ’n Hell, all a ya!” The man just glowered at us and spit wads of drippy brown tobacca juice in our direction. Charlie Shelp talked back to them mean, but such comes natural to Charlie. The rest of us was just happy to get to the woods so those two ancients could not put the evil-eye on our backs. I certainly did not need any more of that trailing after me!

  It didn’t take long before I saw signs of the fight — trees with their sides chewed at by musket balls, chunks of earth ripped up by ten-pound Parrott shells. On a little, we passed some trees that had been cut in half, as if a giant clumsy hand had snapped off the tops and tossed them aside. Then we came to the first dead soldier — a Reb in a crisp new butternut uniform.

  He was sitting on the ground, leaning back against a tree, and seemed to be in a comfortable position with his eyes closed and his hands clasped together on his lap. Any other time, I would have thought him asleep and dreaming of home and peach pie, but out here that thought does not scour. Besides, his face was already the color of yellow clay and the front of his new uniform was stained dark with blood.

  “Shot thru the heart clean,” the Little Profeser said as he stood over the body. “Dead since morning by his looks.” “Not dead soon enough for me,” Shelp added, and then he turned to me and said, “Hey, Orphan Boy. This one here looks like you. Got a cowlick the same as you, too.” And he was right. The dead soldier even looked to be my age, which did not help my confidence any. “Move along. Move along,” Lt. Toms ordered us. “There are plenty more Rebels up ahead and they’ll be alive to shoot back.”

  We didn’t see any more bodies, ours or theirs, so I guess both sides had time to haul away their dead and wounded. Except the boy, that is. Up ahead was a wide-open field where we formed a line of battle along one side after leaving our knapsacks and Spirit in the care of Caesar. Across the field from us — maybe 300 yards away — was another thick, dark woods in which the Rebs was supposed to be hiding. The field was pretty well churned up by the earlier fighting, with the stiff bodies of fifteen or twenty horses and a lot of equipment scattered all about. So we stayed there — 500 soldiers shoulder to shoulder with muskets cocked and at the ready — waiting and waiting for their charge.

  For the better part of the day we was on that cold ground, muskets aimed at the invisible enemy, and listening to the real battle going on somewhere far away to our left. Some of the boys wanted to get the fight going and called out to the Rebs to come on and such, which is a silly thing to do as far as I am concerned. If a fight is going to happen, it will happen and doesn’t need me to hurry it along. It wasn’t long before the cold got into my bones and set me off shivering, so I put my hands in my pockets and prayed that this would not mean another round of my ague. The last time I had those shivering night-sweats, I thought I might die I was so weak and tired. After the sun set, a courier appeared with fresh orders, and a few minutes later Lt. Toms said, “Okay, boys, we are going back.”

  The Reb boy was still there, leaning back and, like a good soldier, waiting his turn to be collected. And the sour old man and sour old woman was there waiting for us. Everybody waits in a war.

  Charlie Shelp on a day when he seemed unusually pleasant and cheerful — for him! Lt. Toms said the drawing ­wasn’t bad and that I could include others if I had time.

  November 8

  Today’s orders: guard the rear of the wagons — so I guess yesterday was a real emergency and no one will have us yet. Lt. Toms did not get upset today and he did not send Willie and Spirit out with his usual request. “It would be kinder for them to shoot me and be done with it,” he said quietly, and I think he meant it. He went on to say that he couldn’t go home with this disgrace on his head, and since they wouldn’t let him fight he could never prove himself in battle. It did not help that Lt. Clapp from A Company visited this morning at breakfast and told Lt. Toms about the fighting they had done yesterday while we was guarding an empty field.

  Later

  I asked Sgt. Donoghue what I should write down as his history and he gave me the queerest look. When I said it was an order from the Lt., he shook his head and said it was all non-sense, this writing down what happened and who was there and such. But then he said, “My father was in the regular army when I was born, and my mother and I and later my two younger brothers, we all followed him when he moved from place to place. He was a cooper by trade, and a fine one, too, but no one outside would hire the Irish, so that is how he came to the army. His name was Flann, and hers was Mary. Have you got all of this, because I don’t want to say it again. When I could, I joined the army, which is why I am here. Is that enough?” I said yes and he walked away muttering, “Non-sense, that is all it is,” and I was happy to have gotten what I did from him. I will add that the Sgt. is married and has three children, all girls.

  I am still free of the ague, so I guess it has passed me by this time.

  November 9

  Much the same “excitement” as yesterday — following the wagons. When we stopped, I was sent out with some others to watch for enemy raiders who might sneak up on our wagons. Spent most of the time wrapped up in my poncho facing away from an icy wind and thinking about that dead Reb boy. I wondered if he would get a proper burial
or whether he would just sit out there til some hungry pig found him. And I wondered if his friends missed him or if his parents was somewhere thinking about him and worrying. Then I thought, at least he had someone to worry after him, which made the wind feel even sharper and me feel very lonely indeed.

  7 o’clock

  Talk tonight at supper was about the elections and my curse. I am too young to vote, so I did not listen closely to what was said about the election. I do know that all who could voted against Copperhead candidates, who are for the secession of the South. My curse was another story.

  Most — the Little Profeser among them — said such things do not exist, except in the mind of the unlucky, and Charlie Shelp added that I was as dumb as a fence post for believing such things. Everyone laughed at that and I felt my face flush red, but Johnny Henderson jumped in then and said it was dangerous to make fun of a curse. He said his uncle once spit down a neighbor’s well and the next day his uncle drowned while fishing. “He’d fished that pond for thirty, forty years,” Johnny said, “but he’d put bad luck on himself by spitting down that well, and the water got him!”

  Shelp said Johnny was as stupid as me, and that together we had as much sense as a drum. But I wasn’t listening to Shelp; I was smiling at Johnny, because I knew he had made up the story so Shelp wouldn’t pick on me alone. It didn’t even bother me much when Shelp made up a song about me and sang it over and over:

  Good people, I will sing you a ditty,

  And hope that it doesn’t annoy;

  I make an appeal to your pity,

  For I’m an unfortunate boy.

  ’Twas under an unlucky planet

  That I was born one night;

  My life since first I began it

  Has been cursed in dark and light.

  So do not make sport of my troubles,

  But pity one who feels no joy,

  For I’m an uncomfortable, horrible, terrible, inconsolable Jonah Boy.

  November 10

  Crossed the Rappahannock on a pontoon bridge at the tail end of the wagon train. Since there must be 500 wagons in the train, we did not get to cross til it was nearly dark. It is a good thing we didn’t have to wait for the cattle to cross, too! Lt. Toms seems all in and is not his usual self, which might have something to do with the official report that was circulated yesterday. It congratulated the 122nd for charging and carrying a strong enemy position during the battle of the seventh, and for taking 1,600 prisoners, plus small arms and three cannons. It also said that Lt. Clapp had been promoted to the rank of captain because of his valor and leadership in the field. Some of the Company have been trying to think of a way to cheer up Lt. Toms, but so far we have had no good ideas.

  November 11

  Today the trampling of thousands of cavalry horses, followed by tens of thousands of foot soldiers, followed by thousands of mules and hundreds of wagons, churned the road into a mud-pike. Spent too much time hauling stuck wagons from the thick soup.

  At one point we came to a wagon whose six mules had gotten tired and stopped to rest. The driver was heaping one cuss after another on them, along with some fierce blows from his whip, but they just stood there with heads bowed. Willie — who has a tender spot for all dumb creatures, not just three-legged ones — told the driver to stop what he was doing, which the driver did, but only so he could turn his mortar-gun mouth on Willie and the rest of us nearby.

  While the driver’s back was turned, the mules ended their rest break and began walking forward very slowly. The driver never even heard them — not with his mouth firing cusses, Willie answering back, and Spirit dancing around barking. And, of course, no one — not even his fellow drivers! — bothered to tell him what was happening. It wasn’t til an officer from the supply train asked the driver where his wagon was that he realized it was gone. At least twenty wagons had already passed by, so the driver raced off after his own, slipping and sliding in the mud while throwing more cusses back at us. It was a fine spectacle to watch and gave the boys a needed laugh.

  Several of the boys are sick with the ague and flux and had to report to the doctors, but so far I am fine. There is a rumor that the paymaster is near and this has raised the hopes of some — including me — who wish to visit the sutler for supplies. We have had nothing but shelled corn, a little meat, hardtack, and coffee for three days now.

  Later

  Lt. Toms very quiet today and no one bothered him with talk. So when Henry Wyatt wanted to know where we was headed, he asked his brother James — Henry being shy always. James asked Corp. Bell, who asked Sgt. Donoghue, who, after some thought and hesitation, went to Lt. Toms and stated Henry’s question. “Where are we going!” Lt. Toms shouted. “How in the name of Hell would I know? They don’t tell me any-thing any-more! The damned mules know more than I do! Ask them!” Lt. Toms fell quiet again, and Sgt. Donoghue came over to us and said we could ask our own damned questions after this. The rumor about the paymaster turned out to be just that. No pay — no trip to the sutler.

  November 12

  We are headed for Brandy Station, where the army will spend the winter. This information was gotten from one of the mule-drivers. Johnny Henderson thinks this is about as close to actually talking to a mule as you can get, a mule being a rather more reliable source of information than a driver. The rest of the day had us marching, hauling stuck wagons, marching, hauling, marching, hauling — and a sorry, muddy bunch we were by night.

  I have a case of the shakes, which may be the ague or something worse, and have been having trouble sleeping. I have also had a hard time forgetting that dead Reb boy. I am going to take quinine and hope this will drive off the ague and the boy.

  November 19

  We have been in camp this week, getting ready for winter. By the time we got here, most of the men had already chosen their tent-mates for the cold months ahead. Only Johnny Henderson, Charlie Shelp, and myself was left, and I was glad to be with Johnny since he is as near a friend as I have. We was also joined by a new man from Syracuse — Washington Evans.

  Washington said his father is a carpenter and that after the war he would be, too, and it turned out to be a great fortune to have him when we built our stockade tent. Ours is sturdier than most, with a tightly constructed stone-and-stick chimney topped by a handsome pork barrel. Inside, Washington put together furniture, including a barrel table and four stools. We are the envy of the Company and even Lt. Toms came out of his tent to inspect our work and said it was the coziest he had ever seen. Eight new men have joined G Company, tho none are as welcome as our Washington.

  View of our stockade tent. That is Washington Evans sitting in the doorway talking with Johnny.

  Had the shakes for five days, but not bad enough to visit a doctor — thank Heavens! That Reb boy came back a few times in my dreams, but has faded away again. The only thing we lack now is food — or rather a variety of it, corn being plentiful. It is hard to believe how many ways we can cook our corn: We have parched corn, boiled-corn dough mush, corn coffee, and the latest invention to make it go down good is to half-parch it and then grind it coarse — like hominy — and then boil it with a small piece of pork as a season. This last is the best by far.

  November 20

  Very cold, with our day used up stacking boxes and barrels near the commissary depot. Lt. Toms gave instructions and then stood off by himself. He is about as downhearted as a man can get. Lt. Toms was a schoolteacher in a tiny town near Syracuse before the war, but hoped to have a military career after. Now he is certain he will never be allowed to rise above a lieutenancy and that he will always be given the worst assignments. I think he may be right.

  The new men are all sick with bowel complaints, tho none are serious cases so far. The good news today is that the boxes and barrels we wrestled contain soft bread and desiccated vegetables, so we will have something to go with our corn!

  Later

  Johnny and Charlie Shelp have been at it again, and this time Shelp landed
several good punches and Johnny’s face is swelling up and raw. I wasn’t there or I would have stepped between them to spare Johnny some. By the time I heard about the fight and got to our tent, Sgt. Donoghue was telling Shelp to leave Johnny alone from then on. Shelp did not take the Sgt.’s words well and said this was none of his affair, so Sgt. Donoghue — who is a very big man, but of a calm and peaceful nature — usually — hit Shelp so hard his feet left the ground.

  When Shelp recovered enough to sit up, Sgt. Donoghue told him to get his equipment and move to the last tent in our row, which is closest to the swamp and not very well made, either. “You can’t order me to move!” Shelp shouted. “Only the Lt. can!” “If you want,” Sgt. Donoghue said in a low, menacing way, “I will move you myself with this,” and he held a fist in Shelp’s face. The Sgt. looked around and said, “Williams and Davis, help this man up and to his new home. Wyatt and Doty, get his things out of here. Have one of the new men move into this tent. And, Shelp, if you bother Pte. Henderson again, you will answer to me. Now move!”

  The new man’s name is Charlie Buell, so we still have a Charlie among us. He is 30, I would guess, or around there, and he carries himself well, being tall and fit looking, and speaking in a clear, precise voice. Like just about every other man who has the ability, Charles has a mustache, tho his is very neatly trimmed. He said he was a lawyer in his home town of Manlius and joined after helping several escaped slaves get to Canada. He seems a good exchange for Shelp and our winter should be more pleasant for it. Johnny is being treated like a wounded hero for having freed us of the enemy. I certainly think he did.