“As for what you’ll need, don’t carry anything you can do without. Your blanket, pillow, candles and other stuff go in the trunk here. You will need eating utensils, and they go in your haversack.”
“That’s the word the colonel mentioned, but I certainly don’t have one.”
“I’ll take care of that. You get started packing your trunk, and I’ll be back shortly.
True to his word, Private Stevenson returned carrying something Nellie recognized from the farm. At least it looked like the canvas feed bags they had used to feed their horses. “That’s a haversack?” she asked. “Do I wear it around my neck?”
“Better over your shoulder, I think. It’s really a useful item when we’re on the march. It’s waterproof and roomy. You can attach your canteen and cup here, see? And inside, you put your plate and eating utensils, your food supply, your housewife, your. . . .”
“My housewife?” she interrupted.
John laughed. “It’s like a sewing kit, M’am, only more useful, and I picked one up for you at the supply tent. Now let’s walk over to the mess, and we’ll get your food sorted out.”
Nellie looked at the haversack dubiously, still envisioning it as a feed bag from which she would be expected to munch her way through whatever she was given to eat. The supplies the mess sergeant handed her, in fact, did not look much better than the oats she had fed Ole Patch at home. They included the inevitable hardtack, a chunk of salt pork wrapped in greasy paper, some dried vegetables that looked exactly like hay, and individual packets of sugar and coffee. She choked out a “Thank you,” because the soldier handing out supplies was surely not responsible for their quality, but she stared into the bag with a stricken expression.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Leath. When we stop for victuals, there’ll be kettles and cook fires. You’ll put your bits with the others and have a stew cooked up in no time. The great virtue of army cooking is that by the time food is ready, you’ll be so hungry it will taste wonderful.”
Nellie doubted that, but she nodded gamely.
And so the day went. Tents came down, and heavy wagons trundled by loaded with trunks like Nellie’s, each with a company letter and a number on it to identify its owner. Soldiers hustled from supply tent to mess tent, some even making a quick trip into town to mail a letter or have a picture taken. Hastily-rinsed laundry hung from fence posts, drying in the hot August sun. Everywhere there was an air of excitement, hopeful expectation, and nervous apprehension about what lay ahead. A high point in the day came with the arrival of Private Moffatt’s father and uncle, driving a wagon loaded with fresh apples. They had come all the way from Beaver County to see the boys off, and to leave with them a final taste of home. Someone passed a couple of apples to Nellie, and she dropped them gratefully into her haversack. Maybe she wouldn’t starve after all.
The train trip was every bit as tedious as Private Stevenson had predicted. They departed from Pittsburgh at 4:00 p.m. and spent a long night traveling through the mountains of Pennsylvania. The route wound its way up and down the steeper hills with disorienting switchbacks. One minute the train was headed east; the next, the setting sun blazed into the passengers’ eyes. Sometimes the tracks themselves seemed to be perched on the lip of a cliff. After looking out the window once and seeing nothing below her, Nellie kept her gaze resolutely on the interior of the railroad car. But the view there was not particularly edifying, either. The soldiers lolled on the hard seats, trying an amazing variety of postures to make themselves comfortable. Legs dangled into the aisle and arms all akimbo looped themselves around any available support when the train gave a particularly heavy jolt. As darkness fell, heads began to droop, chins planted firmly on chests. Other heads fell backward, which had the effect of letting their mouths fall open in a disgusting display of bad teeth and worse breath. Snores and snorts echoed through the car.
Nellie was sure she would never sleep under such conditions, but the rhythmic click of the wheels eventually lulled her into an uneasy slumber. Several times she was jolted awake by some rough patch in the tracks that caused the car to sway. Morning found everyone stiff and cranky. The train stopped to take on coal and water around 7 a.m. and the soldiers crawled down from the cars to stretch and brew a quick pot of coffee. The hot drink perked up most of the passengers, although there were those who stomped around swearing they would never again ride one of these iron horses. Nellie sipped her coffee and tried to be optimistic.
The Roundheads arrived in Harrisburg in mid-morning and, as if they were on some leisurely tourist jaunt, were given tours of the State House. Nellie hoped the governor would come out to see them, but she realized that as a group, this new regiment was not much to look at. The three-hour layover also gave those with a bit of money a chance to visit the local eateries, where they were able to purchase a real cooked lunch. The respite was all the more appreciated when the soldiers embarked on the next part of their journey.
The train they boarded in Harrisburg had been cobbled together from whatever railroad stock was empty and available. Unfortunately, this turned out to be a series of boxcars. Some welcomed the chance to sit on the floor and spread out a bit, rather than clinging to a narrow bench. Anyone who took a close look at the floor, however, might have been unwilling to sit upon it. It appeared the boxcars had last been used as pig transport, and they been cleaned only casually. Adding to the discomfort was the accompanying odor. Leaving the doors wide open allowed the breeze to clear out the worst of the fetid air, but it soon began to rain, causing those closest to the open doors to be drenched with back spray from the wheels.
The twelve-hour trip from Harrisburg to Baltimore, was a replay of the previous night. Most slept as soon as darkness fell, and once again the box cars echoed with the assorted sounds of snores, interspersed with groans and muffled exclamations as each tried to find some comfortable spot. Around midnight, Captain David Leckey, commander of Company M, made his way from car to car, waking everyone to more daunting news.
“Men, you need to be prepared for possible unpleasantness once we reach Baltimore,” he warned.
“You mean more trouble like the riots that them Michiganders faced?” someone called out.
“Well, we hope it won’t be that serious.”
“What kind of trouble was that?” someone else asked.
Nellie listened with mounting horror as the story unfolded. “Here’s what we know,” Captain Leckey began. “Maryland is a border state. They have not seceded, but neither have they supported the Union cause. There are a lot of slave-owners in Baltimore, and they naturally lean toward the side of the South. President Lincoln is worried those who support slavery might try to block the rail lines bringing troops to Washington.”
“Well, why didn’t we go some other way?” asked another disembodied voice in the darkness.
“I’m afraid there isn’t any other rail line. Worse, this track ends on one side of Baltimore, and the line that will take us to Washington is on the other side of town. There’s nothing else for it. We will have to disembark and walk through the town.”
“What happened to them boys from Michigan?”
“The incident that occurred back in April involved the Sixth Michigan Regiment. Baltimore is pretty much run by renegade firefighter gangs, and one of those gangs, called the ‘Plug-Uglies’ for reasons you can easily figure out, decided to object when Lincoln sent troops to Baltimore to protect the soldiers who were passing through. Shots were fired on both sides. Before the violence was over, twelve citizens of Baltimore had been killed, along with four members of Michigan’s regimental band.”
“Damnation!” huffed John Nicklin, who had enlisted as the drum major of the Roundheads. “Why would anyone shoot at a musician? Was their playing that bad?”
“It shouldn’t happen again, but there is a rumor a hostile crowd has gathered around the station waiting for our arrival. The engineer is slowing the train, and we’ll try to wait them out. We’re hoping they’ll get tired.”<
br />
“They couldn’t be tired-er than we are,” someone grumbled.
As it happened, the weakness of machinery helped to delay their arrival. At one point, a coupler broke, allowing several cars to come loose from the main train. Once the engineer realized the weight of his train had been lessened considerably, he was forced to back up and reattach the cars. More mumblings and grousings surged through the boxcars, and many soldiers took the opportunity to get off the train and stretch their legs while they watched the repairs. As a result, the delay was extended, and they did not arrive in Baltimore until 3 a.m., by which time even the most malicious of trouble-makers had given up and gone home.
The regiment marched across town without incident. Baltimore was a particularly grubby city, its streets lined with ramshackle buildings and lean-tos, rubbish accumulating in gutters and vacant lots. The recent rain had done little to wash away the dirt; instead it had turned it into mud that made footing precarious. Staff officers made sure they surrounded Nellie, so she would not stand out as a target. Still, the fear was palpable until they made it to the safety of the Relay House, where they were to pick up the Washington and Harpers Ferry Railroad. Captain James Cline later described the scene in a letter to his wife: “Streets lit up by the uncertain glare of the streetlamps, with double police at every corner. It looked more like a funeral cortege of some departed spirits than the march of a regiment of soldiers.”
Spirits brightened as the first glimmerings of dawn began to show on the horizon. Outside the Relay House, the Roundheads were greeted by the welcome smell of coffee and cooking grease. Trestle tables had been set up under a make-shift pavilion, and there red-faced women bustled back and forth loading those tables with a pick-up breakfast. Platters overflowed with hot biscuits and slivers of country ham. Pitchers of molasses and bowls of fried apples awaited the hungry soldiers.
“Pitch in, boys, there’s more where that come from,” shouted one plump little woman, her hands still covered with flour.
The men had no hesitation about doing that, but Nellie turned to the cooks. “How wonderful this is,” she said. “Who are you, and why are you being so kind?”
“Most of us are wives and mothers of men who have already gone off to war,” one explained. “This is what we can do to share in their efforts. It’s little enough, in comparison.”
“Well, I’ve never seen anything look so inviting. Thank you, from all of us.”
Nellie filled a biscuit with ham and then turned away from the crowd, unwilling to be closed into a shelter when fresh air was available. Needing to stretch, she walked back toward the tracks, where wagons full of their supplies were being loaded onto the next train. She found a spot where a split rail fence bordered the road. She leaned her forearms on it, looking eastward toward the sunrise. She lifted her chin, feeling a soft breeze ruffle the hairs that were coming loose from her hastily pinned bun. The world seemed fresh. Dewdrops still clung to every blade of grass, and the wooded landscape was alight with shades of green.
Suddenly she felt something nudge hard against her left arm and turned in alarm. The intruder was a horse, still hitched to an empty wagon, and the object of its curiosity was the haversack Nellie wore over her shoulder.
“Hello there, you beautiful beast,” Nellie murmured as she reached to pat the horse’s neck. “You’re absolutely right. I think this looks like a feed bag, too. And maybe it is.” Nellie rummaged in the haversack and pulled out a slightly bruised but fragrant apple, the last of Mr. Moffatt’s farewell offering. She held out the apple in the palm of her hand. “There you go, girl. You’ve worked hard already this morning.” The soft lips that nuzzled her hand reminded Nellie so strongly of home that for a moment she almost forgot where she was and what she was doing.
“Animals always seem to recognize those who love them,” a rough voice spoke behind her. “You look positively bucolic standing there with your friend.” She turned to see the speaker was Colonel Leasure.
“Good morning, Sir. This is such a peaceful scene, it’s hard to believe we’re off to war.”
“Give it a couple of hours,” the colonel said. “Enjoy your new friend. You’ll see war soon enough. How are you getting along, Mrs. Leath?”
“I’m well, Sir.”
“Good. Good.” The briskness was back in his voice. “I’ve been meaning to check on you and let you know you have indeed started something.”
“I’ve done what?”
“Since you arrived, several soldiers have approached me offering the services of the women in their lives. It seems there are many wives and sisters and mothers who are willing to accompany us to the front. I’ve arranged for three of the best-qualified to join us after we get to Washington. I’m still not fully convinced you women won’t be a handicap on the battlefield, but I can see the need for your services in the camps and hospitals. And if we’re going to have women in our regiment, I thought it best to have more than one.”
“I see. And what will their role be?”
“Your staff, Mrs. Leath. This is still your idea, and I leave it in your capable hands to transform these ladies into members of the regiment. You can teach them much about self-reliance and confidence. And maybe you can share some of those ‘wise-woman’ remedies, as well,” he added.
“I’ll try.” There was a pause, but as she sensed the colonel was in no hurry to return to his duties, she ventured another question. “Have you ever been to Washington? I’m really excited to be headed toward our nation’s capital.”
“Don’t expect too much, my dear. Washington, for all its status, is still a small town. A few lovely buildings hold promise. The White House and the Treasury Building demonstrate what this capital may one day become. But right now, it’s a hodge-podge. Look one way and you’ll see the red brick of the Smithsonian mansion sitting in a field of daisies. Turn another way and you confront the scaffolding around the rising dome of the new Capitol. But in between there are vacant lots, the same sort of rough-and-tumble storefronts we saw in Baltimore, unpaved streets, piles of garbage, and escaped slaves living in tarpaper shanties and lean-tos that defy description.
“But I’ve read of marble monuments, tree-lined boulevards, lovely rivers, and vast vistas of parkland. Is that all a lie?”
“No, not completely. You’ll see the tree-lined boulevards, although there’s nothing there but the tree lining. The streets between them are a bit primitive. And the city has taken on something of a double aspect now we’re in a time of war. You remember the appearance of Camp Wilkins, with its rows of tents and swarming soldiers? Now imagine creating several Camp Wilkins and dumping them on every park and available vista within that marbled city of your imagination. That’s Washington in wartime. It’s full of energy and excitement, however. You can make it what you will. Just choose carefully where you look.”
“I will, Sir. I’m beginning to understand the world is what I make of it.”
ggg
4
Kalorama Heights
After the long hauls the Roundheads had experienced for the past two nights, the run from Baltimore into Washington was an easy two-hour ride. By 11:00 a.m. they had arrived at the last relay station, where another group of dedicated women had prepared their dinner. This time the tables overflowed with platters of fried chicken and smothered pork chops. Bowls of vegetables offered a welcome change from dried varieties. Boiled new potatoes, green beans cooked with onions, white beans with ham hocks, field peas, and hog jowl with turnip greens shared space with plates of sliced late-season tomatoes, newly-brined pickles, and spicy cole slaw. Cool lemonade promised relief from the rapidly rising heat. And on a side table were cakes and pies of every imaginable variety.
“Welcome to our nation’s capital,” the women said, and the hungry soldiers responded with cheers.
“We seldom see a meal like this, M’am,” said one grizzled sergeant who had been serving in another regiment since Lincoln’s initial call.
Nellie was almost too
excited to eat, but even she could not resist the lure of fresh food on a real plate. Licking a combination of chicken grease and chocolate frosting from her fingers, she gave a sigh of repletion. Looking around, she noted how the soldiers, almost to a man, had perked up. They were smiling, laughing, relaxing. Mentally Nellie made a note. I won’t be able to see the men fed like this often, but I must try to come up with some sort of treat for them now and then, she thought. I’ve heard an army marches on its stomach, but I never realized how true that is.
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