It took several hours for the baggage handlers to unload the train and reload the Roundhead baggage onto wagons. Nellie filled the time by chatting with the women who had provided their meal. One gray-haired lady cheerfully introduced herself as the Widow Barlow. “I don’t have anybody to cook for at home anymore,” she said, “so I enjoy getting the chance here to put on some really big feeds. Who cooks for all these men when they’re in their camps?”
“Well, mostly they do their own cooking, which isn’t good, I’m afraid. And at the moment I’m not much help. I can stir up some broth for those who are sickly, but I don’t know what to suggest to the men sitting around a campfire with nothing but a great big pot.”
“I can help you there. Let me find a scrap of paper and I’ll give you a couple of recipes that’ll fill their bellies.”
By the time the wagons were ready, Nellie had picked up several cooking tips. The Roundheads, however, were not thinking about food as they started on the final leg of their journey, a march through downtown Washington. There was simply too much else to see. Nellie rode on one of the wagons, which gave her a vantage point from which to survey the city as they passed. Her overwhelming impression was one of high energy. Everywhere she looked, crowds of people bustled through the streets, many carrying dispatch cases or bundles of paper. Conveyances of every type moved supplies from one spot to another. As they passed the White House, a steady stream of carriages passed through the gate and unloaded dignified passengers in front of the portico. “Ole Abe holds public visiting hours every afternoon,” the wagon driver explained. “About the only way to get a problem solved quick-like around here is to show up and take the request right to the top.”
Nellie had noticed several of the gentlemen were accompanied by ladies in wide hoop skirts and parasols. “Can anyone go to one of these audiences?” she asked.
“I s’pose so. Never felt the need myself, but Ole Abe keeps the door open. Says it’s not his house—it’s the people’s White House.”
Nellie felt her heart swell with pride at that thought. But right now there were other sights to be taken in. Further down Pennsylvania Avenue, the Willard Hotel competed with the White House for the largest number of carriages being unloaded in front of its doors. Many of the visitors wore full military uniforms, their blue coats and brass buttons giving them an air of power and authority.
All Nellie had read about the vast open areas of the capital seemed true, although many of the open spaces were now filled with military encampments. “Look over there,” the driver pointed. “That’s the Capitol Building going up. The House of Representatives wing is complete, although most of its offices are now filled with soldiers. And it looks like the Rotunda will have to wait ‘til after the war to get finished. It’s full of soldiers, too, although that opening where the dome’s going to go don’t give them much protection.”
As they passed the Mall, a barnyard stench overwhelmed them. “That stone stump over there’s gonna be Washington’s Monument, they say, but nobody’s workin’ on it, either. This here’s the slaughter grounds. The meat purveyors drive whole herds of cattle up here every day to provide food for the troops. I know that kind of thing has to be done somewheres, but it does seem a shame to have it in the heart of the city. Smell gets worse in the heat of the afternoon, seems like.”
The Roundheads’ destination was a large grassy area in the hills above Rock Creek. As they finished the climb to a bluff overlooking the city, Nellie gasped at the contrasting views in front of her. In one spot, a lovely garden bloomed. Next to it, white tents stretched across the grass as far as she could see. And directly in front of her was a large golden-hued mansion with a two-story entrance arch and smooth stucco walls. “Is this someone’s home?” she asked.
“Used to be the home of Joel Barlow,” offered one of the officers passing behind her. “He was America’s favorite poet during the early years of our Republic.”
“Joel Barlow? Oh, I know who he was. He wrote ‘The Columbiad.’ He was proud of his country and the possibilities it offered to the world. How sad his home has turned into a military camp.”
“All of Washington’s a military camp now, in case you hadn’t noticed, Missy. You don’t like that, what are you doing here with us?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I just. . . .”
“Don’t harass the lady, Josiah,” spoke a familiar voice. Doctor Gross approached. “I share her nostalgia for the kind of world Joel Barlow envisioned—as should we all.”
“Humph!” The captain was still grumbling as he stomped away.
“Don’t mind him, Nellie. Captain Pentecost is angry at the world and everybody in it. That anger makes him a good soldier, though.”
Nellie wasn’t sure about that statement, but she bit back her comment. Her relationship with Doctor Gross was too new to risk offending him. Instead, she surveyed the area again and asked, “Where are we supposed to camp? Do you know?”
“We’ll pitch in that open space over there,” he said, pointing. “But it’s too late in the day to accomplish much. The colonel just told me the Seventy-Ninth New York regiment has invited us to share their camp tonight. They’ve had dinner, but their cook fires are still going strong, and they have plenty of rations. I suspect they’ll even find a tent for you to stay in tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough to get us settled.”
Night fell swiftly, aided by an encroaching cloud bank. The New York regiment did indeed have room for Nellie. She settled comfortably into a small tent and was soon sound asleep. Most of the soldiers, however, simply stretched out on top of their tents, too tired to force themselves through the struggles of getting the tents erected. Around midnight, Nellie awoke briefly to the sound of rain on the canvas above her head and the grumbling of men who found themselves exposed to the weather.
The next morning, everyone pitched in to get their tents staked quickly, realizing that the rain looked likely to continue for hours. Wet though they were, the men were stirred to action by the sounds of artillery booming in the distance. They had signed up to fight a war, but many seemed agitated to realize they were now near the actual fighting. Yesterday, marching through the capital, they had thought Washington looked impregnably well-fortified. A hundred camps had sprung up around the capital, white tents visible on every hill, in the valleys and fields, and half hidden in the woods. Night had fallen to a continuous drumming of “Retreat”, and dawn echoed with the sounds of “Reveille”. These were re-assuring and familiar sounds. But those crashing cannons now spoke of the other face of war, a face these innocent farmhands from western Pennsylvania could not envision.
The weekend gave everyone time to settle into a semblance of order. Soldiers drew their rations and rearranged their messes to accommodate the friendships springing up among former strangers. At home, a boy from Beaver County might never have encountered one from Butler County. Here, in this overwhelmingly crowded city, another young man from the rolling hills of Pennsylvania became instant family. The twelve companies of the Roundheads began taking on characteristics of their own. Company H and Company F, both full of recruits from New Castle, contained many of the veterans of Colonel Leasure’s first company of three-month volunteers who had seen a bit of service around York as railroad guards. Their prior experience with the Twelfth Pennsylvania was invaluable, as it had produced skilled officers who could lead squad and company drills. On Saturday, the veterans spread themselves out among the other companies, guiding the men to elect staff officers from their own ranks in the understanding that enlisted men would more willingly follow the orders of those they had chosen themselves.
In Company C, James McCaskey and John Wilson were among the newly-christened sergeants appointed to guide their squads through the drills. The two men had been neighbors and friends from childhood. Here, they assumed their positions not because of their military skills but because of their ages. At twenty-two and twenty-four, James and John had just enough seniority over their teen-aged companio
ns to command their respect. Or so they hoped.
“I don’t have a clue about what I’m doing,” John whispered to James as they tried their hands at organizing a drill.
“No, neither do I. I think the secret is to stand up straight and focus your eyes on the horizon while you shout your orders. That way you’ll avoid catching the eye of someone who knows you’re lost.”
“Look at George Fisher over there. No, don’t look. He’s laughing himself silly at us, not that he knows any more than we do.”
“True, but since he’s practically family, he knows how I must be floundering. His brother Simon is married to my sister Sarah Jane, remember.” James smiled as he thought of his family. “He probably also remembers the time you and I both fell through the ice on the creek trying to impress that little Hazen girl with our skating skills.”
“Don’t remind me. He’s seen me make a darned fool of myself more than once. How am I going to survive this?”
“Surviving is all that’s important, John. You’ll learn fast enough in the field.”
Colonel Leasure was also busy filling positions on his staff. Some choices were easy. He appointed William H. Powers as another adjutant to assist his son, Samuel G. Leasure. Reverend Robert Audley Browne, pastor of the United Presbyterian Church of New Castle, had immediately signed up as regimental chaplain, although he had to delay his departure until he received an official leave of absence from his congregation. Alva H. Leslie, a merchant and politician from New Castle, brought his business acumen to bear on the quarter master’s office. Ferdinand H. Gross, with whose medical talents Leasure was familiar, had initially signed on as surgeon, bringing with him his assistant, Doctor Joseph P. Rossiter. Doctor Gross, however, was so well respected that he was almost immediately promoted to the general staff, U. S. Volunteers. Within a few days Doctor Horace Ludington replaced him on the Roundheads staff. Several young men from the printing office of the New Castle Chronicle followed John Nicklin to enlist as regimental musicians. With the exception of Doctor Ludington and Nellie Leath, the members of the Officers Mess who assembled each evening were old friends, a circumstance that enabled them to work easily with one another. Those prior friendships had the additional effect of throwing the newcomers, Nellie and Horace Ludington, together out of their mutual isolation, and they quickly established an easy working relationship.
Reverend Browne was scheduled to take up his duties as chaplain on Saturday, September 14th. Like the Roundheads, he endured an uncomfortable two-day train trip, one made worse by a couple of his traveling companions. Just outside of Harrisburg, a stout older woman plopped herself down next to him on the narrow wooden bench, fished through her portmanteau to extract her knitting, and then pointed toward the Bible Browne was intently reading. “You’d be a religious man, then?” she asked.
Browne looked at her in some surprise. He was not used to strange women trying to engage him in conversation, but he gamely nodded and said, “Yes, M’am. I’m a Presbyterian minister.”
“Whatcha doin’ on this here train then? Headed for a new church?”
“Ah, in a manner of speaking. I’m traveling to join my hometown regiment in Washington.”
“An Army man, then? I thought clergymen was in favor of peace.”
“I’m in favor of a righteous cause, M’am.”
“Humph! You’re givin’ up your pulpit to go out and kill people, is it?”
“No, of course not!” Browne was beginning to snort with indignation. He wasn’t sure why he was bothering to converse with this busybody, but he felt compelled to explain. “My congregation has given its blessing to this venture. I am to serve as the regiment’s chaplain, giving comfort to those in the direst need. My church and family back home will do well without me. It’s our nation’s sons who stand most in need of my guidance and prayers.”
The woman latched onto one key word in that answer. “Your family? You’re married? With children? And you’re leaving them to get mixed up in this ridiculous war? What does your poor long-suffering wife think of this decision?”
“Mary understands my position, I assure you. And she will have plenty of help when the baby comes.”
“Land a’ mercy! The woman’s pregnant?”
Browne cringed with embarrassment as heads began to turn all around the carriage. “Madam, please. This is not a matter I discuss with strangers. Excuse me.” He struggled to his feet, swaying with the motion of the train, and looked about for a safe, masculine area in which to relocate.
He picked a bench occupied by a shabbily-dressed older man who appeared to be asleep. But as he settled himself, the man opened one lazy eye and fixed it upon him. “Got yer goat, did she?” Browne’s reply was a simple raised eyebrow.
“Go on with ya,” the man continued. “I know how it is with women, believe you me. Jus’ let ‘em git started and ye cain’t shut ‘em up.”
Browne glared at him.
“She didn’t have no business pressin’ you like that. What’s she care if your wife’s unhappy? Personally, I kin seen why you’d leave home if your wife’s expectin’ another squallin’ brat. Every time my wife had a baby she made my life hell.”
Fortunately for all concerned, the train squealed to a stop at that moment, and the conductor called out, “Ten-minute rest stop.” Browne hurried to the door and jumped onto the siding, grateful to have escaped before he found himself engaged in another war of words. He was more irritated by the man’s crude attempts at sympathy than he had been at the old lady’s scolding.
If truth be told, he realized, he was delighted to be escaping the domesticity of the family farm and his wife’s approaching lying-in. A woman’s bodily functions had always been a mystery to him, and he had no desire to learn more than he had to. Mary had never experienced any difficulty giving birth to their children. In fact, Browne felt she enjoyed the process much too much. Unlike the other wives of their acquaintance, who went to great length to conceal their changing bodies, Mary seemed to flaunt hers. She went about patting her abdomen and calling attention to the baby’s movements. Browne was sure he was a tolerant man, but he most assuredly did not want to know her navel was beginning to protrude, or her nipples were beginning to darken. Nor did he wish to be drawn into a discussion about his reactions to such matters. Thank goodness for the company of decent, God-fearing Roundheads, he reassured himself. A life without women for a while would be most welcome.
So it was with a mixture of rage and disbelief that the first person he spied when he reached the Roundhead camp on Kalorama Heights displayed a decidedly feminine figure. He sought Col. Leasure in a swirl of indignation, pushing past the sergeant on duty and barging into the command tent. “Daniel! Was that a woman I saw in camp?”
Colonel Leasure looked up from his makeshift desk with a welcoming smile. “Robert, my old friend. How good it is to see you.”
“I repeat. Have you allowed a woman to come in among the men? Or didn’t you know about her?”
“Robert, Robert, quit sputtering. Of course we have women in the camp. Several wives and mothers have come along to serve as laundresses and cooks, and we had to have at least one matron for our hospital patients.”
“This one was no wife or mother! She was a girl with unkempt hair and a flimsy dress. She fled into one of the men’s tents when she saw me coming.”
“Ah, you must have encountered our Nellie.”
“Thunderation, man. What do you mean by ‘our Nellie’?”
“Believe it or not, she’s. . . .”
“I’ll believe it’s a good thing I arrived when I did. Who would have thought a Christian man such as yourself could sink so low as to be on first-name terms with a prostitute!”
The colonel had stopped smiling, and he drew himself up as best he could to face off with the tall, lanky minister looming over him. “You are out of line, Sir!”
Beyond All Price Page 5