“Blue mass, for one. It sounds like an ugly wart.”
“Actually, it’s a common druggist’s concoction of mercury and chalk, sometimes flavored with licorice root, rose-water, honey, sugar and rose petals. It’s said to be good for insomnia, as well as everything from toothache to constipation. I suspect it works mostly by suggestion. If we can’t figure out what ails somebody, a few blue mass pills suggest we know what we’re doing.”
“And basilicon ointment?”
“Lard, pine resin, and beeswax. Good for burns and wounds that won’t heal.”
“And I’ve never heard about. . . .”
Doctor Ludington held up his hands. “Look, Nellie, you’ll pick these things up as we go. It won’t take long, I promise. You’re a quick study.”
He turned away, seeming to dismiss her concerns, but Nellie continued to worry as she made her way back to her tent. How odd, she thought. The chaplain thinks I’m a floozy, the other nurse thinks I’m a drunk, but the one man who should know I’m a fraud treats me with kindness and more respect for my knowledge than I deserve.
ggg
5
Creature Comforts
The soldiers’ work day followed a strict routine, designed to instill discipline as well as military skills. According to the official orders, “Reveille” sounded at sunrise. After company roll call, the men had breakfast and put the company quarters in good order. At eight, the drummers beat the surgeon’s call, and those who felt sick mustered at the hospital for medical attention. The rest of the men had squad drill until 9 o’clock. Company drill lasted from ten until twelve. After another roll call, they took a break for dinner. Squad and company drill resumed from two o’clock to half past three. Regimental drill started at half past four and concluded at six with a dress parade. Roll call preceded supper, and the final roll call was at half past eight. The drummers beat “Tattoo” at ten when all lights except in officer’s headquarters had to be put out, and all the men not on guard were to retire to bed. Guards had been detailed by the First Sergeants at the morning roll call, and they reported for duty at ten o’clock, the hour for mounting guard.
In practice, not all drills lasted as long as scheduled, particularly as the days passed and the men became more proficient. Soldiers found plenty of time to visit the sutler’s tent to purchase small indulgences like peppermint sticks or to replenish their supply of writing paper. A fellow whose feet hurt could steal some time to pare down his corns, while others wrote letters home or read the latest newspapers. They were finding camp life was regulated, but not overly rigorous.
Colonel Leasure had done his best to provide distractions that would ease the tedium of constant drill and target practice. He had brought a troop of eleven musicians with him from his newspaper staff in New Castle, and they were meant to provide entertainment as well as the regulation signals of “Reveille” and “Tattoo”. The army did not provide any instruments, however, so the officers of the regiment took up a collection among themselves and sent Private John Emory off to Philadelphia to purchase whatever he could find. With over $400 to spend, he returned with a fine set of instruments—two brass tubas, three brass saxhorns, a rosewood fife, a set of snare drums of varying sizes, and several bugles, some with keys and some without. John Nicklin, the leader of the regimental band, had been thrilled when the instruments arrived, declaring the brasses to be of the finest German manufacture. The snare drums, too, were a matter of pride, each elaborately decorated with scenes that recalled the Union cause.
Around the campfires in the evening, the band members often struck up tunes to lift spirits and sooth away the frustrations of the day. Soon individuals from other companies brought out their personal instruments—guitars, banjos, fiddles and mouth harps—to liven things up. While other regiments made do with bands cobbled together from soldiers who couldn’t march straight, the Roundheads had the benefit of trained musicians, and music became a major feature of their camp.
Another of Colonel Leasure’s ideas to make camp life more appealing was the regimental newsletter. He returned from the city one day hauling a portable printing press purchased with his own funds. He broached the idea at supper that evening. “Nick, you’re already lifting our spirits with your music, but you also know more about the printing trade than anyone here. Do you think you and your mates from the paper back home could produce a small broadsheet now and then to keep up morale?”
“What all would you want in it, Sir?” asked John Nicklin. “Is it to be all official and formal, or can we have some fun with it?”
“By all means, enjoy! There’s already enough stuffy paper circulating in this camp. We need some humor, some helpful hints, some rumor-squelching, some human interest stuff.”
Nellie somewhat timidly stepped into the discussion. “I could give you some tips on how the men can avoid getting sick. Or maybe, a recipe or two to make the camp rations more palatable.”
Reverend Browne snorted, his typical reaction to anything Nellie had to say. “This is an army, Mrs. Leath, not a sewing circle.”
“But the men do have to do their own cooking and mending,” Nellie persisted, “and most of them are doing so for the first time. I thought I could help.”
“Why not start up an ‘Agony Auntie’ column, while you’re at it. I’m sure you could offer a voice of experience to those who are miserably in love.”
Nellie felt herself flush to the roots of her hair with anger, but she pressed her lips together and made no response. “Unkind and uncalled for,” she heard the colonel murmur to the chaplain. The others pretended not to have heard the acrimonious exchange.
“It can really be a hodge-podge?” asked Danny Cubbison.
“Ah, a veritable stew of things if you like. Just throw everything into the pot and see what you come up with.”
“And we could call it the Kalorama Pot,” suggested Forbes Holton, whose musical talent with the fife often concealed his dry wit.
Leasure grinned. “That may be a bit too suggestive for anyone acquainted with our latrine arrangements. but you’re on the right track.”
“How about the Camp Kettle?” Nicklin offered, and a new Roundhead tradition was born. Nellie was gratified, and not a little smug, when the first issue of the paper carried this introduction:
We have little room to spare, and none to waste in the “Camp Kettle,” and shall briefly state that it is our intention to publish it as a daily, or weekly, or occasional paper, just as the exigencies of the service will permit. It is our intention to cook in it a “mess” of short paragraphs replete with useful information on a great many subjects, about which new recruits are supposed to be ignorant. We shall endeavor to make it a welcome visitor beside the campfire and in the quarters, a sort of familiar little friend that whispers kind words and friendly advice to inexperienced men concerning the new position they have assumed, and the new duties that follow. Everything relating to a soldier’s duty, and camp life, from mounting guard, to cleaning a musket, will be fit ingredient for the “Kettle.” Rules for preserving health and cooking rations will be in place, and all sorts of questions relating to a soldier’s duty, and his wants, when respectfully asked in writing, over a responsible name, will find an answer in the next mess that is poured out of the “Kettle.”
For her part, Nellie was happy to settle into the relative peacefulness of this waiting period. In the evenings, she often strolled toward the Barlow house, which sat on the top of the hill. There she could look over the city and imagine what life must have been like when Joel Barlow himself lived there, and his circle of literary friends had joined him in dreaming about what this new country had in store. In many ways, it made her sad to realize that dream had deteriorated into civil war. But she could also take pride in the strength of her country as she looked over the masses of soldiers and equipment assembled to defend that dream.
One such evening brought a delightful surprise. As she perched on a low wall, she heard a soft sound at her feet. Sh
e peered into the bushes in the gathering dark. She couldn’t see much, but the sound became clearer. “Mew, mew,” a tiny voice cried. She held out a hand, and slowly a small black and white kitten emerged from the undergrowth. It sniffed tentatively at her fingers, and then the mewing sound turned into a rumbling purr. She picked the kitten up, and it immediately began nuzzling her neck.
“Oh, aren’t you sweet! Where on earth did you come from? Do you belong to someone, or are you lost?” She shook her head at the silly notion the kitten might tell her anything. But she held it tightly for a few moments, relishing the warmth of its little body and the love that it seemed to pour out to her.
“I’m sorry. I can’t take you home. I don’t have a home myself—just a tent in the middle of a dusty army camp. It’s no place for a kitten, I’m afraid. But I’m happy to have met you.” She put the small animal down, patted it gently on its rear, and turned to go back to camp. She had only taken a few strides when she realized the cat was hard on her trail.
“Shoo. Go home. You can’t come with me.”
“Meow.”
“No, I said.” She stamped her foot and the kitten skittered off.
That scene repeated itself all the way back to her tent. Nellie looked around, afraid someone would see her and think she was deliberately bringing the cat into camp. “Please. Go away. Shoo.”
“Meoooow.”
“Noooooo.”
Near the mess tent the kitten seemed to disappear. Nellie hurried to her tent, hoping to get away before he reemerged. But she was not to be so lucky. She had not finished tying her tent flap closed when the little voice once again startled her. This time, it said, “Yowl.” Looking out of the flap she saw that the kitten had caught a mouse and was dragging it toward her feet.
“No way, cat. I’m proud of you for catching your own dinner. But you’re not eating it in here. Scat!”
Despite Nellie’s semi-sincere efforts to drive the cat away, he took up residence behind the mess tent and visited her frequently. And as luck would have it, the first person to discover she was harboring a pet was Reverend Browne. He came around a corner unexpectedly, as she was feeding the kitten a few scraps saved from her own dinner.
“Mrs. Leath! What in the world are you doing?” he demanded. “That’s a wild animal. Get away from it!”
“It’s not a ‘wild animal’, Reverend. It’s the mess cat, who has been doing us yeoman’s service in ridding the area of mice.”
“No matter. The army’s no place for pets. Get rid of it, or I’ll see to it myself.” He stomped away.
“What makes you so hateful?” Nellie mumbled to his back. “Don’t worry, Oliver. I won’t let that bad man hurt you.” But she was not sure of that when she was summoned to see Colonel Leasure later that afternoon.
“The chaplain tells me you are keeping pets in the camp, Mrs. Leath.”
“Not exactly! There’s a young cat that hangs around the mess tent, and I talk to him now and then. That’s all.”
“Robert says you were feeding it from camp rations.”
“Just the scraps from my own plate, Colonel. And Oliver certainly pays his own way around here in rodent control.”
“Oliver?” The colonel arched an eyebrow at her.
Nellie realized too late she had just confirmed the pet status she was busily denying. “I call him that,” she admitted. “He’s a black cat with white feet and neck. He looks all dressed up, like a proper little Puritan, so I thought ‘Oliver Cromwell’ would be an appropriate name for a Roundhead cat.”
Leasure laughed despite himself. “I see no harm in that, so long as you realize the cat will not be able to go with us when we move out. Don’t get too attached, Nellie. And keep it out of the way of Reverend Browne.”
“I will, Sir. Do you know why the chaplain dislikes me so? I haven’t been able to do anything to please him since he got here.”
“I don’t know, Nellie. Maybe he is uncomfortable around women.”
“But he’s married, isn’t he?”
“Yes, and devotedly so. He writes to Mary every day—sometimes more than once. And he has daughters.”
“Then he just hates me in particular?”
“I don’t know,” the colonel repeated. “Just try not to antagonize him, please—you and the cat both.”
Preparations continued throughout the month of September. The Roundheads were becoming a trained military unit in fact as well as name. The changes had started with the arrival of their uniforms. There was something about the act of donning the clothes provided by the army rather than those they had worn from home that transformed a boy into a man. He stood a little taller, took on an air of seriousness, and began to identify those around him as truly his “brothers in arms.”
To be sure, the uniforms were not particularly stylish, or even comfortable. The shoes were known as mudscows. They were made with the rough side of the leather out, with broad soles, low heels, and rawhide laces. Issue stockings were of wool and shirts of flannel. The trousers were made of blue kersey, cut loose and without pleats or cuffs. Some soldiers complained the outfits were not only ugly but totally unsuited for wearing in warm weather.
“I don’t see why we can’t look more like those Zouaves over there,” Henry Campbell complained to his mess mates in Company C. “Just look at them. Red pantaloons with gold braid all the way down the leg, pants bloused into their white gaiters, blue shirts with brass buttons, blue jackets trimmed in red all down the front, and flowing striped sashes. They’ve got leather leggings to protect their shins and tassels everywhere you look. Really sharp, and I’ll bet they’re cooler, too.”
“Really good targets, you mean. Don’t you know anything about hunting, Henry? They get out in the field and somebody’ll put a bullet through those fancy duds, easy. I’ll keep my dull blue pants and fade right into the shadows. No red for me, thanks,” Andrew Leary warned.
“Maybe so, but when we go home on furlough, I’d like to look like a real soldier, not a farm hand.”
“Well, you are a farm hand, Henry, but you’ll be a soldier, too, and I’ll bet folks can tell the difference. At least in these uniforms, you’ll have a chance to live long enough to earn a furlough,” Sergeant Wilson said.
“I’d still like to have one o’ them fez things they wear on their heads,” Henry persisted. “They have numbers on theirs.”
Henry had hit on a sore point with the Roundheads. The Union forage cap was made of dark blue cloth with a welt around the crown and was supposed to have a yellow metal number in front to designate the regiment. The caps issued to the Roundheads were conspicuously missing that number.
“Yeah, why don’t we have our own number?” Archie Slater asked. “I heard it means the state of Pennsylvania don’t recognize us.”
“And when this war is over, we won’t get our pensions ‘cause we’re not official-like,” Sol Smith added.
“Yeah, and we might not ever get paid.”
Sergeant Wilson held up his hands for quiet as the mutterings spread across the assembling crowd. “You’ve only heard part of the story, men. That’s the trouble with camp rumors. Things get ugly when folks don’t know what’s going on. It’s true Colonel Leasure got his permission to form a regiment straight from Secretary of War Simon Cameron, not from the governor of Pennsylvania. But Cameron’s a Pennsylvanian, like us, and he fully meant for us to be a regular Pennsylvania regiment. It’s only paperwork that’s holding things up, and the colonel is on his way to Harrisburg right now to sign the papers with Gov. Curtin. You’ll get your numbers straight away—and your money, too. Now suppose we all get back to work. It’s almost time for company drills.”
Routines can have two different effects. For most of the time, the men of the Roundhead Regiment settled comfortably into their days. The workload was light, the food plentiful, and the weather pleasant. Music filled the air, and jokes were encouraged. Friendships blossomed, and life was good. But sometimes creature comforts become almost opp
ressive. “I didn’t sign up for this man’s army to sit on a hillside in Washington, D. C., and watch the war getting fought by somebody else!” was a common complaint. The Roundheads began to feel they had been forgotten as the other units came and passed. The Camp Kettle mused:
Beyond All Price Page 7