Karl Bacon (11 page)

John’s eyes were narrow, moist with threatening tears, fixed on the flames before him. “I helped move an injured soldier onto the operating table,” he said, “and I learned how to administer a quick dose of chloroform to render him unconscious. Sometimes I held an oil lamp for the surgeon and sometimes I helped hold the injured man down.”

John took another sip of coffee. He dabbed at his eyes with his shirtsleeve. “I learned to anticipate which tool the surgeon would need—the knife or the saw. I witnessed so many amputations I could probably perform one myself. The white apron they gave me was soon red with blood, and each time the surgeon was done, I helped move the poor man onto a stretcher so he could be born away by two other helpers. Then I swabbed off the table, threw out the severed limb, and prepared to do it all over again. I don’t know how many soldiers came through that room, but I was there for about sixteen hours. It was a dreadful experience that I shall try to forget.”

I could only shake my head in sympathy and drink my coffee. John went on to tell me about Colonel Perkins. He had suffered an ugly and serious neck wound, but it appeared that he would survive. The colonel would need to convalesce for quite some time.

“As I was leaving,” John said, “a nurse saw the
14
on my cap and told me there were dozens of our men out in the yard, so I went to check on them. That’s when I saw Harry. One of the other surgeons had taken his foot off, and he was still in a bad way. Lying out in the open like that, in the cold air, on the frozen ground, I do not think he will survive long enough to be sent home.”

“That can’t be—Harry can’t die.” The trembling of my own voice surprised me. “I didn’t leave him. I stayed with him. I did my duty.” I hugged myself tightly with my own arms.

“You did,” John said, laying a gentle hand on my shoulder. Then he closed his eyes and bowed his head. With a warm fire before and the icy Rappahannock behind, John prayed for Harry’s recovery, for God’s mercy upon him, and that Harry would even now in his hour of distress know the saving grace of God in Christ. John prayed for the regiment and for the army, and he prayed for safety for ourselves and comfort for our families. Then we took our Bibles out of our pockets and began to read, and thus we passed another Sabbath day in the Army of the Potomac.

The two armies continued to face each other as day passed into night, with neither commanding general willing either to withdraw or renew the conflict. Thousands would spend another long night on the field of battle in the private struggle to hold onto life. But in the heavens above, for those with living eyes to behold it, there appeared a glorious sight that could stir even the most jaded of sin-sick souls. At first faintly, then more manifestly, the northern sky began to glow with the streaked and
shimmering radiance of the northern lights. Green and red hues with traces of white mingled together in a curtain of color as if stirred by a gentle breeze, performing a slow and beautiful dance in the cold night sky. It was indeed marvelous how our Creator had made Himself known to those who, even in the midst of scenes of fear and blood and agony and death, were able to see His handiwork. When all human words and comforts failed to soothe the hearts and souls of men in torment, the Almighty spoke to all those who knew Him that night—
Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.

A voice was heard in Ramah,
lamentation, and bitter weeping;
Rachel weeping for her children
refused to be comforted for her children,
because they were not.
JEREMIAH 31:15

Saturday, December 20, 1862
Camp of the 14
^th
Conn. Rgt. Vol. Inf.
Near Falmouth, Virginia

Dearest Jessie Anne,

Though tired and dispirited, I am warm and dry in winter quarters. We crossed over the river on Friday the 12
^th
and spent the night in the streets of Fredericksburg. At noon on Saturday a grand assault was made upon the enemy’s line. Suffice it to say, we were repulsed with great losses in men dead and wounded. Details of this disaster I leave you to read elsewhere – I choose not to expend time or ink on them. John and Jim came through the fight unharmed, as did I, but Harry Whitting was wounded in the foot. The serious nature of the wound caused the surgeon to remove the foot to spare his life. Although John thinks Harry may
not recover, I think he must. If God is just and merciful, I believe He will honor efforts made by myself and others to help Harry in his time of need. Please do not speak of this to Mrs. Whitting, for it would only cause her to fret.

We turned our backs to the enemy and returned to this side of the river Monday night in silence and under cover of darkness. Every soldier knows the bitter pill of defeat. Doubts grow within each of us about his own fitness for the work at hand, the justness of his cause, and the skill of his commanding officers. Perhaps worst of all, every man now sees his own pitiful condition as if it were brightest noonday.

The business of building our winter hut began immediately upon our return, and the three days of hard labor trained our attentions upon the building rather than the recent disaster. Since Harry’s war is done, a fourth man was required who was willing to pitch his lot in with us. Such a man is Charlie Merrills, the cornet player I wrote about. Together we formed an efficient team. John was the master designer and Jim the tireless axeman. John planned and measured each cut and each notch and Jim swung the axe from dawn until dusk. Charlie and I helped John and Jim place the logs one atop the other in several courses around the perimeter of the excavation. Every log fit snugly in its place and Charlie filled the narrow gaps between with red Virginia mud to keep the wind out and the warmth in. He also kept the fire blazing and the coffee boiling so we never had lack of it.

I also served as master procurer. An acquaintance named Pat MacMullin vouched for me with the quartermaster of the 10
^th
New York, and I was able to borrow a heavy felling axe. I purchased nails and rope from the sutler’s tent. Nails were forty cents per pound. I told Mr. Morgan we charge eight cents at the store and that forty was akin to thievery in my book, but he would not lower his price.

We fashioned a door and a small table from cracker boxes, of
which there seems to be an endless supply. We also use cracker boxes for stools. Jim Adams split a large three-foot-long log in two using the axe and some wooden wedges he made. Then he set each of the two split halves atop a pair of short logs for support. Now we have a six-foot bench outside where four men can sit comfortably and sun themselves.

You will think our hut very small, only six feet by eight feet on the inside, but it is warm and cozy most of the time. A small fireplace is cut into the center of the left-hand wall. The fireplace is built of logs like the rest of the hut, but it is entirely and thickly covered with dried mud to prevent a conflagration. The table and four stools are set before the fireplace and the floor is entirely “carpeted” with pine boughs.

The roof is the most vulnerable part of the structure. Today’s cold and wind have buffeted the four half-shelters mercilessly. Twice already corners have come loose and we have jumped up to tie them down before the roof is carried completely away. Except for a little light snow last night, the weather has been cold and fair for several days, but this cannot last, and all four of us expect to be busy with roof mending and leak plugging when the heavens do finally open upon us.

I have just received word from Captain Carpenter’s aide that a wooden crate has arrived for me, so I will close this letter and post it to you when I go to collect the crate. Captain Carpenter was also wounded during the recent unpleasantness across the river, but all expect him to return to duty within a week or two, at most. Tomorrow, there will be a memorial service; Chaplain Stevens will preach. Next week the 14
^th
will begin a regular schedule of picketing along the river a few miles west of here – four days in camp for every day on watch. It is not dangerous duty, but we must always be on guard.

Dearest, you and the children must know that in spite of all I have endured, and may yet be called to endure, you are ever in my
heart. There is never a moment in any day when you are far from me. Indeed, my heart aches at the thought of being separated this Christmas season. Please know that my current circumstances are as pleasant as I have had in the army. I have no complaint other than that I hope and pray our generals will go forward with great skill and firm resolve to finally put an end to this war. Pray the Prince of Peace that this might be so. I wish you, my dearest, and Sarah and little Ed a blessed Christmas, although this will not reach you in the few days that remain, along with fondest wishes for the New Year about to commence, that 1863 will see an end to this war and a Palmer family once more united.

Until then, I remain your most
devoted husband,

I hurried off to Captain Carpenter’s headquarters. The crate was indeed the expected one from Jessie Anne, and with some difficulty I carried it back to the hut. When I was alone, I pried open the lid. Atop all else was a letter, which I stuffed in my pocket. I quickly checked all of the crate’s contents, then pounded the lid shut once again and slid it under my bunk. Then I went outside and sat on Jim’s sturdy bench to read the letter.

Sunday, November 30, 1862

Beloved Husband Michael,

As I sit down this Sabbath’s eve to write this letter, I do so with kerchief in hand and the mind not to have need of it before I finish. There is no overly sad news, nor am I in a hopelessly gloomy state, but I do miss you deeply every day. I long to see your face around the house, and feel the surprise of those words you
often whisper in my ear at odd moments. Besides, I have much to say to you that I can say to no other. I miss particularly our quiet evening times after the children are tucked in their beds. How I would love to hear you read a great book to me once again, and to think that you will soon receive this box, and look lovingly upon the contents, causes me to wish I was packaged along with them. (It seems I have used the kerchief already and pray I have not caused you to need one.)

Other than the usual colds in the head and coughs, we are all in good health. Mother was ill a few weeks ago with the ague. She was abed for three days, but then was up and about and is now fully restored. Mama Palmer continues to help me at home, as I wrote in my last letter, and on Sunday afternoons Papa Palmer has begun to teach Sarah the catechism.

Papa has also taken charge of all affairs at the store. He hired my cousin Donald on as a laborer. Donald gets the goods from the depot and unloads them at the store. He drives the wagon out for deliveries, stocks the shelves, and even sweeps the floor – a true Godsend.

While Sarah is at school, I take little Ed with me to the store. He’s such an active little boy, and curious about everything. He loves to talk to every customer, except Mrs. Frost, and is eager to show off his ever-growing vocabulary. Often, it’s all I can do to keep little Ed from mischief. When Sarah arrives from school, he loves to chase her around the store, but she’s much too quick for him, as I was at her age. Soon she lets him catch her and then it’s all hugs and kisses. When the little man tires, he curls up and takes a nap on a little bed I made from a wooden crate and placed behind the store’s counter. Every day I see something of you in him and it cheers me.

Sarah is your daughter through and through. Mama showed her how to set the table for dinner, so now Sarah does it every evening and she always sets your place at the head of the table.
She never lets anyone sit in your chair, not your father or mine, not even Reverend Preston when he visits. She tells everyone, “That’s Papa’s place. When he comes home, he’ll be really hungry.” (There, I’ve used the kerchief again.)

Christmas is almost upon us and I dread the thought of this joyous, sacred season without you. I read last week that the army might start granting furloughs when it goes into quarters for the winter. Do you know anything of this? You know my wish to see you. I have also heard that some wives are permitted to visit their husbands, but I do not see the possibility of this. So I pray that the army will go into quarters for the winter so that you, my husband, might have a warmer, more comfortable dwelling, and possibly obtain a furlough. The thought of you each night sleeping on the cold hard ground, when my bed is so soft and warm, chills me as well.

Sarah asked me to write this: “Tell Papa not to worry about us. We’re doing well, but please hurry home, because I want to read a story I wrote for you. Merry Christmas, Papa.” She also helped me with the shortbread cookies, so excited she was to do something for you. And little Ed says, “I lub you, Papa. Merry Chrithmath.” Mother says I had the same trouble with
S’s
when I was little.

As you can see I was able to send the four pairs of boots you asked for, as well as a number of foodstuffs and confections to brighten your holiday, plenty to share with John and Jim and Harry. Abby and I talk every few days and share the news we receive from your letters. I pray for you often every day. Your perils are so great and so many that I can only imagine them in part, whereas my difficulties are so minor in comparison, mere inconveniences and annoyances. My constant prayer is that our Heavenly Father will place you under His mighty hand and outstretched arm to protect and defend you from all harm. You
must always remember that you are a son of the Almighty God and trust in His unchanging and unfailing love for you.

With sincerest love and affection I, along with Sarah and Edward, wish you a Merry Christmas. I count it a blessing every day that you are my husband, perhaps even more so now in your absence. You are God’s gift to me, second only to His only begotten Son. With dearest wishes for your daily welfare, with a sincere hope and desire for your safe return to me, and with deepest affection for you, my darling husband,

I am, as always, your loving
and devoted wife and friend,

(Yes, the kerchief is well-watered now, but I assure you, my dear, more from joy than sorrow.)

Before the war I had always looked forward to the Christmas season with joy and gladness. Remembering afresh the great love of Our Heavenly Father in sending His Son into this sin-wearied world to save sinners had always colored our celebrations with such an eternal purpose that all of our temporal trials and concerns were for a short time swept aside. Countless blessed hours were spent in singing dozens of familiar nativity hymns in our homes, at church, and up and down the streets of the town, in retelling the wondrous story of the blessed birth and in times of sweet fellowship with family and friends during these yuletides past.

But there was little yuletide cheer on the Federal side of the Rappahannock. Sunday the 21
^st
was declared throughout the Army of the Potomac a day of Sabbath rest and remembrance for our fallen comrades. It was a sunny, blustery day, a day for
remaining indoors beside a blazing fire. Light snow had fallen overnight, less than an inch, but enough to lay a thin blanket of whitest white upon the ground, the trees, and our log huts. At noon, all officers and enlisted men were called to assemble in front of Chaplain Stevens’s tent for a special memorial service for our regiment. It was pitiful to see how few we now were.

“Three months ago, after the Battle of Antietam Creek,” began Chaplain Stevens, “I spoke to you of the shortness of life. At that time I preached from the prophet Isaiah, of how the life of a man is like the grass in the field. It is lively and green; then it is cut down. The next day it is withered and dead. I stand before you today a witness to this truth. While I did not bear arms during the recent fighting, I did follow behind the lines of the advance so as to be ready to give solace or condolence when needed. I saw as you did how the men fell in rows like grass before the grim reaper’s scythe. Did you see how the Irish stood to the last? I saw and was terrified, or as Nehemiah said, ‘I was very sore afraid.’ That ghastly image of death and dying and immeasurable suffering is indelibly etched in the depths of my mind and will remain with me until I rest in the grave.”