Karl Bacon (8 page)

“I’ve thought so for some time,” I said. “All the arms and supplies and back-breaking labor without letup—now, there’s no doubt about it. War in winter—another happy thought.”

John just turned and glared at me.

We finally broke camp at Belle Plain on Saturday, December 6
^th
, slogging back to Falmouth through more rain and cold and mud. Colonel Morris had fallen ill, and command of the
brigade fell to another less suited, Colonel Palmer (no relation of mine) of the 108
^th
New York, who had held his regiment out of the fighting at Antietam while the Fourteenth and the 130
^th
Pennsylvania marched forward and did their duty. Morale was already very low from the return of the poor weather, but at this news our hearts grew heavier still.

At Falmouth the men of the Fourteenth camped under a stand of pine trees. It was snowing, and the trees provided partial shelter from the snow and a soft carpet of pine needles underfoot. John and I, and Jim Adams working without his tent-mate, threw up our tents and tried to sleep. By the next morning, there was a foot of snow on the ground and no way to build any campfires. The weather cleared after the snow, and the day was spent drying out, cleaning up, and foraging for firewood. By the light of day, we took down our tents, set them up properly, and somehow, mercifully, managed to light our cooking fire that evening. Coffee was just beginning to boil when Harry Whitting walked up. He sat down heavily on a log and tried to warm himself.

“Welcome home, Harry!” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. Harry coughed several times, hoarse and deep. “I’m sorry, Harry. Have some coffee.” Harry, always of slight build, now appeared frail and gaunt.

“We’ve been told to start building a hut,” Jim told Harry, “and we were thinking about building a larger hut for four men rather than for two.” Harry nodded slowly.

“It’ll only be a little more work,” said John, “and each man will have his own bunk.”

“We already share our possessions and camp duties,” I said. “And after the hut is done, we only have to cut firewood for one hut. What do you think, Harry?”

Harry again nodded slowly.

“How about you, Jim?”

“I’m all for it,” Jim replied, “and besides, if each man has his own bunk, I figure each man will keep his cooties to himself.”

We all heaved with laugher, even Harry, whose face finally brightened enough to reveal the narrow but noticeable space between his two front upper teeth. But his laughter ended in another fit of coughing.

“How do we start?” Jim asked.

“We start by digging,” John said. “A lot of digging.”

Our four shelter tent halves would form the roof of our hut. We laid out the shelter tents and drove sticks into the ground to mark the corners. Our hut would be about eight feet wide by ten feet long with an inside area of about six feet by eight feet,
perhaps a little more depending upon the diameter of the logs we used.

It was dirty, nasty, toilsome work that occupied all of the hours we were not required to drill or do picket duty. Jim managed to borrow a spade from another regiment near our camp, so one man dug with the spade while another dug at the earth with his bayonet and another used the cooking pot for scooping. Harry tried to lend a hand when he could, but mostly he was just too weak for the heavy labor. By Wednesday afternoon the digging was done, and we were looking forward to getting out of the mud and into the construction of our hut.

However, that construction would have to wait. There was a war to fight.

Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace,
good will toward men!
LUKE 2:14

T
HIS IS MADNESS
!” J
IM ADAMS PACED WHILE MOST OF THE MEN
sat quietly awaiting orders, trying to enjoy what was left of the late-afternoon sunshine. “Sheer madness. It’s useless and everyone knows it.”

The river crossing into the city of Fredericksburg on the morning of Friday, December 12
^th
, had been, for us, without opposition or injury. That price had been paid by others. We were ordered to occupy a street that ran along the bank of the river in plain view of the pontoon bridge that had granted us safe and dry access to the city. Throughout the day the leather-soled feet of columns of infantry, the shod hooves of horses and mules, and the iron-bound wheels of trains of wagons echoed hollowly as they tramped, clopped, and clanked across the wooden decking of the bridge into the city.

As if to punctuate Jim’s vehement words, a shell screamed
overhead and exploded in the river just a few yards from the bridge, showering man and beast alike with icy water. A team of dray horses near mid-span reared on their hind legs and bellowed wildly into the cold air. The driver fought for control as the team strained against the harnesses that bound them to the heavy wagon. The very thing the beasts wished to be free of was the only thing that kept them from dashing headlong into the depths of the river.

“Useless,” cried Jim to anyone who would pay him heed, “utterly useless. Burnside must be the only one that doesn’t see it.”

John beckoned to Jim. “Come have some coffee.”

Jim shook his head in disgust and spat in the street, then came slowly to the fire.

“Jim, it may indeed be madness, as you say,” said John, “but what can we do about it? We’re soldiers under orders. It’s our duty.”

Jim turned on John. “Duty? Duty to go blindly forward and be killed, just because some general who’s safely on the other side of the river says so? Every man in this army knows what’s going to happen tomorrow. All that time we were at Belle Plain, Old Bobby Lee was preparing a warm reception for us. It’s a trap, and we’re walking right into it. We have no chance for success.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably where he sat, but said nothing.

“I’ve heard that talk too,” I said. “They’re ready and waiting. Some even say the Rebs are begging us to march out and fight.” I hesitated for a moment, wanting to be sure that the words I was about to utter I truly believed. “When the order comes down, I have resolved to do my duty and let God determine the outcome.”

“God—He’s nowhere in this army.” Once again Jim spat in the street.

“You’re wrong, Jim,” John said. “He’s all around us working out His purposes.”

Jim ignored John’s words. “So, Michael, you’ll obey orders tomorrow, whatever they are, even if it kills you?”

I was taken aback by Jim’s bluntness. I looked at John and held his steady gaze.

“Even so,” I finally said, “even so.” But even as those words escaped my lips, I shuddered at the implication of them. Were my words an expression of a sincere, childlike trust in my Heavenly Father? Or did they give voice to resignation, indifference, and acceptance of a fate yet to be determined?

Later that afternoon the three hundred and fifty men of the Fourteenth Connecticut, along with the rest of the brigade, were ordered away from the river into the next street parallel to the river, Caroline Street. Tens of thousands of Federal soldiers, now transient citizens of the city, occupied the substantial brick and wooden houses of the city folk, as well as the public buildings that, until a few days before, had been the exclusive realm of the Southern gentry of Fredericksburg. Most of the citizens had fled, preferring to wait out the impending storm behind the lines of Lee’s army rather than remain in their homes to face the invading Vandal horde of Yankees.

Several dwellings in the city had been set ablaze by the shelling; Confederate or Federal, it would matter not when the owner finally returned to the smoldering ruin. Clouds of gray smoke hung lazily over the city. When the wind came from the direction of the river, I could sit quietly and breathe in fresh, clean air. But when the wind changed, it was all I could do to draw a breath. My eyes burned and teared; acrid smoke filled my lungs. I gasped and coughed and finally buried my face in the folds of my greatcoat, using the thick cloth to filter the smoke from the air.

“Hey, nutmeggers,” a sergeant from the 108
^th
New York yelled from a few houses up the street. “We’re building fires in the
cellars here for coffee. You boys should do the same.” The army had been ordered not to build any fires for fear that the Rebel gunners would see them, but a soldier could be an extremely inventive character, especially when it comes to coffee.

“Let’s go,” yelled Sergeant Holt. He waved us toward a large house that appeared deserted. It was a fine and stately brick structure that had no doubt housed a fine and stately family before the tide of war had driven them out. “Find a way to the cellar. Take some wood, slats from that picket fence will do. Furniture will burn too—lots of wood in a house like this.”

With great bravado Holt led the way in this domestic assault and in no time at all, smoke began drifting upward from the chimney. Knowing it would be a long night, John and I waited until the initial rush passed. We went around to the rear of the house and down a short flight of stone steps into the cellar. The cellar was divided into two main sections, a storage room, the shelves of which had been picked clean to prevent the foodstuffs from falling into our hands, I assumed, and a kitchen area with a fireplace for cooking during the hot summer months. Harry Whitting stood quietly next to the fireplace, warming himself and savoring his coffee.

“Hi, Michael. Hi, John.” Harry tried to give us his gap-toothed grin, but his eyes told another tale; he was obviously unwell. “The men have been using the fire hooks or one of these long spoons to hold their cups over the fire.”

“Thanks, Harry,” John replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Not well. I still feel so weak, and I find breathing difficult. The smoke makes it worse.”

“I’m sorry,” said John. “Perhaps a warm and dry place to sleep tonight will do you good.”

Harry shrugged. “Jim and Charlie Merrills came through a while ago. I think they’re upstairs looking around.”

Once John and I had our own cups of steaming coffee, we
climbed a narrow, twisting stairway to another kitchen, bigger and better equipped than the summer kitchen below. How the enticing aroma of a juicy roast beef or turkey, freshly baked bread and pies, or a pan full of sizzling bacon must have filled the entire house, reaching into every room, causing every empty stomach to growl in eager anticipation of the fine meal being prepared.

A doorway led to the dining room. Late afternoon sunlight slanted in through three windows and reflected brightly off polished hardwood floors. Still-life paintings, sketches, water colors, and portraits adorned the walls, personal remembrances of past and present generations, like those seen in many a home, even mine.

“I wonder if these were done by family members and who the people are in the portraits?” I said.

“Can you make out any of the signatures?” John asked.

“A few, but who knows who this family is?”

John ran his hand lightly over the top of the large rectangular dining table that occupied the center of the room. “This furniture is of the finest quality, Michael.” Ten chairs stood in perfect order around the table, one at each end, four along each side.

“Must be a large family,” I said.

“And look at this hutch cabinet,” John continued. “It probably held the family’s heirloom china and silverware. They must have taken it with them. This is surely the biggest hutch I’ve ever seen, almost the length of the table. See that grain? It’s oak, like the table. The color and grain are so similar, maybe both pieces were made from the wood of a single tree.”

I ran my hand over the smooth top of the table as John had. I tried to find the correct word to describe what I felt in the tips of my fingers. “It’s so … soft.”

“That’s the wax. You see how deep it looks?” I nodded,
seeing a dim reflection of myself in its depths. “That kind of finish can only be obtained through hours and hours of hand rubbing. I hope this family is able to enjoy these things for many years after we’ve gone.”

The sound of someone playing a piano drew me away from the table and into the next room, the parlor. Several of our men, including Jim Adams, were taking their ease on the soft, plush furniture in this room that included four upholstered cushioned chairs and a long velvet-covered settee. One entire wall was covered with bookcases that seemed to hold every book ever printed. In the far wall was a pair of doors entirely made of panes of glass, like windows from floor to ceiling that opened to allow passage outside to a well-tended garden behind the house. But the room’s main attraction was the American cherry-wood grand piano that stood just inside the windowed doors.

“Hello, Michael and John.” Charlie Merrill’s familiar eyes peered at us over the music brace atop the piano.

“You play the piano as well, Charlie?” His talents continued to impress me.

“Yes, and I find it much more interesting than the cornet. In my opinion the piano is the most perfect of instruments. But it’s rather difficult to march with a piano strapped to my back.” We all laughed heartily.

“And Michael, this is an excellent piano,” Charlie added. “See this?” He pointed at an emblem above the keyboard. “William Knabe and Company, Baltimore, Maryland. She’s a finely built instrument about fifteen years old. Her tone can be full and rich or dainty and delicate, and the action of the keys is clean and crisp, not sluggish like some less costly pianos. And look at the cabinetry. It’s the best I’ve seen, first rate in every way.”

“It is fine work,” said John.

Charlie resumed his playing, softly and tenderly, as if savoring
every nuance of tone that he drew from the piano. The tune he played was sweetly lyrical but unfamiliar.

“What are you playing?” I asked Charlie.

“A Christmas carol. I heard it for the first time only two or three years ago, but it’s now one of my favorites. It’s called ‘It Came Upon the Midnight Clear.’ Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely.”

“I was thinking that when we get back to camp, we should prepare a Christmas concert for the men. Listen to the words as I sing.”

And so Charlie sang for us in his simple, unadulterated tenor.

“That’s a good Christmas carol for a soldier,” said John.

“There are more verses, but I only know the first,” Charlie said.

“The music complements the words nicely,” I said. “I’m sure the other verses will be just as pleasing.”

“May God grant that we may all see Christmas,” said John.

Sergeant Holt appeared in the doorway. “All of you men, on your feet. These houses are for officers only. You can still use the cellar for coffee, but stay outside otherwise.”

The lounging men groaned, mumbled “Yes, Sergeant,” and trudged out into the dark night.

John and I wrapped up in our blankets and found some comfort by leaning against a tree in front of the house. Everyone else settled down to try to sleep.

“John, I meant what I said—about doing my duty, whatever happens.”

“I know you did.”

“This is going to be tough. Tougher than Antietam, I think. At least there, the Rebs didn’t have a hill behind them for their guns. When we were in the cellar boiling our coffee, I heard that their infantry’s dug in behind a rock wall at the bottom of that hill.”

“Many of us will probably not see sunset tomorrow,” John said. “Let’s not stand next to each other in the line—one shell could get us both, and that would be very sad for both families. Here, I wrote my pocket letter.” John drew a sealed envelope from his breast pocket. “You know what to do with it. If you ever see them again, give them my love and tell them that I know we shall see each other again in glory.”

“I will, John, and here is mine. I wrote it a month ago at Warrenton.”

The words of that letter had not come easily. In fact, it was the most difficult thing I had ever written, because much of what was in my heart I could find no words for, and the words that I finally did write never seemed quite satisfactory. I kept that letter with me throughout the war. I rewrote it several times as the paper became old and worn, changing the date and location as circumstances dictated, since I never knew when I might have need of it.

Camp of the 14
^th
Conn. Rgt. Vol. Inf.
Fredericksburg, Virginia
Saturday, December 13, 1862

My Dearest Wife Jessie Anne,

If you receive this letter, then you will know that I have been killed in battle and that I now delight in the nearer presence of our Lord and Savior and the eternal reward of blessed Sabbath rest. By now you have read in the newspaper of a great battle at this place. I am sure that our men at arms have done their duty and inflicted great harm on the enemy.

You must be assured of my love for you and for our children. Yet despite the depth of my love, it in no way compares to the love our Heavenly Father has for you. I commend you, Jessie Anne, and Sarah and Edward into His care. Throw all of your grief and pain and burdens upon Him, and He will satisfy your every need.

We spoke of my wishes for you and the children before I left for the army, but I think I should affirm them for you once again. I wish only that you would remain faithful to your Christian faith and in the training up of our children in that faith. Continue to teach Sarah and Edward the eternal things of His Word as we did when I was with you, and as you have done in the months since. You know that our Savior has always been faithful, “an ever present help in time of need.” Rely fully upon His help, allow the church and Pastor Preston to extend a merciful hand, and pray without ceasing to the Almighty for strength and wisdom.