The young volunteer; the everyday experiences of a soldier boy in the Civil War

Front matter

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Preface

What is army life during the time of war like, as seen by “the rank and file” — the men who compose the great majority?

To give an idea of the experiences and everyday existence of the private soldier was the main object in writing this story.

The world is full of books written from the standpoint of the officers, giving the movements of troops and general accounts of great battles, and describing the maneuvers as witnessed from headquarters. They are histories, it is true, as seen by the writers, but they do not portray the life, hardships, trials and sufferings of that portion of the army known as “the men.”

There is a great dividing gulf, military and social, between “officers” and “men,” and they see the same things with vastly different eyes.

There are very few works relating to the actual experiences of the private soldier, giving his troubles and his joys, and presenting the dark and the bright sides of his life in the army. Hence this story covers a somewhat unbeaten field, and its novelty will proportionately add to its interest.

The story is historically correct, so far as it goes. It is part of the history of the Thirteenth Regiment, New Jersey Volunteers, in the War of the Rebellion. But it is only so in part, for it is merely carried far enough to give the reader an idea of a private’s life in the army. To extend it further would be largely a repetition of the same experiences, for, with topographical and climatic variations, all marches and battles are similar — to the private

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PREFACE soldier. Most of the names used are genuine and a majority of the incidents portrayed are the actual experiences of the author; hence for the nearly two years covered it is history.

It may be confidently asserted that nothing has been exaggerated or overdrawn. Nor is there anything in it especially remarkable. Practically it relates the experience of nearly every private soldier who served in the civil war. Thousands and thousands of others could refer to it as their own history, for their experiences were identical with it.

To give the youth of the country a faint idea of real war and real army life; to instil in them sentiments of patriotism; to impress upon them the magnitude of the task of preserving the Union ; and to cause them all the more to appreciate the blessings they now enjoy through the patriotism, sufferings and privations of their fathers and grandfathers, were also objects which instigated the story of “The Young Volunteer.”

Introduction To Second Edition

It is unnecessary to devote much space to the introduction to the Second Edition of “The Young Volunteer/’ Without going into details it is sufficient to say that the first edition was completely exhausted some time ago. And there has been such a demand for the crude and humble work — the everyday experiences of a plain soldier boy, so different from other books on the Civil War — that it has been deemed expedient to issue a second edition.

This edition has been revised and brought up to date by disposing of some of the characters in the first edition who have passed away, and the correction of some historical details. For while “The Young Volunteer” was never intended to be taken in an historical sense, yet so far as it goes it followed the line of actual facts so carefully that it has been criticised from that rigid viewpoint, greatly, it must be confessed, to the astonishment of the author.

This edition is also illuminated by illustrations, some reproduced from actual photographs, and others drawn by a well-known artist from descriptions and scenes in the text of the work. This will no doubt enhance the interest of the volume in the eyes of its younger readers.

There is also added an appendix covering some new points of interest that have developed since the first edition.

The author hereby acknowledges his great obligations to Captain Charles Curie, Department Commander of the G. A. R. of the State of New Jersey, for his invaluable co-operation in the publication of both the first and second editions of “The Young Volunteer.”

Just a word of explanation — The terms “rebels,” “rebs,” “the foe,” “the enemy,” etc., in this book are by

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INTRODUCTION no means meant in an offensive sense to our friends of the South. It must be remembered that this work is written in the vernacular of the time. The war is over — long since. The little trouble with Spain proved that there was “No North, no South, no East, no West,” when it came to rallying round “the Flag,” and should another war come along we would find the descendants of the Blue and of the Gray marching side by side in a common cause. The terminology of the “sixties” is altogether different from that of the opening years of a new century. So again, friends of the South, remember that the language of this book is simply the language of the years which it covers.

THE YOUNG VOLUNTEER.

Chapter I. Enlisting

“Say, Joe, won’t you carry this package of cheese around to Mr. Pennington’s? The boys are all out, and I promised to send it some time ago.”

The speaker was Henry B. Crosby, who kept the big grocery store in Main Street. He was variously known as “The Grocer King” and “The Cheese Prince” — the latter appellation resulting from his custom of buying cheese by the cargo and selling it at a lower price than any one else. If I had known then what I afterward knew, I would probably have said “Cheese it,” and forthwith “skipped,” instead of being a “skipper.” If it hadn’t been for that pound of cheese I might never have been in the army, and the war might have been going on yet !

Aaron S. Pennington, like all the old gentlemen of that day, generally did his own marketing. You could see him walking down among the hucksters on Main Street every morning, with a big market basket on his arm. Few of the grocers and butchers had wagons in those days. People bought their own provisions and generally carried them home themselves. How Mr. Pennington came to leave that pound of cheese to be sent home I never knew.

I did not work in the grocery store. I was employed in the Guardian office. In the forenoon I set type. In the afternoon I wrote down the war news at the only telegraph office in the city, which was in the old Erie depot. “J ack” Dunning was telegraph operator. “Tune”

Dougherty, who was then a wee bit of a fellow, was the sole messenger boy. In the afternoon when the paper was out, I carried a route and sold papers on the street. In the evening I tended office and helped on the books, for I understood bookkeeping. Wages one dollar and fifty cents per week.

Still, my hours were not ironclad, and I had time left to go around a little to pick up local items, and Crosby’s grocery store was one of my “loafing” places. There was a considerable degree of familiarity between the boss grocer and myself, and that is how he asked me, as a favor, to carry around the cheese to Mr. Pennington. This introduction is given, therefore, not only as an historical fact, but as an example to show by what insignificant events a man’s life is frequently swerved. Many a time afterward I hurled boundless anathemas at that pound of cheese, and wondered why Aaron S. Pennington wanted cheese for supper on that particular afternoon.

I well remember the day. It was Wednesday, August 1 8, 1862. And right here let me interpolate a little historical data.

It was, so far as the feelings and apprehensions of the North were concerned, the most critical period of the war. The Army of the Potomac had retreated from a position whence they could actually see the seven hills of Richmond, back to Harrison’s Landing, on the James River. General Lee was marching with the Confederate army close behind, and even Washington was threatened. The North was, as a consequence, precipitated into a genuine panic. It looked as if, before another month, the Confederates would be in possession of the National Capital. President Lincoln issued a call for three hundred thousand additional volunteers. If enough could not be obtained voluntarily, a draft was to be ordered.

It should be stated that the first rush to arms, in 1861, had been spontaneous. The first term of enlistment was but for three months. Then it became apparent that the rebellion was not going to be suppressed in three months, and three years’ men were called. The ambitious, impulsive youths who are ever on the watch for adventure, constituted the first spontaneous outpouring of robust young patriots, but in ’62 it was different. Things had become serious. The people of the country had suddenly awakened to a realization of the fact that they had a real war on hand. And not only a war, but probably a long and stubborn one, against an enemy equally brave, almost as strong, and, perhaps, still more determined.

It would be impossible for the present generation to form the slightest conception of the excitement that prevailed. Public meetings were held everywhere, and the most potent orators in every locality were urging upon the young men to do their duty by flying to the defense of their country.

I was one of the “flyers.” And it was all through that pound of cheese. As I came back from Mr. Pennington’s, I saw a big crowd of people in front of the old “bank building” in Main Street. There was a big stone piazza or vestibule on a level with the second story, which was reached by flights of stone steps on each side. On that piazza some one was making a speech.

He told of the imperiled country and urged on the young men to enlist. Socrates Tuttle, a prominent lawyer, described what a glorious thing it was to fight for one’s native land. Colonel A. B. Woodruff, General Thomas D. Hoxsey and others spoke in a similar strain. The result of it all was that half the boys in the crowd couldn’t get to the nearest recruiting office quickly enough.

It is a very singular thing that of all these impassioned orators who said it was such a glorious thing but one enlisted himself ! But then, perhaps, it was necessary to have some one remain home to do the talking! One of them, however, who was subsequently drafted, nobly fought and died — by proxy. He sent a substitute, at a cost of eight hundred dollars.

And that reminds me of a thing that has perhaps been forgotten. So afraid were some of the leading citizens that they might be drafted that they formed a “mutual substitute insurance company.” It cost at that time eight hundred dollars to get a man to take your place. (Later in the war the price advanced to fifteen hundred and two thousand dollars.) Well, eight men would chip in one hundred dollars each into a general fund, and if any

IO one of the eight was drafted the money would be used to “buy a substitute/’ If two of them were drafted, the extra money was raised by an additional assessment ; but the drafting process was like a lottery, and as a matter of fact there was seldom more than one “prize” in an association of eight men. I might mention the names of quite a number of well-known citizens still living who belonged to these substitute insurance companies. At political meetings I have often heard some of them shouting “how we saved the Union !”

But we poor chaps, who couldn’t raise one hundred let alone eight hundred dollars escaped the draft by enlisting. It wasn’t fear of the draft, however, that influenced us. I was just past eighteen years old, and “liable,” but so far as I was concerned I never once thought anything about being drafted.

Why I, and the other fellows, came to enlist, is something I never could explain. I think I am safe in saying that, at the moment, genuine patriotism hardly entered into the question. Of course there were some who enlisted from patriotic motives ; but when one comes down to the bottom facts, I believe a majority of the boys were induced to go from other motives. Most probably it was the general excitement of the times. It was simply a furore to go to the war. To many it was a change from the ordinary humdrum of life. To others it was looked upon as a picnic. And then in every boy’s heart there is an inherent spirit of adventure.

The orators on the steps of the old bank building had said the reason the war had lasted so long already was because there were not enough soldiers at the front. But now all that would be attended to in short order. With the great army that was about to be organized, the war couldn’t possibly last more than three months longer. By cold weather it would all be over. As said before, what particular motive I had in enlisting, beyond an impulse, I don’t know, and many of my companions frequently expressed a similar opinion. But enlist we did.

Hugh C. Irish was forming a company for the Thirteenth New Jersey Volunteers. It is in his memory that Camp No. 8 of the Sons of Veterans of Paterson is named. Mr. Irish had been my employer, as one of the

The recruits signed the roll on the bottom of a soap box.

Page ii ii proprietors of the Guardian For some reason Mr. Irish sold out his interest in the Guardian and embarked in the grocery business. He had been there but a few months when he became convinced that it was his duty to go to war. Mr. Irish was one of the men who entered the service out of pure loyalty and patriotism. In his case the motive was unquestionable.

Mr. Irish had been authorized to raise a company for the Thirteenth Regiment, then forming at Newark, under the President’s call, and he was to be the captain. His grocery store was transformed into a recruiting office. The recruits signed the roll on the bottom of a soap box. It was to this place I hastened after hearing the patriotic speeches from the steps of the old bank building. Whatever hesitation I might have had on the way thither was completely knocked out by the tune of “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” which was being played on a cracked drum and wheezy fife by two “musicians” in baggy clothes who had just enlisted themselves. They stood in front of the store banging and blowing away for dear life.

Under ordinary circumstances such music would have been rotten-egged. As it was, it was but a noisy echo of the spirit of the times, and filled the heart of the listener with patriotic emotions that were simply irresistible. No one, hearing such martial strains, could resist the war influence! I couldn’t. In a very few moments I had signed an eagle-headed sheet of paper which bound me, “stronger than ropes and cords could bind me,” to the service of the United States of America, “for the term of three years unless sooner discharged.”

I had scarcely signed before I began to be sorry. For the first time I realized what I had done and began to be frightened. But the sight of so many of my friends and companions around me soon dissipated that feeling. There was “Rats” and “Curt” and “Liv,” besides Captain Irish, all from our office. “Rats” was David Harris. “Curt” was Curtis Bowne, whose tragic and singular death at the battle of Antietam will be noticed later on. “Liv” was E. Livingston Allen, now a Methodist minister. He is the only one of the lot who went into the ministry. All those mentioned were printers. Then there were James G. Scott (afterward captain) and Hank Van

Orden, Jim Dougherty, Jack Stansfield, Heber Wells, “Ginger” Clark, John Butterworth, “Lem” Smith, John Snyder (with the big nose), “Slaughter House Ick,” Dan Wannamaker, John J. Carlough, Sandy Kidd, John Nield, John Anderson, “Dad” Bush, Reddy Mahar, George Comer, William Lambert, Archy McCall, Archy Todd, “Jake” Engel, “Jake” Berdan, W. J. Campbell, W. J. C&rlough, John Farlow, Thomas Hardy, Joseph H. Pewtner, Theodore S. Perry, James H. Peterson, and a whole lot of other fellows I had known, and some of whom will come in for further reference during the course of this story.

The immediate association of all these — the fact that so many old acquaintances had enlisted together and would go to war together, relieved the event of the lonesomeness and awfulness of the step. It was simply impossible to remain lonesome and downhearted in com- ' pany with such a crowd — and many others whose names are now beyond memory’s call. And when one comes to look at them, they must have been physically a tough set, for many of them are yet alive, and some of them do not look much older than they did during the war.

There were a number who felt dubious about enlisting in a regiment which was to bear the unlucky number “13,” but it wasn’t a superstitious crowd, and that was soon forgotten. Nor was it an aristocratic crowd. Nearly all were poor working boys.

A sort of pride fills the heart of the new recruit. He imagines that he has already done something brave, and rather looks down on those who have not signed the roll. When I went to see my girl that night I felt considerably puffed up. As it was a good-by call, I asked for her picture.

“What,” exclaimed she, “and have some stranger take it out of your pocket if you are killed? I guess not.”

That wasn’t very pleasant. Getting killed wasn’t in the bargain. I didn’t feel a bit comfortable at such a gloomy possibility.

But when I left the house I had the picture of a very pretty girl in my pocket. The girls of those days were patriotic, and he indeed was a poor soldier who had not in his pocket a picture of “The Girl I Left Behind Me.”

Chapter II. In Camp

A day or so later a squad of recruits for Company K, Thirteenth Regiment of New Jersey Volunteers, proceeded to Camp Frelinghuysen, Newark. The camp was along the canal, in the higher portion of the city. There was no railroad then between Paterson and Newark, and our contingent went down by Barney Demarest’s stage, reaching camp shortly after noon. Many others had preceded us.

When the stage started from Paterson it wasn’t a very jolly crowd. Many an eye bore a redness indicative of recent tears, for the hardest part of enlisting is the parting with one’s dear ones at home. There was many an affecting scene in many a home the previous night. Not that parents and sisters and sweethearts were not patriotic ; but it was with copious tears that mothers and sisters, while admitting that the sacrifice was loyal and right, bade good-by to the dear boys they might never see again. The mother’s tears that had dropped on the soldier’s coat sleeves were hardly dry when the boys rode over the Main Street cobblestones in Barney Demarest’s rickety old stage coach, and the influence of the last embrace and farewell kiss was still upon nearly all.

But human nature is buoyant. Perhaps it was to offset the gloomy farewell that the boys soon became boisterously merry, and they made the morning air resound with their shouts and their hurrahs and their song of

“We’re coming, Father Abraham,

Three hundred thousand more.”

The stage was gayly decked with flags, the crowds in the streets shouted a hearty farewell, and all sorrowful thoughts were soon drowned in the noise and racket that was too loud to permit any one to think. A similar noisy demonstration greeted us at “Acquackanonk” (Passaic), Bloomfield and Newark, and a hurrah arose from the throats of the already arrived recruits as we drove past the guards at the entrance to Camp Frelinghuysen. The armed guards and picket line around the camp was another evidence that we were no longer free men ; but we did not fully appreciate that fact until later.

And yet the camp presented a picturesque appearance. The colonel’s tent stood at the top of the hill. It was a large and commodious canvas house. Near by were similar but smaller tents for the lieutenant-colonel, major, adjutant and quartermaster. Still further down was a long row of still smaller tents, occupied by the captains and lieutenants. Running at right angles from the latter was a row of large, circular tents, occupied by the “enlisted men” of each company. These were known as “Sibley” tents, and resembled an Indian tepee, with a ventilator at the top. These tents would accommodate fifteen or twenty men. In our innocence we supposed that we were to have these tents right along all through the war. For all that we knew, all the soldiers in the army had the same commodious and comfortable quarters. We were undeceived on this point, however, in the course of a very few days.

Shortly after our arrival we were taken before the regimental surgeon for examination. The surgeon was Dr. J. J. H. Love, one of the most brusque-appearing and yet most kind-hearted men that ever lived. Until his recent death he was one of the most respected and prominent residents of Montclair.

“Strip,” ordered the doctor.

There were five or six examined at a time. We boys, who never had a pain or qualm in our lives, thought it was a needless formality, but were told that it was “according to the regulations.” Then the doctor punched us and pinched us, rubbed his hands down our legs as if we were so many horses, seized us in the groin, and told us to cough, and finally said:

“Let’s see your teeth.”

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“What do you want to see my teeth for?” I asked. “Are we to bite the enemy ?”

“Something tougher than that,” good-naturedly answered Dr. Love. “You will have to bite hard-tack and chew cartridges, and I guess you will find both tougher than any rebel meat you ever will see.”

I didn’t know then that hard-tack was the stuff soldiers were mainly fed upon ; but I found out before long. For the information of the reader I will explain that a hard-tack is the most deceptive-looking thing in the world. Its general appearance is that of a soda cracker, but there the resemblance ends. You can bite a soda cracker. A hard-tack isn’t tender. Compared with it a block of granilite paving stones would be mush. That is the sort of pastry the government fed its soldiers upon. Hard-tack must have been referred to in that part of the Bible where it says “he asked for bread and they gave him a stone.” A further corroboration of this conclusion lies in the positive fact that every box of hard-tack that ever arrived in the army was marked :

the variation being only in the figure. The “B. C.” was on every box. And judging from the antediluvian toughness of some of the crackers, the prehistoric ancient who stencilled on the figures either accidentally or wilfully post dated the box several thousand years.

What “chewing cartridges” meant, I hadn’t the slightest conception of, but learned that subsequently. That my teeth were apparently equal to the emergency of both biting hard-tack and chewing cartridges, however, must have been a matter satisfactory to Dr. Love, for I successfully passed the ordeal of a “surgical examination.”

The next thing was to go to the quartermaster’s and get our uniform and equipments. What a lot of things there were !

There were undershirts and drawers and thick stockings, all supposed to be of wool, but apparently mainly composed of thistles and sticks — the coarsest things a man ever put next to his skin. And it was midsummer at that ! Then there were a pair of light blue trousers, a dark blue blouse, a dark blue dress coat, a heavy, caped light blue i6

THE YOUNG VQLUNTEER overcoat, a knit cardigan jacket, a forage cap, a heavy woolen blanket, a thick rubber blanket, and a pair of heavy brogans. These were the clothes. Added to this were a knapsack, a haversack, a canteen, a cartridge belt, a bayonet belt, and an Enfield rifle.

As the men were called up, the clothing, etc., were thrown in front of each one in a pile, and utterly regardless of fit or size. When the recruits repaired to their tents and donned the uniform, they presented a ludicrous appearance.

“How do I look, boys?” asked Hank Van Orden, as he emerged from his corner.

“Hank” was a sight to behold. Nature had been generous with him as to legs and arms, and as luck would have it, t he had got a small-sized suit. The bottom of his trousers didn’t come down to his shoe tops, while his arms stuck several inches beyond the end of his blouse sleeves. The shoes were too tight and his cap was stuck on the back of his head in a comical fashion.

“Don’t laugh at me. Look at Heber,” said Hank.

There stood Heber Wells, dressed up in a suit Van Orden ought to have had. His trousers were turned up at -the bottom like a dude’s of the present day, while the sleeves of his coat fit like a Chinaman’s. His cap came down to his ears.

Robust Abe Godwin couldn’t button his clothes about him, while slim Johnny Nield had twice as much uniform as he wanted. In fact, while there were different-sized suits, no man had got a suit anywhere near fitting, and a more incongruous lot of noble soldiers could not be imagined. Falstaff’s army was simply nowhere. But the difficulty was in a measure overcome by exchanging suits, an operation that took nearly all the afternoon. Still they didn’t fit. But nobody but a raw recruit would spend more than a moment thinking about the fit of his uniform.

The clothes were awfully uncomfortable. The absence of a vest was particularly noticeable. “Enlisted men” in the army never wear vests. There was a nasty smell of dye-stuff. The coarse underclothes tickled and irritated, the heavy brogans for men who were used to gaiters and Oxford ties were disagreeably clumsy. And, above all, i l

How do I look, boys ?” asked Hank Van Orden.

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the wearing of woolen stockings a quarter of an inch thick, in the August dog days, fairly capped the climax.

“Fall in for your rations.”

Such was the cry we heard for the first time, about 6 o’clock. None of us knew what “fall in” meant; but Heber Wells, who had been selected as orderly sergeant, told us it was to get into a line, one after the other.

“Forward march!” said Heber.

It is the rule in the army to step off first with the left foot, but we didn’t know that. Some started with the left and some with the right, and the whole line came near stumbling over each other. After going to the lower end of the company street, the new orderly cried out:

“File left.”

Heber took hold of the leading man and twirled him to the left, and the rest of us followed. Otherwise none of us would have known what to do.

“Where did he learn so much military ?” was the question everybody was asking about Wells. We at once began to look to him as a marvel of tactical knowledge. The fact is this was all the tactics Heber knew, and he had just been told that much !

The “cook house,” where we went for our rations, wasn’t a house at all. It was all outdoors. A couple of forked pieces of wood held a horizontal pole, and on this were three or four big sheet-iron pails or kettles, under which a cordwood fire was burning, with much smoke. There was a similar “cook house” at the lower end of each company street. As each man filed past he was given a tin cup, filled with black coffee (no milk) already sweetened, a tin plate filled with beans and pork, and a hunk of bread. We were told to take care of our “crockery,” and bring them to the cook house whenever “rations” were called.

“Where’s the knife and fork and spoon?” John Butterworth wanted to know.

“You’re a nice fellow,” replied Jake Engle, “to think soldiers have forks and spoons. Use your fingers — they were made before forks.” Neither were there any napkins.

The men took their rations and sat down about their i8 tents to eat their first meal as real soldiers. Coffee without milk was not very palatable, at the start, but from that time on, for many, many months, the majority of these soldier boys never saw such a thing as milk. Milkless coffee isn’t so bad when one is once used to it, and coffee was the mainstay of the army. What a soldier in active service would do without his pint of coffee three times a day is a serious question.

It was also awkward to eat pork and beans without knife, fork or spoon. But with the aid of pocket knives, and wooden spoons made out of a sliver from a board, the recruits soon learned to eat soldier fashion, and they soon found out, also, that beans spread upon bread was a fair substitute for butter.