MUSTERED OUT.
They are coming from the wars,
They are bringing home their scars,
They are bringing back the old flag too in glory;
They have battled long and well,
And let after ages tell,
How they won the proudest name in song or story.
_Eugene H. Munday._
I remained in Armory Square hospital until the 26th of May, when I was
transferred to a place called White Hall, on the Delaware river, about
eighteen miles above Philadelphia. It was formally a seminary, but
had been taken for hospital use. At the time I wished it had always
remained what it was built for, as it was the most lonesome and dreary
place I ever saw. The nearest place was a village called Bristol, two
miles away, and we went there when we could, and those who were able
traveled the country for miles around, just to pass the time away. It
seemed very hard, now that the war was over, and our services no longer
needed, that we could not return to our homes.
On the 7th of June they began mustering out men of the different
states, and fifty to a hundred men left the hospital for home every
day. Day after day passed, and there still remained all those of my
regiment, six or seven, with no sign of being mustered out.
On the 3rd day of July we heard of our regiment passing through
Philadelphia on its way home, and then we could content ourselves no
longer. We wanted to be with them when they entered old Massachusetts
again, and to be with our comrades once more before the regiment was
disbanded, and those who had been our companions so long were scattered
far and wide.
We went to the surgeon in charge, and asked him why we were not
discharged.
“It takes a long while to get your descriptive lists from the front,
and I intend to have you veterans discharged for wounds received in
action, and you would get a hundred dollars extra,” was his reply.
But that was no inducement to me to stay there any longer, and I asked
him if I could not be sent to my regiment, and he gave his consent, so
on the 6th of July, in company with one or two others of my regiment, I
bade goodbye to my hospital life, and started for Massachusetts.
Arriving in Boston on the evening of the 7th, we remained there that
night and the next morning took the steamer for Galloupe’s Island,
where our regiment was quartered.
Here we remained until the thirteenth, when the regiment was disbanded,
and the boys left for their homes. The 32nd was no more, but their
deeds will never die.
I went back to Boston to wait for my discharge, made a brief visit
home to spend Sunday and returned to Boston, where on the 18th of July
1865, I received my discharge, and was a free man once more, having
served Uncle Sam for three years, eight months and sixteen days. I was
with my company from the time I enlisted until I was wounded, with the
exception of two furloughs. My wound was healed, though I had to use a
cane for some time longer.
When I enlisted, my mind was made up to do my duty, whatever the
consequences, and I trust it will not seem like boasting when I say
that I did so every time. When traitors tried to destroy the best
government that ever existed, and dishonor their country’s flag, I felt
if was my duty to enlist and do what I could for my native land, and I
have never been sorry that I did so.
My health was always good, and I was fortunate in battle, never being
laid off duty until I was wounded, just before the last battle in which
my regiment participated. In thirty-eight battles, I shared the dangers
with my comrades of company B. But where are the 101 men of my company
who left Concord for Fort Warren on that cold morning of December 3rd,
1861? I called the roll of company B in 1865, when there were but eight
men left of the original company.
Ah, the memories that arise of the brave boys who shared with me the
hardships and dangers of those long years of warfare! Brothers could
not be dearer than those who have shared their last hardtack with
me, helped me off the field when wounded, cheered me on the long and
tiresome march when I was about ready to give up and drop by the
wayside. I think I used to dread the long marches more than I did the
battles, and welcome the sight of a brush with the enemy that would
stop the march for a while.
We had each to carry a musket, 40 to 80 rounds of ammunition, haversack
with four to six days rations, knapsack, blanket, shelter tent,
together with our canteen and other small articles that we could not do
without, and to carry this on the march from ten to twenty hours at a
time with only a few moments now and then to rest, often seemed more of
a trial to me than the hardest fought battle I was ever in.
But the hardest trial of all was to have my comrades shot down on my
right and on my left, and have to rush on with the rest in the charge,
or in battle, leaving them behind to suffer and die.
No words can do justice to that experience, or the feeling of the
battle-worn soldier, when he starts out after the battle is over to
hunt up his comrades that have not answered the rollcall, will never
answer it again, and he digs a hole in the ground with his bayonet and
wrapping a blanket around his dead comrade’s body, lays him to rest in
an unknown grave forevermore.
And now my story is told; it is a plain, true tale of my experience
in the War of the Rebellion, and may help the future generations to
understand just what their fathers suffered, that their native land
might remain forever, an undivided nation.
[Illustration]
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
The Table of Contents appears at the end of the original book. It
has been moved to the front matter of this eBook for the readers’
convenience.