THE DEPARTURE FOR WASHINGTON
It was on a bright moonlight night in December, 1862, that the Sixth
cavalry of Michigan left its rendezvous in Grand Rapids and marched to
the station to take the cars for Washington. It was like tearing asunder
the ties of years, for those whose lines had been cast even for a brief
time only, in the "Valley City."[3] The hospitality of the people had
been unbounded. Many of the officers and men had their homes there.
Those who had not, took short leaves and made flying visits to their
families to say good-by and arrange their affairs for what might be a
final farewell. The scenes of our sojourn for a few months, where we had
engaged in daily drills and parades, in the pomp and circumstance of
mimic warfare, were to know us no longer. The time for rehearsal had
passed. We were about to enter upon the real stage of action, and do our
part in the mighty tragedy then enacting.
The camp was broken. Tents were struck. Preparations for departure were
made. Adieus were said. Horses were sent away in charge of a detail.
The quartermaster took possession of the equipments. The regiment was
not yet armed, but was to be supplied with all the needed munitions on
arrival in the Capital City.
For some reason, it was deemed best to make a night march to the
station. No notice of this was given to the citizens. The result was
that when we left camp, at 2 a.m., the streets were deserted. The town
was wrapped in slumber. No sound was heard, except the tramp, tramp of
the soldiers, and the roar of the river as it plunged over the dam,
which only served to intensify the stillness.
Through Michigan was a memorable trip. The same scenes with but slight
variation, were enacted at each station. Officers and men alike, were
warmed by the hearty and affectionate greetings, the memory of which
followed them through all the days, and months, and years of their
service.
On to Detroit, Toledo, Pittsburg, Harrisburg, Baltimore, quickly
whirled. Flowers, music, words of cheer, everywhere. "God bless you,
boys," was the common form of salutation. "Three cheers for the old
flag," and "Three cheers for 'Abe Lincoln,'" were sentiments offered
amidst the wildest enthusiasm, to which the twelve hundred Michigan
throats responded with an energy that bespoke their sincerity. Baltimore
was reached in the night, and when marching through the streets, from
one station to the other, the strains of "John Brown's body lies
mouldering in the ground," awoke the echoes in the city that had mobbed
a Massachusetts regiment, and through which Abraham Lincoln on the way
to his inauguration had to pass in disguise to escape assassination.
"We'll hang Jeff. Davis on a sour apple tree," was a refrain in which
all joined, and there was a heartiness about it that none can understand
who did not pass through those troublous times.
But Baltimore was as peaceful as Pittsburg, and no mob gathered to
contest the right of Michigan men to invade southern soil. It was quiet.
There was no demonstration of any kind. The passage of troops had become
a familiar story to the citizens of the Monumental city.
It was the thunder of Burnside's guns at Fredericksburg that welcomed us
to the army of the east. The same sun that saw us bivouac beneath the
dome of the Capitol, shone down upon the Army of the Potomac, lying once
again beaten and dispirited, on the plains of Falmouth. Burnside had run
his course, and "Fighting 'Joe' Hooker" was in command.