Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by The Internet Archive
A BOY TROOPER WITH SHERIDAN
By Stanton P. Allen
First Massachusetts Cavalry
Illustrated
Boston
Lothrop Publishing Company
1899,
A BOY TROOPER WITH SHERIDAN
CHAPTER I.
_More than He Bargained for--The War Fever and How it Affected the
Boys--A Disbanded Cavalryman--Going to School in Uniform--Cousin Tom
from Shiloh?--Running Away to Enlist--The Draft--In the Griswold
Cavalry--Habeas Corf used._
[Illustration: 9009]
N the local columns of the Troy (N. Y.) Daily Times of September 1,
1863, the following news:
MORE THAN HE BARGAINED FOR.
“A few days ago one Stanton P. Allen of Berlin, enlisted in Capt.
Boutelle's company of the twenty-first (Griswold) cavalry. We are not
informed whether it was Stanton's bearing the same name as the Secretary
of War, or his mature cast of countenance that caused him to be
accepted; for he was regarded as nineteen years of age, while, in
reality but fourteen summers had passed over his youthful, but ambitious
brow. Stanton received a portion of his bounty and invested himself in
one of those 'neat, but not gaudy' yellow and blue suits that constitute
the uniform of the Griswold boys. A few days intervened. Stanton's
'parients,' on the vine-clad hills of Berlin, heard that their darling
boy had 'gone for a sojer.' Their emotions were indescribable. 'So young
and yet so valiant,' thought his female relatives. 'How can I get him
out?' was the more practical query of his papa. The ways the ways and
means were soon discovered. A writ of _habeas corpus_ was procured
from Judge Robertson, and as the proof was clear that Stanton was only
fourteen years old, he was duly discharged from the service of the
United States. But the end was not yet. A warrant was issued for the
recruit, charging him with obtaining bounty and uniform under false
pretenses, and a release from the military service proved only a
transfer to the civil power. Stanton found that he had made a poor
exchange of 'situations,' and last evening gave bail before Judge
Robertson in the sum of five hundred dollars.”
In order that the correctness of history may not be questioned, the
subject of the above deems it expedient to place on record an outline of
the circumstances leading up to the incident related by the _Times_.
At the breaking out of the war my father resided in Berlin, N. Y., on
the Brimmer farm, three miles or so from the village. I was twelve years
old, but larger than many lads of sixteen. I was attacked by the war
fever as soon as the news that Fort Sumter had been fired on reached
the Brimmer farm. Nathaniel Bass worked for my father that year. The war
fever got hold of Nat after haying was over, and one night along in the
latter part of August, he said to me:
“I'm going to war.”
“You don't mean it, Nat?”
“Yes, I do. The fall's work won't last long, and they say they're paying
thirteen dollars a month and found for soldiers. That's better'n doing
chores for your board.”
“If you do go I'll run away and enlist.”
“No; you're too young to go to war. You must wait till you're an
able-bodied man-that's what the bills call for.”
“O, dear! I'm afraid you'll whip all the rebels before I can get there.”
I cried myself to sleep that night.
How I envied Nat when he came home on a three days' furlough clad in
a full suit of cavalry uniform! He enlisted September 20, 1861, in
the Second New York cavalry. The regiment was known as the Northern
Black-horse cavalry. Nat allowed me to try on his jacket, and I strutted
about in it for an hour or so. I felt that even in wearing it for a
short time I was doing something toward whipping the Southerners. But
Bass's furlough came to an end, and he returned to his regiment.
Nat came back in time to help us plant in the spring of 1862. The
regiment went as far as Camp Stoneman, near Washington, where it
remained in winter quarters. It was not accepted by the United States
Government, and was never mounted. The reason given was that the
Government had more cavalry than it could handle, and the Northern
Black-horse cavalry was disbanded. The regiment was raised by Colonel
Andrew J. Morrison, who subsequently served with distinction at the head
of a brigade.
Nat came home “chock-full” of war stories. He was just as much a hero
in my estimation as he would have been if the rebels had shot him all to
pieces. I never tired of listening to his yarns about the experiences of
the regiment at Camp Stoneman. He had not seen a rebel, dead or alive,
but that was not his fault. Nat was something of a singer, and he had
a song describing the adventures of his regiment. The soldiers were
referred to as “rats.” I recall one verse and the chorus:
“The rats they were mustered,
And then they were paid;
'And now,' says Col. Morrison,
'We'll have a dress parade.'
Lallv boo!
Lally boo, oo, oo,
Lally bang, bang, bang,
Lally boo, oo, oo,
Lally bang!”
I would join in the chorus, and although I did not understand the
sentiment--if there was any in the song--I was ready to adopt it as a
national hymn.
I was the proudest boy in the Brimmer district at the opening of school
the next winter. I fairly “paralyzed” the teacher, George Powell, and
all the scholars, when I marched in wearing Nat's cavalry jacket and
forage cap. He had made me a present of them. I was the lion of the
day. The jacket fitted me like a sentry-box, but the girls voted the rig
“perfectly lovely.” Half a dozen big boys threatened to punch my eyes
out if I did not “leave that ugly old jacket at home.” I enjoyed the
notoriety, and continued to wear the jacket. But one day Jim Duffy, a
boy who worked for Tom Jones, came into the school with an artillery
jacket on. It was of the same pattern as the jacket I wore, but had red
trimmings in place of yellow. The girls decided that Jim's jacket
was the prettier. I made up my mind to challenge Jim at the afternoon
recess, but my anger moderated as I heard one of the small girls remark:
“But Jim ain't got no sojer cap, so he ain't no real sojer--he's only a
make-b'lief.”
“Sure enough!” chorused the girls.
Then I expected Duffy to challenge me, but he did not, and there was no
fight.
That same winter Thomas Torrey of Williamstown came to our house
visiting. Tom was one of the first to respond to the call for volunteers
to put down the rebellion. He was in the Western army, and fought under
Grant at Shiloh. He received a wound in the second day's fight, May 7,
1862, that crippled him for life. He had his right arm extended to ram
home a cartridge, when a rebel bullet struck him in the wrist. The ball
shattered the bone of the forearm and sped on into the shoulder, which
it disabled. Tom's good right arm was useless forever after.
Tom was a better singer than Bass, and as we claimed him as our cousin,
it seemed as if our family had already shed blood to put down the
rebellion.
While the wounded soldier remained at our house and told war stories
and sang the patriotic songs of the day, my enthusiasm was kept at one
hundred and twenty degrees in the shade. I made up my mind that I
would go to war or “bust a blood vessel.” I assisted in dressing Tom's
shattered arm once or twice, but even that did not quench the patriotic
fire that had been kindled in my breast by Bass's war stories and fanned
almost into a conflagration by Tom's recital of his experiences in
actual combat.
I discarded Nat's “Lally boo” and transferred my allegiance to a
stirring song sung by Tom:
“At Pittsburg Landing
Our troops fought very hard;
They killed old Johnston
And conquered Beauregard.”
Chorus: “Hoist up the flag;
Long may it wave
Over the Union boys,
So noble and so brave.”
I laid awake nights and studied up plans to go to Pittsburg Landing and
run a bayonet through the rebel who shot “Cousin Tom.”
The summer of 1862 was a very trying time. Charley Taylor of Berlin,
opened a recruiting office in the village and enlisted men for Company
B, One hundred and twenty-fifth New York volunteers. I wanted to go, but
when I suggested it to my father he remarked:
“They don't take boys who can't hoe a man's row. You'll have to wait
five or six years.”
When the Berlin boys came home on furlough from Troy, to show themselves
in their new uniforms and bid their friends good-by, it seemed to me
that my chances of reaching the front in time to help put down the
rebellion, were slim indeed. I reasoned that if Nat Bass could have
driven the rebels into Richmond alone--as he said he could have done if
he had been given an opportunity--the war would be brought to a speedy
close when Company B was turned loose upon the Confederates in Virginia.
It seemed that nearly everybody was going in Company B except Bass and
I. I urged Nat to go, but he said it would be considered “small potatoes
for a man who had served in the cavalry to re-enlist in the infantry.”
If I had not overlooked the fact that Nat had never straddled a horse
during his six months' service in Col. Morrison's regiment, I might have
questioned the consistency of Bass's position.
The One hundred and twenty-fifth left Troy Saturday, August 30, 1862,
and on the same day the second battle of Bull Run was fought, resulting
in the retreat of the Union Army into the fortifications around
Washington.
“I told you so,” said Bass, when the news of the battle reached Berlin.
“The boys in Company B will have their hands full. They will reach the
front in time to take part in this fall's campaign. I shall wait till
next summer, and then if there's a call for another cavalry regiment to
fight the rebels, I'll go down and help whip 'em some more.”
When the news of Grant's glorious capture of Vicksburg, and Meade's
splendid victory at Gettysburg, was received in Berlin, I made up my
mind that the crisis had arrived. I said to Bass:
“Nat, our time's come.”
“How so?”
“We've waited a year, and they've called for another regiment of
cavalry.”
“Then I believe I'll go.”
“So'll I.”
“Where's the regiment being raised?”
“In Troy.”
“Will your father let you go?”
“Of course not--don't say a word to him. But I tell you, Nat, I'm going.
The Union armies are knocking the life out of the rebels east and west,
and it's now or never. I can't stand it any longer. I'm going to war.”
I was only a boy--born February 20, 1849--but thanks to an iron
constitution, splendid health and a vigorous training in farm work,
I had developed into a lad who would pass muster for nineteen almost
anywhere.
Bass got away from me. My father drove to Troy with Nat, who enlisted
August 7, in Company E, of the Griswold cavalry. The regiment was taken
to the front and into active service by the late General William B.
Tibbits of Troy.
About the first of August a circus pitched its tents in Berlin.
Everybody went to the show. While the acrobats were vaulting about in
the ring, a lad in a cavalry uniform entered the tent and took a seat
not far from where I was sitting. The circus was a tame affair to me
after that. A live elephant was nowhere when a boy in blue was around.
“Who's that soldier?” I asked my best girl.
“That's Henry Tracy; I wish he'd look this way. He's too sweet for
anything.”
“Where's he from?”
“Off the mountain, from the Dutch settlement near the Dyken pond. Isn't
he lovely! What a nobby suit!”
When the circus was out, I managed to secure an interview with the “bold
sojer boy,” who informed me that he was in the same camp with Bass at
Troy.
“How old are you?” I asked Tracy.
“I'm just eighteen,” he answered, with a wink that gave me to understand
that I was not to accept the statement as a positive fact.
“Do you think they'd take me?”
“Certainly; you're more'n eighteen.”
“When are you going back?”
“Shall start to-night. Think you'll go along?”
“Yes; if you really think they'll take me.”
“I'm sure they will; you just let me manage the thing for you.”
“All right; I'm with you.”
I went with Tracy that night--after he had seen his girl home. As
we climbed the steep mountain, I expected every minute to hear the
footsteps of a brigade of relatives in pursuit. We reached the Tracy
domicile about midnight, and went to bed. I could not sleep. The frogs
in the pond near the house kept up a loud chorus, led by a bull-frog
with a deep bass voice. I had heard the frogs on other occasions when
fishing in the mountain lakes, and the boys agreed that the burden of
the frog chorus was:
You'd better go round!
You'd better go round!
We'll bite your bait off!
We'll bite your bait off!
Somehow the chorus seemed that night to have been changed. As I lay
there and listened for the sound of my father's wagon, the frogs sang
after this fashion:
You'd better go home!
You'd better go home!
They'll shoot your head off!
They'll shoot your head off!
And, oh! how that old bull-frog with the bass voice came in on the
chorus:
“They'll shoot your head off!”
We got up at daylight, and walked over to the plank road and waited for
the stage from Berlin to come along, en route to Troy. When the vehicle
came in sight, I hid in the bushes until Tracy could reconnoiter and
ascertain if iny father was on board. He gave a signal that the coast
was clear, and we took passage for the city.
“You're Alex Allen's boy?” the driver--Frank Maxon--said, as we took
seats in the stage.
“What about it?”
“I heard 'em say at the post-office this morning that you'd run away.”
“False report,” said Tracy; “he's just going to Troy to bid me good-by.”
“Well, he must be struck on you, as they say he never set eyes on you
till yesterday.”
The stage rattled into Troy about half-past ten o'clock. There was
considerable excitement in the city over the draft. Soldiers were camped
in the court-house yard and elsewhere. They were Michigan regiments, I
think. There was a section of artillery in the yard of the hotel above
the tunnel. I could not understand how it was that the Government was
obliged to resort to a draft to secure soldiers. To me it seemed that
an ablebodied man who would not volunteer to put down the rebellion, was
pretty “small potatoes.”
But I was only a boy. Older persons did not look at it in the same light
as I did. By the way, the draft euchred our family out of three hundred
dollars. When I enlisted in the First Massachusetts, after the failure
of my plan to reach Dixie in the Griswold cavalry, I was paid three
hundred dollars bounty. I sent it home to my father. The draft “scooped
him in,” and the Government got the three hundred dollars back, that
being the sum the drafted men were called on to pay to secure exemption.
Tracy escorted me to Washington Square, where there were several
tents in which recruiting officers were enlisting men for the Griswold
cavalry. A bounty of two dollars was paid to each person bringing in a
recruit. Tracy sold me to a sergeant named Cole for two dollars, but
he divided the money with me on the way to camp. As we entered the tent
where Sergeant Cole was sitting, Tracy said:
“This young man wants to enlist, Sergeant.”
“All right, my boy; how old are you--nineteen, I suppose?”
“Of course he's nineteen,” said Tracy.
I did not contradict what my soldier friend had said, and the sergeant
made out my enlistment papers, Tracy making all the responses for me as
to age. After I had been “sworn in” for three years, or during the war,
I was paid ten dollars bounty. Then we went up to the barracks, and I
was turned over to the first sergeant of Captain George V. Boutelle's
company. I drew my uniform that night. The trousers had to be cut off
top and bottom. The jacket was large enough for an overcoat. The army
shirt scratched my back--but what is the use of reviving dead issues!
[Illustration: 0019]
One day orders came for Capt. Boutelle's company to “fall in for
muster.” The line was formed down near the gate. I was in the rear rank
on the left. The mustering officer stood in front of the company with
the roll in his hand. Just at this time, my father with a deputy sheriff
arrived with the _habeas corpus_, which was served on Capt. Boutelle,
and I was ordered to “fall out.”
Then we went to the city, to the office of Honorable Gilbert Robertson,
Jr., provost judge, and after due inquiry had been made as to “the cause
of detention by the said Capt. Boutelle of the said Stanton P. Allen,”
the latter “said” was declared to be discharged from Uncle Sam's
service. My father refunded the ten dollars bounty, and offered to
return the uniform, but Capt. Boutelle refused to accept the clothes,
charging that I had obtained property from the Government under false
pretenses. Under that charge I was held in five hundred dollars bail, as
stated in the _Times_, but the court remarked to my father that “that'll
be the end of it, probably, as the captain will be ordered to the front,
and there will be no one here to prosecute the case.”
As we were leaving Judge Robertson's office, a policeman arrested me. He
marched me toward the jail. Pointing to the roof of the prison he said:
“My son, I'm sorry for you.”
“What are you going to do with me?” I asked.
“Put you in jail.”
“What for?”
“Defrauding the Government. But I'm sorry to see you go to jail. They
may keep you there for life. They'll keep you there till the war is
over, any way, for people are so busy with the war that they can't stop
to try cases of this kind. You are charged with getting into the army
without your father's consent. Maybe they won't hang you, but it'll go
hard with you, sure. I don't want to see you die in prison. If I thought
you'd go home and not run away again, I'd let you escape.” That was
enough. I double-quicked it up the street and hid in the hotel barn
where my father's team was until he came along. I was ready to go home
with him. I did not know at that time that the arrest, after I had been
bailed, was a put-up job. It was intended to frighten me. And it worked
to a charm. It was a regular Bull Run affair.
CHAPTER II.
_The War Fever Again--Going to a Shooting Match--Over the Mountains
to Enlist--A Question of Age--Sent to Camp Meigs--The Recruit and the
Corporal--The Trooper's Outfit--A Cartload of Military Traps--Paraded
for Inspection--An Officer who Had Been through the Mill._
[Illustration: 9025]
RETURNED to Berlin very much discouraged. There had not been anything
pleasant about our camp life in Troy--the food was poorly cooked, the
camp discipline was on the go-as-you-please order at first, and sleeping
on a hard bunk was not calculated to inspire patriotism in lads who had
always enjoyed the luxury of a feather bed. Yet the thought that I was a
Union soldier, and a Griswold cavalryman to boot, had acted as an offset
to the hardships of camp life, and after my return home the “war fever”
set in again. The relapse was more difficult to prescribe for than the
first attack. The desire to reach the front was stimulated by the taunts
of the wiseacres about the village who would bear down on me whenever I
chanced to be in their presence, as follows:
“Nice soldier, you are!”
“How do the rebels look?”
“Sent for your father to come and get you, they say.”
“Did they offer you a commission as jigadier brindle?”
“When do you start again?”
Quite a number of the boys about the village and from the back hollows
interviewed me now and then in respect of my army experience. I was a
veteran in their estimation. After several conferences, a company
of “minute-men” was organized. We started with three members--Irving
Waterman, Giles Taylor and myself. I was elected captain, Waterman first
lieutenant and Taylor second lieutenant. We could not get any of the
other boys to join as privates. They all wanted to be officers, so we
secured no recruits. It was decided that we would run away and enlist
at the first opportunity. Taylor was considerable of a “boy” as compared
with Waterman and myself, as he was married and a legal voter. Waterman
was nearly two years my senior, but as I had “been to war” they insisted
that I should take the lead and they would follow.
We finally fixed upon Thanksgiving Day in November, 1863, the time to
start for Dixie. Waterman had scouted over around Williamstown, and
he came back with the report that two Williams College students were
raising a company of cavalry. Thanksgiving morning I informed my mother
that I was going to a shooting match. It proved to be more of a shooting
match than I expected. The minute-men met at a place that had been
selected, and started for Dixie.
At the Mansion House, Williamstown, we introduced ourselves to
Lieutenant Edward Payson Hopkins, son of a Williams College professor.
The lieutenant was helping his cousin, Amos L. Hopkins, who had been
commissioned lieutenant and who expected to be a captain, to raise a
company.
“As soon as he secures his quota, I shall enlist for myself,” said the
lieutenant, who added, that we could put our names down on his roll and
he would go with us to North Adams, at which place we could take cars
for Pittsfield, where Captain Hopkins's recruiting office was located.
We rode to North Adams in a wagon owned by Professor Hopkins and which
was pressed into service for the occasion by the professor's soldier
son. The lieutenant handled the lines and the whip, he and I occupying
the seat, and Taylor and Waterman sat on a board placed across the wagon
behind.
At North Adams we were taken into an office where we were examined by
the town war committee.
One of the committee was Quinn Robinson, a prominent citizen. I was
called before the committee first, and having been through the mill
before, I managed to satisfy the committee that I was qualified to wear
a cavalry uniform and draw full rations. I remember that in canvassing
the question of age--or rather what we should say on that subject--we
had agreed to state that we were twenty-one. I was not fifteen until the
next February. The examiners did not question my age.
“We won't say twenty-one years,” said Waterman, “and so we won't lie
about it.”
After I had been under fire for some time I was told to step aside, and
Waterman was brought before the examiners.
“He looks too young,” said Mr. Robinson to Lieutenant Hopkins.
“Well, question him, suggested the lieutenant.
“How old are you? inquired the committee man.
“Twenty-one, sir,” replied Waterman.
“When were you twenty-one?”
“Last week.”
“I think you're stretching it a little.”
“No, sir; I'm older than Allen, who has just been taken in.”
“I guess not; you may go out in the other room by the stove and think it
over.”
Our married man Taylor was next called in.
“We can't take you,” said Robinson.
“What's matter?” exclaimed Giles.
“You're not old enough.”
“How old've I got to be?”
“Twenty-one, unless you get the consent of your parents.”
“Taylor's a married man,” I whispered to Lieutenant Hopkins.
“Don't tell that, or he'll be asked to get the consent of his wife,”
said the lieutenant, also in a whisper.
The committee contended that Taylor would not fill the bill. Waterman
was recalled, and Mr. Robinson said:
“Well, you've had time to think it over. Now how old are you?”
“Twenty-one, last week.”
“I can't hardly swallow that.”
“See here, Mr. Quinn” (I had not heard the committee man's other name
then), I interrupted. “We three have come together to enlist. You have
said that I can go. Taylor may be a trifle under age, but what of it? If
you don't take the three of us none of us will go.”
There was more talk of the same kind, but finally the war committee
decided to send us on to Pittsfield and let the recruiting authorities
of that place settle the question of Taylor and Waterman's eligibility.
There was no trouble at Pittsfield, and we were forwarded to Boston in
company with several other recruits. The rendezvous was at Camp Meigs in
Readville, ten miles or so below the city. Arriving at the camp we
were marched to the barracks of Company I, Third Battalion, First
Massachusetts cavalry, to which company we had been assigned.
When we entered the barracks we were greeted with cries of “fresh fish,”
etc., by the “old soldiers,” some of whom had reached camp only a few
days before our arrival. We accepted the situation, and were ready as
soon as we had drawn our uniforms to join in similar greetings to later
arrivals. The barracks were one-story board buildings. They would shed
rain, but the wind made itself at home inside the structures when
there was a storm, so there was plenty of ventilation. The bunks were
double-deckers, arranged for two soldiers in each berth.
“I'm not going to sleep in that apple bin without you give me a bed,”
said Taylor to the corporal who pointed out our bunks.
“Young man, do you know who you're speaking to?” thundered the corporal.
“No; you may be the general or the colonel or nothing but a corporal--”
“'Nothing but a corporal!' I'll give you to understand that a corporal
in the First Massachusetts cavalry is not to be insulted. You have no
right to speak to me without permission. I'll put you in the guard house
and prefer charges against you.”
“See here,” said Taylor. “Don't you fool with me. If you do I'll cuff
you.”
“Mutiny in the barracks,” shouted a lance sergeant who heard Giles's
threat to smite the corporal.
The first sergeant came out of a little room near the door, and charged
down toward us with a saber in his hand.
“What's the trouble here?” he demanded.
“This recruit threatened to strike me,” replied the corporal.
“And he threatened to put me in the guard house for saying I wouldn't
sleep in that box without a bed,” said Taylor.
“Did you ever hear the articles of war read?” asked the sergeant.
“No, sir.”
“Well, then, we'll let you go this time; but you've had a mighty narrow
escape. Had you struck the corporal the penalty would have been death.
Never talk back to an officer.”
“Golly! that was a close call,” whispered Taylor, after he had crawled
into his bunk.
We each had a blanket issued to us for that night, but the next day
straw ticks were filled, and added to our comfort. Waterman and I took
the upper bunk, and Giles slept downstairs alone until he paired with
Theodore C. Hom of Williamstown, another new-comer.
One of the most discouraging experiences that a recruit was called
upon to face before he reached the front was the drawing of his
outfit--receiving his uniform and equipments. I speak of cavalry
recruits. If there ever was a time when I felt homesick and regretted
that I had not enlisted in the infantry it was the morning of the second
day after our arrival at Camp Meigs. I recall no one event of my army
life that broke me up so completely as did this experience. I had drawn
a uniform in the Griswold cavalry at Troy before my father appeared on
the scene with a _habeas corpus_, but I had not been called on to take
charge of a full set of cavalry equipments. If I had been perhaps the
second attack of the war fever would not have come so soon.
A few minutes after breakfast the first sergeant of Company I came out
from his room near the door and shouted:
“Attention!”
“Attention!” echoed the duty sergeants and corporals in the barracks.
“Recruits of Company I who have not received their uniforms fall in this
way.”
A dozen “Johnny come Latelys,” including the Berlin trio, fell in as
directed. The sergeant entered our names in a memorandum book. Then we
were turned over to a corporal, who marched us to the quartermaster's
office where we stood at attention for an hour or so while the
requisition for our uniforms was going through the red-tape channels.
Finally the door opened, and a dapper young sergeant with a pencil
behind his ear informed the corporal that “all's ready.”
The names were called alphabetically, and I was the first of the squad
to go inside to receive my outfit.
“Step here and sign these vouchers in duplicate,” said the sergeant.
I signed the papers. The sergeant threw the different articles of the
uniform and equipments in a heap on the floor, asking questions and
answering them himself after this fashion:
“What size jacket do you wear? No. 1. Here's a No. 4; it's too large,
but you can get the tailor to alter it.
“Here's your overcoat; it's marked No. 3, but the contractors make
mistakes; I've no doubt it's a No. 1.
“That forage cap's too large, but you can put paper in the lining.
“Never mind measuring the trousers; if they're too long you can have 'em
cut off.
“The shirts and drawers will fit anybody; they're made that way.
“You wear No. 6 boots, but you'll get so much drill your feet'll swell
so these No. 8's will be just the fit.
“This is your bed blanket; don't get it mixed with your horse blanket.
“I'll let you have my canteen and break in the new one; mine's been used
a little and got jammed a bit, but that don't hurt it.
“This is your haversack; take my advice and always keep it full.
“This white piece of canvas is your shelter tent; it is warranted to
shelter you from the rain if you pitch it inside a house that has a good
roof on it.
“These stockings are rights and lefts.
“Here's your blouse. We're out of the small numbers, but it is to be
worn on fatigue and at stables, so it's better to have plenty of room in
your blouse.
“You will get white gloves at the sutler's store if you've got the money
to settle. He'll let you have sand paper, blacking, brushes, and other
cleaning materials on the same terms.
“Here's a rubber poncho.
“Let's see! that's all in the clothing line. Now for your arms and
accoutrements!”
I appealed to the sergeant:
“Let me carry a load of my things to the barracks before receiving my
arms and other fixings?”
“Can't do it--take too much time; and if you did go over with part of
your outfit, somebody'd steal what you left in the barracks before you
returned with the rest.”
“Go it, then,” I exclaimed in despair, and the sergeant continued:
“This carbine is just the thing to kill rebels with if you ever get near
enough to them. It's a short-range weapon, but cavalrymen are supposed
to ride down the enemy at short range.
“The carbine sling and swivel attaches the carbine over your shoulder.
“This cartridge box will be filled before you go on the skirmish line;
so will the cap pouch.
“This funny-looking little thing with a string attached is a wiper with
which to keep your carbine clean inside.
“The screw-driver will be handy to take your carbine apart, but don't
do it when near the enemy. They might scoop you in before you could put
your gun together.
“Your revolver is for short-range work. You can kill six rebels with
it without reloading, if the rebels will hold still and you are a crack
shot. You can keep the pistol in this holster which attaches to your
waist-belt, as does also this box for pistol cartridges.
“These smaller straps are to hold your saber scabbard to the waist-belt,
and this strap goes over the shoulder to keep your belt from slipping
down around your heels.
“This is your saber inside the scabbard. I've no doubt it's inscribed
'Never draw me without cause or sheathe me with dishonor,' but we can't
stop to look at it now. If it isn't inscribed, ask your first sergeant
about it. The saber knot completes this part of the outfit. The saber
is pretty big for you, but we're out of children's sizes. The horse
furniture comes next.”
“Will you please let Taylor and Waterman come in here and help me?” I
petitioned to the sergeant.
“Everybody for himself is the rule in the army,” said the sergeant. “Tie
up your clothing and arms in your bed blanket. You can put your horse
furniture in your saddle blanket.”
Section 1,620 of the “Revised United States Army Regulations of
1861, with an Appendix Containing the Changes and Laws Affecting Army
Regulations and Articles of War to June 25, 1863,” reads as follows:
“A complete set of horse equipments for mounted troops consists of 1
bridle, 1 watering bridle, 1 halter, 1 saddle, 1 pair saddle-bags, 1
saddle blanket, 1 surcingle, 1 pair spurs, 1 curry-comb, 1 horse
brush, 1 picket pin, and 1 lariat; 1 link and 1 nose bag when specially
required.”
The section reads smoothly enough. There is nothing formidable about it
to the civilian. But, ah me! Surviving troopers of the great conflict
will bear me out when I say that section 1,620 aforesaid, stands for
a great deal more than it would be possible for the uninitiated to
comprehend at one sitting. The bridle, for instance, is composed of one
headstall, one bit, one pair of reins. And the headstall is composed of
“1 crown piece, the ends split, forming 1 cheek strap and 1 throat lash
billet on one side, and on the other 1 cheek strap and l throat lash,
with 1 buckle,.625-inch, 2 chapes and 2 buckles,.75-inch, sewed to the
ends of cheek piece to attach the bit; 1 brow band, the ends doubled
and sewed from two loops on each end through which the cheek straps and
throat lash and throat lash billet pass.” So much for the headstall. It
would take three times the space given to the headstall to describe the
bit, and then come the reins. The watering bridle “is composed of 1 bit
and 1 pair of reins.” The halter's description uses up one third of a
page. “The saddle is composed of 1 tree, 2 saddle skirts, 2 stirrups,
1 girth and girth strap, 1 surcingle, 1 crupper.” Two pages of the
regulations are required to describe the different pieces that go to
make up the saddle complete, and which include six coat straps, one
carbine socket, saddle skirts, saddle-bags, saddle blanket, etc. The
horse brush, curry-comb, picket pin, lariat, link and nose bag all come
in for detailed descriptions, each with its separate pieces.
Let it be borne in mind that all these articles were thrown into a heap
on the floor, and that every strap, buckle, ring and other separate
piece not riveted or sewed together was handed out by itself, the
sergeant rattling on like a parrot all the time, and perhaps a faint
idea of the situation may be obtained. But the real significance of the
event can only be understood by the troopers who “were there.”
As I emerged from the quartermaster's office I was a sight to behold.
Before I had fairly left the building my bundles broke loose and my
military effects were scattered all around. By using the loose straps
and surcingle I managed to pack my outfit in one bundle. But it was a
large one, just about all I could lift.
When I got into the barracks I was very much discouraged. What to do
with the things was a puzzle to me. I distributed them in the bunk, and
began to speculate on how I could ever put all those little straps and
buckles together. The more I studied over it the more complicated it
seemed. I would begin with the headstall of the bridle. Having been
raised on a farm I had knowledge of double and single harness to some
extent, but the bridles and halters that I had seen were not of the
cavalry pattern. After I had buckled the straps together I would have
several pieces left with no buckles to correspond. It was like the
fifteen-puzzle.
As I was manipulating the straps Taylor arrived with his outfit. He
threw the bundle down in the lower bunk, and exclaimed:
“I wish I'd staid to home.”
“So do I, Giles.”
“Where's Theodore?”
“I haven't seen him since I left him at the quartermaster's.”
“He got his things before I did and started for the barracks.”
Taylor left his bundle and went in search of Hom who was found near the
cook-house. His pack had broken loose, and he was too much disgusted to
go any further. Taylor assisted him, and they reached the bunk about the
time Waterman arrived. We held a council of war, and decided to defer
action on the horse furniture till the next day.
“We'll tog ourselves out in these soldier-clothes and let the harness
alone till we're ordered to tackle it,” said Taylor, and we all
assented.
“Attention!”
The orderly sergeant again appeared.
“The recruits who have just drawn their uniforms will fall in outside
for inspection with their uniforms on in ten minutes!”
There was no time for ceremony. Off went our home clothes and we donned
the regulation uniforms. Four sorrier-looking boys in blue could not
have been found in Camp Meigs. And we were blue in more senses than one.
My forage cap set down over my head and rested on my ears. The collar to
my jacket came up to the cap, and I only had a “peek hole” in front. The
sleeves of the jacket were too long by nearly a foot, and the legs of
the pantaloons were ditto. The Government did not furnish suspenders,
and as I had none I used some of the saddle straps to hold my clothes
on. Taylor could not get his boots on, and Hom discovered that both of
his boots were lefts. He got them on, however. When Waterman put on
his overcoat it covered him from head to foot, the skirts dragging the
floor. Before we had got on half our things the order came to “fall in
outside,” and out we went. Taylor had his Government boots in his hands,
as a corporal had informed him that if he turned out with citizen's
boots on after having received his uniform he would be tied up by the
thumbs. So he turned out in his stocking feet.
We were “right dressed” and “fronted” by the first sergeant, who
reported to the captain that the squad was formed. The captain advanced
and began with Taylor, who was the tallest of the squad, and therefore
stood on the right.
“Where are your boots?”
“Here,” replied the frightened recruit, holding them out from under the
cape of his great coat.
“Fall out and put them on.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
“I wear nines and these are sevens.”
“Corporal, take this man to the quartermaster's and have the boots
changed.”
Taylor trotted off, pleased to get away from the officer, who next
turned his attention to Hom.
“What's the matter with your right foot; are you left-handed in it?”
“No, sir; they gave me both lefts.”
“Sergeant, send this man to the quartermaster's and have the mistake
rectified.”
Waterman was next in line.
“Who's inside this overcoat?” demanded the captain. “It's me,
sir--private Waterman.”
“Couldn't you get a smaller overcoat?”
“They said it would fit me, and I had no time to try it on.”
“Sergeant, have that man's coat changed at once. Fall out, private
Waterman.”
Then came my turn. The captain looked me over. My make-up was too much
for his risibility.
“Where did you come from?” he asked, after the first explosion.
“Berlin.”
“Where's that?”
“York State.”
“Well, you go with the sergeant to the quartermaster and see if you
can't find a rig that will come nearer fitting you than this outfit.”
I was glad to obey orders, and after the captain's compliments had been
presented to the quartermaster, directions were given to supply me with
a uniform that would fit. Although the order could not be literally
complied with, I profited by the exchange, and the second outfit was
made to do after it had been altered somewhat by a tailor, and the
sleeves of the jacket and the legs of the trousers had been shortened.
The captain did not “jump on us” as we had expected. 'The self-styled
old soldiers had warned us that we would be sent to the guard house. The
captain had seen service at the front, and had been through the mill as
a recruit when the First Battalion was organized. He knew that it was
not the fault of the privates that their clothes did not fit them. This
fact seemed to escape the attention of many commissioned officers, and
not a few recruits were censured in the presence of their comrades by
thoughtless captains, because the boys had not been built to fill out
jackets and trousers that had been made by basting together pieces of
cloth cut on the bias and every other style, but without any regard to
shapes, sizes or patterns.