Preparations for Winter—Log-huts—Break Camp—Winchester—Provost
Duty—Baltimore—The Stables—Visit of Rev Dr. Ware—Extracts from
Letters.
Preparations now began to be made for passing the winter at Camp
Russell. The shelter-tents afforded poor protection against the
snow-storms, which were becoming frequent, and boards were scarce;
so, in every camp, log-villages arose, many of them far neater in
appearance than the tenements in which families of poor whites had
been reared on the banks of the Red River.
The regiment was putting up its last row of huts, when a sudden stop
was put to all further work, by the reception, on the afternoon of
the 20th, of marching orders; and before daylight the next morning,
in the midst of a driving storm, the third brigade broke camp, and
marched to Winchester, where the Thirty Eighth was selected to do
provost duty, and quartered in deserted buildings in the vicinity of
the Court House. A portion of the duty here consisted in guarding
the rebel prisoners brought in by the cavalry, and in taking squads
of them to Harper’s Ferry.
The people in Winchester, and all through the Valley, were bitter
foes to the Union, giving constant information to the enemy of all
military movements; and many of the prominent citizens had been sent
to Fort Henry, in Baltimore. The women adhered to the Confederate
cause with a tenacity that could not but win respect, and daily
brought baskets of food to the captured rebels. One day, it was the
duty of the writer to notify the citizens to have the snow taken off
their sidewalks within a certain specified time,—not a very pleasant
task considering that the majority of the houses were tenanted by
females. Some quietly said it should be done; others were not so
tractable. One fair dame said, in a rich Virginia accent, that we
had taken all the men off, and that she would see us “durn’d” before
she’d shovel snow: she’d “go to the gurd-house first.” Fortunately, a
“right smart rain” that night did the work, and saved the dignity of
the fair ones.
The provost duty at Winchester was of short duration. Marching orders
were received on the 5th of January; and before daylight the next
morning, the regiment was groping its way through the silent streets
to the outskirts of the town, where it awaited the arrival of the
brigade, under command of Lieut.-Col. Richardson, who had recovered
from his wound, and returned to duty a few days previously.
The railroad terminated at Stephenson’s station, five miles from
Winchester, and upon reaching that place, the brigade was obliged
to wait several hours in a cold rain-storm while the train was made
up, when, packed close in cattle-cars and on them, the division
again brought together, rode to Baltimore, reaching that city on the
morning of the 7th. The journey had been an uncomfortable one, those
on the outside being exposed all night to the storm, while the men
were packed so close inside that holes had to be cut in the cars to
let in fresh air.
Upon arriving at Baltimore, the division quartered in the cavalry
stables at Camp Carroll, near the old camp, Emory, from which the
regiment had departed over two years before. The weather was cold,
the boards were partly off the buildings, and the only way to keep
comfortable was by building large fires in the centre of the stable,
the smoke from which found its way in time through the crevices in
the roof. The Twenty Second Iowa occupied one side of the stable;
and when the two regiments were frying pork over dozens of fires up
and down the length of the building, it required strong lungs to
stand the smoke and smell. Nevertheless, one Boston lady, Mrs. James
H. Norris, an agent of the Christian Commission, learning that a
Massachusetts regiment was in Baltimore, found it out, braved the
unpleasant surroundings, and delivered mittens, socks, needle-books,
etc., not only to those who needed them in the Thirty Eighth, but
also to the Iowa boys. The regiment also had the pleasure of a visit
from an old friend, the Rev. Dr. Ware, formerly of Cambridge, then
pastor of a church in Baltimore, who had once made a visit to Camp
Emory, and who now came loaded with packages of tobacco, stationery,
and other articles acceptable to soldiers who had been months without
pay. The doctor distributed his treasures not only to the Thirty
Eighth, but to the Iowa boys on the opposite side of the stable.
Dr. Ware repeated his visit, and gave an account of the impressions
he received in two letters to the “Cambridge Chronicle,” which were
perused with much pleasure by the men of the Thirty Eighth.
The following extracts from these interesting letters will give the
reader a view of the regiment from the “outside”:—
“.... It was a clear, cold Sunday,—a day like the finest of our New
England winter days, and a walk of some three miles brought me to
the camp. What memories it awoke! Not three years ago, close by,
lay encamped the Thirty Eighth, on the crest of a hill, surrounded
by other regiments of the same brigade. Everything about war was
new then, and I well remember how clean and neat the whole camp
was, and with what pains every man rubbed his buttons, and blacked
his boots, and brushed his coat, and kept his gun.
“I remember, too, the admirable drills, the perfect dress-parade,
in such marked contrast with all the regiments about. I remember
a brigade review, in which I stood a delighted listener to the
praises heaped upon the Thirty Eighth, by New York officers not on
duty. The last time I saw Col. Rodman—the friend of many years, who
fell before Port Hudson—was there at evening parade. I see his fine
form before me now. I recall his pride in the appearance of his
men,—how we lingered and chatted after the parade was over,—how we
parted at the camp lines,—neither he, nor many others then there in
life and hope, to come back to their homes again.
“All this and more was in my mind as I walked up and down the camp
of —— thousand men, asking for the Mass. Thirty Eighth in vain.
Chancing to remember that regimental numbers are not apt to be
known beyond the regiment, I asked for the Third brigade, and at
last was told that in a certain long barn I should find the Thirty
Eighth, on the right hand side,—the left being occupied by some
other regiment. I remembered the stable as belonging to the cavalry
of Emory’s brigade two years and a half ago. It was made of rough
boards, which probably never had matched, and the wind and wet,
the cold and heat of the months since had not drawn them any more
closely together. As I entered, the sight was one of which those
at home can form no conception. All down the long centre of the
building, at company intervals, were circular piles of logs, around
which men were grouped as thick as they could sit, some chatting,
some singing, some eating, some silent. On either side were others
taking their supper, sitting or lying on the ground, or writing
letters; while in grand promiscuousness, blankets, cups, plates,
knapsacks lay about everywhere. You could scarcely keep your eyes
open for the smoke, which these old campaigners did not seem to
notice. And here was what was left of the Thirty Eighth,—not
spruce and nice as when I last saw them, but thinned by battle and
disease, four hundred and seventy out of a thousand,—and now, just
from a journey of fearful exposure and cold, bearing signs of the
life they had led since we parted.
“.... I recognized some; more recognized me, and I hope they
enjoyed the meeting as much as I did. How I wished the home folk
could be there! It would have made their hearts ache a little to
see how without the shadow of a comfort these men were, while they
would have glowed with pride at the genuine, uncomplaining manhood
before them. They had supposed themselves fixed for the winter.
Orders had been sent commanders to see the men properly housed.
Things were settling down into the inactivity of the cold season.
The Thirty Eighth was doing provost duty in Winchester, when
Thursday evening orders came to march at six the next morning.
“It was a day of cold and rain and wind. That day, that night,
into the next forenoon, in baggage, on platform, in uncleaned
cattle-cars—on them as well—this division journeyed. We have had
no such cold hereabout this winter—some were frost-bitten, but
none seriously. Saturday noon found them at ‘Camp Carroll,’—the
old summer residence of Charles Carroll—weary, cold, and hungry,
with bare shelter from the winds, and such straw for bed as any
individual foraging would supply. And yet they spoke of the
comfortable quarters! I pulled my coat about my ears as the wind
whistled by,—I looked out through the chasms in the barrack sides
at the clear, cold moonshine,—I looked up at the dense smoke hiding
the roof,—I looked around at men’s faces as the camp-fires lighted
them up,—and I wished again that the men and women at home might
see and hear these men, and be glad as I was in their devotion, and
learn, as I did, something from their cheerful endurance. It gave
me the old feeling of shame that I was not with them in body as
well as in heart, and my citizen’s dress seemed to me as a badge of
disgrace, while the contrast between the scene before me and the
comforts I came from, and should return to, was painful indeed. It
is a good gift of God that the soldier can be so content in his
lot,—as we said,—‘asking no questions of the future, but taking the
present as it comes.’
“I went in and out all over that camp, and I saw much the same
thing repeated everywhere. A happier, more contented set of men you
would not find. Bound they knew not where,—I wished that I did
not,—the one desire seemed to be to get this thing through that
they might be at home again. As I threaded my way out, I heard
one man, sitting by the fire, say, in half soliloquy, ‘Who would
think this was Sunday night!’—‘Little enough like the old Sunday
nights at home,’ I said in passing; and I walked out into the
night, and by the challenges of the guard, and over the fields, and
looked back at the camp and down upon the great city, and heard
the evening bells, and knew how well-dressed, comfortable people
would soon be gathered to their worship, little imagining what
Sunday night was to those who suffer peril, privation, absence from
home, and all civil pleasure and privilege, that they might enjoy
churches and home in quiet. I doubt not there was in the camp, that
night, as hearty service in many a heart as in the city cathedral,
chapel, or church.
“On Monday, 9th, I again made my way to their camp. If you had my
eyes, you could realize better than you can with the help of my
pen, how the inexorable laws of military rank showed themselves in
the matter of the different head-quarters. The division commander
and his staff were in the mansion-house of the ever-venerable
Charles Carroll, outside the lines. The brigade commander and his
staff were in a two-story building, no way near as good as my
old barn; the staff and line of the regiment were in a similar
building, but they seemed to have about as much room for all of
them as the brigade-commander had to himself. Even in such details,
in a casual camp, you are impressed with the difference that a
little priority in rank makes. And now from regimental quarters,
even to company quarters, from the tight walls and roof of the
barrack to the gaping sides and roof of the stable, from the
comfortable stove, though its nose be thrust out of a window, to
the fires of logs all up and down the sitting, dining, sleeping
room—all in one—of our friends of ‘the rank and file,’—the contrast
is very great—yes, painful; none the less so because the men bear
it so well. Speaking to the officers of the state of things, more
than one said he had tried to go through the smoke, and had given
it up.
“Tuesday came. During the night had come up one of those rains for
which this latitude is a little too famous. There is no half-way
about them. I had waked, more than once, and thought of the poor
fellows out there in the camp in the mud,—for this stable of theirs
had no floor to it, and was on the slope of the hill. As soon as I
could, I pulled on my cavalry boots, and in the old ‘Reserve Guard’
overcoat, minus the buttons of brass, made my way to the city, and
filling a carpet-bag with chewing and smoking tobacco, newspapers,
pictorial papers, dominoes, and various kinds of puzzles, started
for camp. I found the stable more comfortable than I had feared,
and distributed my treasures to eager hands and thankful lips, and,
I think, hearts. It was a real pleasure to see the pipes filled,
the quid rolled on the tongue, and men here and there settling
themselves to their papers and games. The Twenty Second Iowa,
on the other side of the stable, came in for a share, and as I
heard one of them say over my shoulder, ‘That bag holds out like
the widow’s cruse,’ I could not help wishing it did, and not one
of those eight thousand men—the number is not contraband now—but
should have had something to comfort him that comfortless day.
“Crossing the camp, I met, ankle deep in mud, Lieut. Davis, whom I
last saw in hospital, just from home, looking exceedingly nice,
but not quite well enough for such rough weather and work. Lieut.
Whitney, whom I had also seen while here wounded, I was sorry to
hear had been discharged. He is well spoken of by every one, and
the last thing he said to me was that he hoped to get back to his
regiment before it was all over. I think government is a ‘little
rough’ upon the men she can no longer use. It is a poor way, it
is a mean way of reducing expenses, if that is the object. A MAN
is something after all, even in such a crisis as this, and a man,
scarred and disabled, should be ‘tenderly cared for.’ No government
can afford to be without a heart!
“On Wednesday the weather was clear and cooler, and though the
chances were that camp would be broken up, one brigade having
marched in the rain the day previous, I again took my bag, filled
with paper, envelopes, pencils, and newspapers, and found our
friends still in their old quarters. From inquiry I had learned
they were in need of these things, but when I had satisfied their
demands, I had still ‘a few more left.’ Coming up to a squad of
_Iowa_ men, I said, ‘Any of you here would like some paper?’
Not a word in reply. Every man seemed stolid and dumb. They sat
about their logs, and looked in the fire. At last one, somewhat
hesitatingly, got up, and put his hand in his pocket and drew out
two or three pieces of ‘fractional currency,’ and said, ‘I _should_
like a little, but I don’t know as I have money enough to pay for
it.’ ‘My friend,’ said I, ‘you haven’t money enough to pay for it.
That isn’t what I am at. If you want paper, take it and welcome.’
You should have seen the change,—up sprung those stolid, dumb men:
‘I should like a sheet of paper, if you please, sir.’ ‘Can you
spare me an envelope?’ ‘Thank you, sir.’ ‘I should like a pencil.’
I was the centre of eager men. You should have seen those hands
stretched from all sides toward me,—hands grimed with dirt, but
honest, and hearty, and loyal hands, that had been clasped in agony
by dear ones far away, hands that had toiled for the dear country
God has given us,—hands, dirty, indeed, but there was an expression
in their fingers and palms as they eagerly waited for their turn,
such as I never detected in the unsoiled, delicate hand of which
some men as well as some women are foolishly vain. The same thing
struck me that always does in hospital and camp,—a certain reserve
and modesty. They asked for one or two sheets, or envelopes, but
almost invariably replied to my inquiry, if that was really all
they wanted, that they would like more if I had them to spare.
Before I left, I saw many ‘writing home.’ As I finished, one man
came up to me and said, ‘Have you any more of the puzzles you had
yesterday?’ and I was sorry I had not. Thinking the brigade must
leave before I could come out, as rations again for fifteen days
had been served, I said ‘Good-by’ and ‘God bless you,’ expressing
the hope that I might find out when they sailed, and give them one
good, hearty Massachusetts cheer.
“Sitting with the men on the knapsacks they piled for me, I felt
that I came to know something of them, and in some sort as if I
were a link between them and the home we all alike love. I found
them a little inclined to be thoughtful, not gloomy at all, but
they had been disappointed in finding themselves ordered on active
duty just at the time that furloughs were being granted and they
were feeling sure of reaching home. Some had not seen home since
the day of that march from Camp Cameron, which none will forget. I
think that being here so long and inactive increased the feeling,
and it would not surprise me if a little homesickness lurked
underneath. Their destination was a thing of uncertainty. They
hoped not Petersburg,—many desired Louisiana; but as soon as the
rations were given they said, ‘You can’t long keep things from an
old soldier,—this means Wilmington or Savannah.’ The leading topic
seemed the coming home again in August.
“One would have supposed these men would stand in need of some
of that aid we are so anxious at all times to give. What was my
surprise to find them packing up their superfluous baggage to send
home! They looked like men in very light marching order, but I
believe a soldier has always something he can do without. I was
sorry to find they had not been paid recently. How unjust this
seems! I was glad to hear them praise Sheridan; and glad, Mr.
Editor, of another thing,—to hear them put Massachusetts first, and
then Cambridge a little ahead of her! Didn’t I join hands with them
there? If you at home love the old city as well as we whose various
duties call us away, and will keep her up not merely to what she
has been, but to what she can be, we will do all we can to prove
ourselves citizens of no mean city, of whose doings she need not be
ashamed.
“Before this stands in type they may have again looked upon the
battle glare; they may have tasted reverse; they may have won some
new honor to their flag, new laurels to themselves; they may have
written their names among the immortal band whose fidelity and
courage shall ensure that redemption of the country to which we are
‘marching on!’”