The Story of the Thirty-second Regiment, Massachusetts Infantry / Whence it came; where it went; what it saw, and what it did

by Francis J. Parker

Adjutant Cobb was a sound sleeper. He did not average to sleep so long, perhaps, as many others, but he would owl over his work or his letters night after night, and then, when the conditions were favorable, would do such solid sleeping for one night as would bring him out even. At such times it seemed absolutely impossible to awaken him; no quantity of shaking would make any impression, and it was necessary to let him have it out.

Somewhere about midnight, before January 21st, an orderly came with a written order, found the adjutant sleeping in his tent, and did his best to waken him, but without effect. Finally he thrust the order into Cobb’s hand, closed the fingers over it, and went his way. Before daylight the adjutant was wakened by the beating drums, and found the paper in his hand. Rising, he struck a light, read the paper and found that it was an order for the Regiment to march at 3 A. M. It was then half-past two, and an hour and a half is the shortest time in which a command can get breakfast and make needful preparations for the route.

Matters were hurried up pretty lively, and inasmuch as there was the usual delay in starting, the Regiment managed to come to time.

We did not move until four. Meantime the work of destruction went on, even to making bonfires of all comforts and luxuries in wood, around which the men warmed themselves and laughed and sung. Even tent-cloths and cast-off clothing were destroyed. Nothing was to be left that would comfort Johnny Reb. But even before we moved off, some of us began to regret our comfortable home; for a bitter cold north-east wind blew fiercely, and the air was full of snow and sleet, which gradually grew to rain. We moved at first pretty fast, and then the pace grew slower, slower, slowest, with frequent halts, until after dark, when we drew off the road and bivouacked for the night. The rain continued for some time, and it was exceedingly chilly, and by no means an agreeable opportunity for sleep. The men made fires among the trees, and sat around them nearly all night. As morning rose the wind changed, the rain ceased and when we resumed our march at about eight o’clock the air was soft, bland, and beautiful, like a day in April or May. Heavy, lead-colored clouds, however, hung low over everything, the air was thick with mist, and vaporous masses of steam lay upon the fields and woods. The snow had disappeared, and the frost was coming out of the ground, and lay in pools and puddles, and finally, in lakes and rivers of water, over roads and low-lying fields in every direction. Soon it began raining again, first a drizzle and then a steady pour, and the thermometer rose and rose and rose again, to fifty, seventy, and eighty degrees, every object in the landscape began to exhale steam. Men and horses and mules and wagons, every bush and blade of grass, gave it forth in clouds and masses. There was a glow everywhere as of early dawn, and a dank, earthy smell pervaded the air. The wagons and trains, and everything that went on wheels or by horse-flesh, abandoned the roads and took to the fields. Deeper grew the mud and deeper the water over the mud. Still the moving masses of men pushed on, jumping from hummock to stump, sinking in up to the thighs and being dragged out half drowned, struggling through dense thickets rather than try the road, and everything and everybody draggled and splashed and yellow with mud; there had been something very much like this in the march up the Peninsula under McClellan, in the trenches and corduroys about Yorktown, and we did not expect to give it up. But at last we came to a dead standstill. We were in a narrow wood-road and had passed several teams of a wagon train completely mired, and apparently sinking deeper and deeper, mules singing their peculiar lay with little above the mud but their ears, when we were halted where the road made a sudden turn and descent, and for the present at least, all further progress was impossible. Our entire day’s march was only three miles.

The narrow road appeared to be blocked, wagons were upset apparently one upon another, while men and horses were floundering about in most dire confusion. In a very short time we made our way out of this scene of disorder, and to the great relief of all who progressed by horse-flesh, halted to wait a more agreeable season. Then again did we regret the comfortable quarters we had left.

It was dreadful to think of camping where we were, worse to undertake to go back again, or forward or anywhere. The whole country in all directions appeared to be under water. The trees stood up as if in a vast bog or swamp. At the first step off from a root or stump you sank so deep as to make you catch your breath, and you were lucky if, in extracting yourself, you did not leave behind both boots and stockings. Virginia mud is a clay of reddish color and sticky consistence, which does not appear to soak water, or mingle with it, but simply to hold it, becoming softer and softer, and parting with the water wholly by evaporation. It was difficult to stand; to sit or lie down, except in the sticky mud, was impossible. Everything was so drenched with water that it was difficult to make fires. The warm, moist atmosphere imparted a feeling of weariness and lassitude, and in short our condition was disgusting. Wet through, stuck-in-the-mud, we dragged out the night.

The next day, January 23d, was bright, mild, and beautiful, at least as far as sun and air went. A gentle breeze began to dry up the ground, and the whole brigade was set at work to corduroy roads. The method pursued by our own men was peculiar. They were marched across the field and brought into single line before a Virginia fence. Every man then pulled out a rail, shouldered it, and in single file the Regiment marched to the place to be corduroyed, where each dropped his rail as he came up.

The next day we returned to our camp at Stoneman’s Switch, which looked on the whole about as comfortable and home-like as the inside of a very mouldy Stilton cheese. In an incredibly short space of time however, everything resumed its accustomed air of neatness and quasi-comfort. The next Sunday-morning inspection showed not a trace of the mud in which the Regiment with the rest of the army had been nearly smothered.

Youthful readers of Lovers’ romances are apt to jump at the conclusion that “a soldier’s life is always gay,” or at least that gaiety is its normal condition. Youthful patriots in our war time yearned for active service, and saw themselves in dreams successfully storming forts, capturing batteries, charging and driving rebel hordes. Always in their dreams there was floating over them the flag of their country, (a bright new one)—always drums were beating and bands were playing; and, if the dream was dreamed out to the end, the great transformation-scene at the close, displayed the dreamer in elegant uniform, crowned by the genius of victory, while the people of the whole nation joined in shouts of approbation.

As they approached the field of glory the halo faded, and often upon the field itself it was not at all manifest to the eye. A disordered liver turned the gold to green, and the arm which by the dream was to have been waving a flashing sword in the front part of battle, was more frequently wielding a dull axe in the woods, or a spade in the open ground. Many thought that their patriotism had evaporated, but it was only the romantic aureola that was gone.