The story of the Thirty Eighth regiment of Massachusetts volunteers

by George Whitefield Powers

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.