“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!’”
CHAPTER XVIII.
Departure from Baltimore—Arrival at Savannah—Desolation of the City—Sherman begins his March through the Carolinas—Conflagration—Gen. Grover in Command of the Post—Music in the Park—Marching Orders.