Journal of James Edmond Pease, a Civil War Union Soldier Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Virginia 1863

  November 6

  November 7

  November 8

  November 9

  November 10

  November 11

  November 12

  November 19

  November 20

  November 23

  November 24

  November 26

  November 27

  November 28

  November 30

  December 2

  December 3

  December 4

  December 5

  December 6

  December 7

  December 8

  December 9

  December 10

  December 11

  December 15

  December 16

  December 25

  January 1, 1864

  January 2

  January 14

  January 15

  January 22

  February 2

  February 12

  February 14

  February 22

  February 25

  March 7

  March 11

  March 16

  March 17

  March 23

  March 24

  March 25

  March 26

  April 2

  April 9

  April 12

  April 22

  April 24

  April 30

  May 2

  May 3

  May 4

  May 5

  May 6

  May 8 ?

  May 9

  May 10, near dawn

  May 11

  May 12

  May 13

  Epilogue

  Life in America in 1863

  Historical Note

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  I have been told to keep a record of what we do, tho I do not know why I was picked. I am not the best at spelling. Coreper — Corporal Bell is. I am not the smartest, either. Osgood Tracy is the smartest in the Company. That is why we call him the Little Profeser. And we are doing exactly what we have been doing for some days now — marching around and getting nowhere! Besides, keeping this record has already been the death of two good men and I don’t need more bad luck on my head! Well, you have read it all.

  Luten — Lieutenant Toms looked over what I wrote and said I had got it all wrong and to do it again. “Put in details,” he said, so I will. Lieutenant Alexander Toms has ordered me to keep “an accurate and honest account” of G Company of the 122nd Regiment, New York Volunteers, from Onondaga County in New York State. Lt. Toms is keeping his own account and will combine it with this at the end of the war to make “a true and fair history of our brave men and their core — courageous deeds.” That is exactly his words. I still do not see why I have to keep this record when I know it will be my death.

  Lt. Toms said to stop complaining like a greenhorn recruit. He said I was chosen because he can read my handwriting easier than most. He also said there is no curse to keeping this journal and that he is pretty certain I will last to the end of this war to finish it — unlike the first two. “You are not one of those crazy patriot fools who sticks his head up high to show how brave you are,” he said. “When we come under fire, you hug the ground like a baby hugs its mother’s teat.” I want it clear that I am as good a soldier as any in G Company and have a torn-up arm and a black tooth to prove it!

  Lt. Toms said what I wrote was better, but was still missing some important details. When I talked back fresh and said, “But I put your name in as many times as I could, sir,” he said I could sit apart and miss dinner til I know what I left out. This is hard to do because we had scared up some hens who are now in a pot with some turnips and an onion and the smell makes my head swim.

  What I remember is that last month — which was October — we left Warrenton Junction and went north to Bristoe Station, then on to Centreville — all in Virginia — to head off the Rebs, who was trying to get at the National Capital in Washington. The fighting was hot but we saw little of it, as we was assigned to protect the rear of the supply train as usual. Our army pushed the Rebs back and back and then we followed them south and are today close by Rappahannock Station — still in the Secessia land of Virginia. So marching has been our work and entertainment now for almost twenty days. I will add only that the first keeper of this journal was killed on the march to Gettysburg by a runaway wagon; the second died at the hands of a sharpshooter on a very peaceful Sabbath — the only shot fired that day that I recall and the only man killed in the army. What else is there to say?

  Lt. Toms said there was more to say and that I should “think carefully and fully.” But how can I when all around me is the smell of chicken and the sound of smacking lips? I will try this: G Company is forty-two strong today, plus one three-legged dog and one Negro camp servant. We have had nine desertions since Gettysburg, so tomorrow there may be fewer. It is November 5, 1863.

  I did not show this to the Lt. Instead I asked the Little Profeser to read it and he did, but he could not talk because his mouth was full. He did point to a written “I” and when I looked puzzled he pointed to me. I am not as bright as some, but I am not an empty barrel, either. So I will write: My name is James Edmond Pease. I am a private in the United States Army of the Potomac, which is under the command of General George Meade, and I am sixteen years old, I think, or thereabouts.

  I showed this to Lt. Toms and he smiled and said, “Pull up a log, Private Pease. While you sup, I will tell you some other things I would like in the journal.” And that is what I am going to do — tho there is mighty little chicken left to “sup” on!

  November 6

  Lt. Toms’s first bit of advice was “start with the date and the rest will follow naturally.” So I have given the date and will add that we was up at five this morning, marching by six, with only hardtack biscuits and a tin of coffee in between. The coffee had to be as old as Colonel Titus himself and tasted like the inside of a boot with the foot still inside. But since it was an improvement over yesterday’s coffee, I am not complaining.

  Once again our orders from regimental head-quarters are to guard the rear of the supply train. This is as good a job as any to me, but does not sit well with the rest of the men, who are eager to see some fighting. And once again Lt. Toms has sent Willie Dodd and his dog, Spirit, with a request that we be allowed to join up with the rest of the 122nd — at the forward line of battle!

  Decided to draw our ever-present “friend” and, after several attempts, managed to produce this version of a hardtack biscuit. Johnny Henderson said it looked like a real tooth-breaker to him — which I take to be a compliment.

  At noon of the same day

  The answer to Lt. Toms’s request was no — as it has been every day since Gettysburg. I did sigh with relief when I heard this, but I also know that my bad luck can follow me into a church if it wants, so there is no relaxing for me.

  After this, we marched along for four miles in a cold drizzle that has left us damp and cranky, me especially since I am sure every Reb sharpshooter has me as a target. Even Johnny Henderson — who usually has a smile painted on his face — said he would bite the ear off of any man or beast who looked cross-eyed at him. Charlie Shelp said Johnny was just missing his mama again, so Johnny went at him and the two rolled around on the ground, fists and mud flying and cussing and such, with the rest of the Company and several of the mule-drivers looking on. I may be mistaken, but I believe the Com
pany’s sentiment was with Johnny, as Charlie has offended about everyone with his mouth. He did me when he started calling me Orphan Boy.

  One of the officers of the supply train, Major Mitchell, rode up just as Lt. Toms was pulling the two apart. The Major told Johnny and Charlie to “save your fight for the Rebels,” but it was Lt. Toms who answered: “We are saving it, but guarding a mule’s ass is not our notion of a fight.” Major Mitchell looked as if he had drunk bad milk and said, “Lieutenant Toms, if anyone would have you, I would be happy to see you get your wish,” and then rode off. How is it that when Lt. Toms talks back nothing happens to him, but when I do I get to sit aside and watch everyone else eat? And he did not even say “sir,” that I heard.

  3 o’clock

  The supply train has been stopped a-while, so I will do some writing, as instructed. Lt. Toms wants me to do a list of all the men in our company, being careful to give their proper ages and spell all names correctly. This is not such a hard task since our Company is down considerable from its original 97 men and 3 officers. Here are those left:

  Lieutenant Alexander Toms 43

  Sergeant Robert Donoghue 26

  Corporal John Bell 21

  Corporal Philip Drake 22

  Private James Pease 16

  Pte. David Bernard 20

  Pte. John Keller 22

  Pte. Charles Stevens 31

  Pte. Develois Stevens 17

  Pte. William Kittler 26

  Pte. Philo Olmstead 35

  Pte. James Crozier 21

  Pte. Charles Holman 37

  Pte. Benjamin Breed 21

  Pte. William Bateman 18

  Pte. Niles Rogers 34

  Pte. Charlie Shelp 25

  Pte. Theodore Stevens 16

  Pte. Lyman Swim 17

  Pte. Osgood Tracy 21

  Pte. Hiram Wicks 29

  Pte. William Zellers 30

  Pte. Chester Youngs 21

  Pte. Jehial Lamphier 44

  Pte. Cornelius Mahar 20

  Pte. Peter McQuade 17

  Pte. Miles McGough 22

  Pte. Sanford Van Dyke 18

  Pte. John Williams 31

  Pte. Henry Wyatt 17

  Pte. Henry Clements 18

  Pte. Hiram Woolsey 20

  Pte. George Chittenden 29

  Pte. James Wyatt 20

  Pte. Alonzo Clute 20

  Pte. Brower Davis 19

  Pte. John Doty 35

  Pte. John Farner 44

  Pte. Miles Gorham 21

  Pte. Boswell Grant 38

  Pte. Will Hammond 17

  Pte. Johnny Henderson 19

  Pte. Joseph Landphier 34

  Pte. Willie Dodd 16

  Spirit 3

  We have no capt. since Lt. Toms was reduced in rank, no second lt. since Harrison Jilson died of typhus fever, and no third lt. since Ernst Altgelt was transferred to K Company after all their officers was killed. Lt. Toms has a Negro servant named Caesar, who was freed from a house here in Virginia and works for his keep. He does not know how old he is, but Lt. Toms guesses he might be as old as 50. That is all of them every one, unless one is in the woods on a call of nature and I have forgotten him.

  Same day near dark

  Skirmish fire off to our right a mile or so. Firing came on very suddenly and is very hot. We are so used to hearing cannon and musket fire that we hardly notice it any-more, but this time it sounded sharper to me and I got gooseflesh when I knew it was getting closer. Lt. Toms thinks the Rebs are driving in our guard pickets and told us to load our muskets and form a line along the road to face the oncoming sound.

  Everyone — including Lt. Toms — looks nervous. “Hold your fire, boys. Hold your fire,” Lt. Toms is barking out louder than he needs to. “Hold your fire til I give the command.” The Lt. and some others may be recalling Gettysburg, but I think most of the men are nervous because we was issued only five rounds ofammunition today — ammunition being in short supply — and five rounds will not last but a breath or two in a good fight. Lt. Toms has just screamed, “What the Devil are you doing, Pease?” and I told him I was making “an accurate and honest account of the fight, as ordered, sir.” “Load your damned musket and find a place in line!” he ordered very loudly, which I will do now.

  Later

  It turned out to be all noise and excitement and nothing more for us — which is fine, since I am not eager to add my blood to the cover of this book. Not for $13 a month, which we haven’t seen in three months any-way!

  The fighting came very close — maybe a half mile off — and went on for several minutes. We could hear the pop, pop, popping of muskets talking to each other and even smell the burnt-up powder drifting through the trees, but it is very hilly in here so we did not see anything at all even with most of the leaves gone.

  Major Mitchell rode up and told Lt. Toms to take us out a quarter of a mile from the road and form another line of defense there. We was to hold off the enemy while he moved his wagons to a safer spot. We responded instantly, but had got only a few steps when Major Mitchell called out, “And, Lt. Toms. Do not fire til you see the enemy clearly, do you understand?” Lt. Toms said, “Yes, sir,” but I could see he wanted to say more. And so did the rest of us.

  What happened at Gettysburg was a mistake. A terrible mistake, but an honest one. The smoke from thousands of muskets and the hours-long cannon duel was choking thick and blinding. I know, because I was behind our breastworks of cut saplings, and I saw those hazy sillouet — silhouettes of men coming up the hill — dark, ghostlike shapes without definition and, I might add, without a regimental flag either. What I did see plainly was that they was firing at us — just like any good Reb would.

  I hadn’t been in many fights before Gettysburg — none of us had — and I wasn’t a very good shot either. I just pulled the trigger and hoped to hit a tree or something close enough to a Reb to scare him off. They was the enemy, but I figured that if they didn’t try to hurt me, I didn’t have to hurt them. But something happened at Gettysburg that changed that.

  First, like a fool I stuck my head up to see what the Rebs was up to and saw those soldiers coming at us. Before I had a chance to get down behind cover, a minié ball ripped into my arm. It wasn’t bad — just a grazing — but it burned as hot as a poker. Then while I was sitting there looking at my arm and the little bit of blood that was oozing out, a shell exploded above us and I got hit in the mouth by a piece of flying iron. I was so mad I jumped up and fired back — this time taking better aim. The rest of the Company fired at those advancing figures, too, til we had silenced those guns, every one of them. It was what we had been told and taught to do, after all, and no one who was there would have ever blamed us. We never knew they was Union soldiers til it was all over!

  Only, the officers at head-quarters wasn’t there and did not understand how we could fire at our own men when they was so close. They said our Company had panicked because it was our first real fight and that Lt. Toms had failed to control us — which is just not true, neither one. No one believed Lt. Toms’s story, and all the other officers who had been near us and could have told the truth was either dead or wounded. Of course, I blamed myself some for what happened to the Lt., me being unlucky and all from birth.

  That is why we all wanted to say something to Major Mitchell, but no one did. We know better than to do that when there is a real fight going on. Instead we went out to welcome the Rebs, and I think we was all in a mood for a good fight. Even me! But before we got very far, there was a ferocious volley of musketry up ahead, followed by a loud cheer.

  “Those will be our reinforcements,” Lt. Toms said, and I believe he was disappointed that we had not been there to help. The fighting was pretty fierce for a few minutes; then, very quickly, it began to let up and started drifting away from us til we was standing in a quiet patch of woods with nothing but the smell of the powder to remind us why we was there. Lt. Toms had us form a defensive line any-way and we stayed like that in the em
pty woods, mostly watching Spirit chase after tossed sticks. Major Mitchell remembered us three hours later and sent word that we could come back in, which we did promptly.

  Lt. Toms saw me writing and asked to see it. He said I got it pretty much right except that he had not been nervous and had not been thinking about Gettysburg at all til the Major said what he said. He added that for someone who did not want to keep the Company journal I was certainly scribbling an awful lot down, so maybe I enjoyed this more than I let on. He is right about this last, any-way.

  November 7

  Received our orders this morning: Guard rear of supply train, et cetera, et cetera and so forth. Lt. Toms accepted the orders as he always does, with a crisp salute to the delivering captain and a polite “Yes, sir.” But when the Capt. was gone, Lt. Toms let out such a blast of cussing and yelling and stomping about that even the mule-drivers nearby was greatly impressed. Heavy artillery duel way off and exchanges of musket fire. Some are in the middle of it today, but not us.

  The Lt. said that when things are quiet, I am to write “brief histories of each of the men.” A battle is going on, but the supply wagons hardly move during a fight, so there is not much to do. The Lt. also said I should start with myself, and I will do as ordered and be done with it.

  I have no recollection of my parents, not one, tho Uncle often complained that the Angel of Death had freed them of their burden and saddled him with it instead, so I guess they both died of fever or some such. I was brought up by Uncle and Aunt — they did not like me using their given names and so I don’t — on their farm near the town of Warners, which is not near anything at all, and my earliest recollection is of clearing rocks from the field while Uncle plowed. “Prayer will bring you to Heaven’s path and work will guide your footsteps” was a favorite phrase of Uncle, and he practiced what he preached seven days a week, taking but a few minutes off to pray on the Sabbath. When we wasn’t doing chores, I copied or read passages from the Bible, old newspapers, and the three books we had. Of my aunt, I do not remember much other than she rarely left the house, rarely spoke — and when she did, her voice was as frail as a flower’s petal — and seemed to be always nervous.