[123]
Chapter 9: en route to the front; passage through Baltimore; arrival in Washington
The varying scenes which interested the soldiers and the people during that memorable journey were too abundant for record. At railroad stations in Maine, on the approach and departure of our trains, there was abundant cheering and words of encouragement. However, here and there were discordant cries. Few, indeed, were the villages where no voice of opposition was raised. But, later in the war, in the free States after the wounding and the death of fathers, brothers, and sons, our sensitive, afflicted home people would not tolerate what they called traitorous talk. They went so far as to frown upon any vigorous young men who clung to the home roof, and found means to compel blatant offenders to hush their utterances, and shake out to the breeze some semblance of the old flag. This conduct was imperious; it was earnest; it had its counterpart in the South; it meant war. As we came whistling into the large depot at Brunswick, where Bowdoin College is located, professors and students, forgetting their wonted respectful distance and distinction, mingled together in the same eager crowd, and added manly vigor to the voices of enthusiastic lads who were crowning the fences and gravelcars and other sightly places. Unexpected tears of interest, warm hand-pressures, and “God speed you, my [124] son,” revealed to some former students, now soldiers, tenderness of heart not before dreamed of among those gray-haired instructors. At Portland, Maine's largest city, we met a marked demonstration. Food, drink, and flowers were brought to the cars and freely offered, but we could not delay, though the people asked to extend a more formal welcome. At Boston, early in the afternoon, a company of guards in spotless uniform and with wondrous perfection of drill paraded before our soldiers in their somber gray and escorted them through the eddies and whirlpools of city people, along the winding streets and out into the Common. Bunker Hill, Breed's Hill, the Old South Church, and other ancient sentinels, which had observed the beginnings of our liberty, looked solemnly and silently upon us as we passed. Surely, many of us would die before the boastful threat of Robert Toombs to count his slaves on Bunker Hill should be carried out. Boston Common! How beautiful, as we marched in, was its green, undulating surface; how pretty the lawns and little lakes; how grateful and refreshing the shade this hot June day. The governor, John A. Andrew, of large heart and brain, who with his staff had come out from the State House to meet us, gave us a welcome in well-chosen words; but the hospitable multitude excelled on that occasion. The choicest supper was spread upon long tables, which were stretched out so as to barricade our way. My thousand men were never better fed or served, because mothers and daughters of Massachusetts were ministering to them. Our enthusiasm under such cheer and amid such surroundings underwent no abatement. All spoke to us in a language plainer and [125] deeper than words: “Go, fight for your flag, and free the land.” From my boyhood the sight of a large steamer has been grand to me, and in my eyes the Bay State, at Fall River, exceeded all others. That night, June 5th, it took on the thousand soldiers, and they seemed to make little impression on the vast passenger space. This superb transport ferried us the length of Long Island Sound as it, or its sister ships, had ferried thousands before us. A committee of a New York association called the “Sons of Maine” met our steamer at the pier on North River. Unfortunately for us, it was a stormy day and the rain poured incessantly. In ordinary times there would have been little stir in New York City on such an arrival, particularly in the mud and slush of most unpropitious weather; but then the excitement ran high; nothing could dampen the patriotic fervor of the people, and crowds besides the “Sons of Maine” came to see us land. R. P. Buck, Esq., a native of Bucksport, was a fine-looking, well-dressed merchant, and the chairman of the committee. He took me by the arm and, led by the committee, regardless of moist clothes and wet feet, preceded by a military and police escort, the regiment marched via Battery Place and up Broadway to the White Street city armory. Twenty years after our walk in the middle of Broadway I dedicated a book to my conductor in these words: “Whose heart beats with true loyalty to his country and to the Lord, his Saviour. From the time when he with other friends welcomed my regiment when en route to the field to the city of New York till to-day he has extended to me the tender offices of friendship and affection.” 1 [126] After our men had entered the drill hall of the armory they unslung their knapsacks and arranged them near the wall for seats. As soon as there was order the “Sons of Maine,” by their committee, gave notice that they wished to present a flag to the regiment. Stewart L. Woodford, the youthful statesman, whose wife was a daughter of Maine, was selected to make the presentation speech. There was in it a mingling of seriousness and humor characteristic of the orator. Standing where all could see him, Woodford said:I expected to present this standard to you in the Park. I am somewhat surprised that soldiers of Maine should not have faced the storm, for as soldiers you should have learned to keep your powder dry, and as citizens of a State that has given the temperance law, you ought not to be afraid of God's cold water. Each mother has given to her boy in your ranks that fittest pledge of a mother's love-her Bible. Each dear one has given some pledge that speaks of softer and sweeter hours. Your brethren in this hour of battle would give you a strong man's gift-your country's flag. Its blended stripes shall stream above you with protection. It is the flag of history. Those thirteen stripes tell the story of the colonial struggle, of the days of ‘76. They speak of the wilderness savage, of old Independence Hall, of Valley Forge and Yorktown. Those stars tell the story of our nation's growth; how it has come from weakness to strength, from thirteen States to thirty-four, until the gleam that shines at sunrise over the forests of Maine crimsons the sunset's dying beams on the golden sands of California. Let not the story of the flag be folded down and lost forever. . . We give this flag to you, and with it we give our [127] prayers, and not ours alone; but as the loved home circle gathers, far in the Pine Tree State, gray-haired fathers and loved mothers will speak in prayer the name of their boy.Turning to me, he said: “Sir, in behalf of the ‘Sons of Maine’ I give you this flag; guard it as a woman guards her honor; as children keep the ashes of their father. That flag shall float in triumph on your avenging march, as those steel fingers point the way through Baltimore to Sumter. That flag shall hover with more than a mother's care over your head. We hear to-day above the sound of the conflict the voice of the archangel crying, ‘Victory is on the side of liberty; victory is on the side of law.’ With unbroken ranks may your command march beneath its folds. God bless you! Farewell!” I thanked the donors for the flag, saying: “I was born in the East, but I was educated by my country. I know no section; I know no party; I never did. I know only my country to love it, and my God who is over my country. We go forth to battle and we go in defense of righteousness and liberty, civil and religious. We go strong in muscle, strong in heart, strong in soul, because we are right. I have endeavored to live in all good conscience before God and I go forth to battle without flinching, because the same God that has given His Spirit to direct me has shown me that our cause is righteous; and I could not be better placed than I am now, because He has given me the warm hearts of as fine a regiment as America has produced.” I then called for cheers for New York; for the Union; for the Constitution and the President of the United States. The response was given with tremendous effect, every man springing to his feet the instant the call was made. [128] A few encouraging words were spoken by Rev. Roswell G. Hitchcock, then a leading divine in the city; after which Dexter Hawkins, Esq., a fellowgraduate of Bowdoin, and then a lawyer of New York, in the name of the “Sons of Maine” invited the commissioned officers to dine with them at the Astor House. The remainder of the regiment dined at the armory. Rev. L. C. Lockwood, on behalf of a generous lady and the Young Men's Christian Association of New York, presented to the regiment 250 Soldier's Scripture Text-books and 200 Patriotic Song-books. Those books often relieved the monotony of army service, and the songs enlivened tired groups around many a camp fire. At that armory, before our hospitable entertainers had set out with the officers for their dinner, I met with a mishap which somewhat marred my comfort. While I was standing on the limber of a gun carriage, using it for an elevated platform in speaking and giving commands, some one accidentally knocked out the prop from under the pole. The sudden shock caused me to lose my balance and spring to the floor. I alighted on my feet, but attached to my belt was my heavy saber, which fell, striking my left foot with great force. My great toe nail was crushed and has troubled me ever since. This was my first wound in the war. My friend, Mr. Buck, has since told this incident of the Astor House dinner: “When at the close of the menu we had risen, and with our wineglasses in hand were about to pledge the young colonel in a patriotic sentiment, he seized a glass of water and said: ‘I join you in a drink of cold water, the only beverage fit for a soldier.’ You should have seen,” Mr. Buck added, [129] “how we all hustled around to get our glasses of water!” Surely, my conduct did not appear very gracious, but I was eager to keep strong drink of any kind from the regiment, and knew that I must set an example to the officers. I did not dream that our hosts would thus follow my lead. My wife and children had come down from West Point. They joined me at the hotel and after dinner bade me and my regiment good-by as the ferryboat to New Jersey left the New York slip, many men of the regiment courteously uncovering in their honor and waving them a farewell. Philadelphia gave its entertainment. The rain was over. We received a delightful supper between eight and ten; abundance of food on tables set in squares. Ladies clad in white and adorned with flowers, with gentle voices, made us feel that we were already heroes, when with quickness and grace they moved within and without the squares to replenish our plates or fill our cups with steaming coffee. Loyal men and women breathed upon us a patriotic spirit which it then seemed no danger would ever cause to abate. After the bloody passage of the Sixth Massachusetts through Baltimore a few days before our arrival in that city, the succeeding troops from the north had been conveyed to Washington in a roundabout way via Annapolis, thus avoiding the riotous mobs. My regiment was among the first to resume the direct route. In order to be able to protect ourselves in that city, I had ordered the men supplied with ten rounds apiece of ball cartridges. A handsome police escort met the incoming train, reported to me as I left my coach, and were placed [130] Where they could clear the way for my column, which must march from station to station, a distance of about two miles. As soon as I had walked to a central place in the depot yard with a view to seeing my troops properly drawn up in line, a few persons, approaching slowly, came up behind me and, taking my hand, pressed it warmly. A large crowd were waiting and interestedly watched our disembarkation. Every face in the promiscuous crowd which I saw had a look of apprehend sion or smothered passion. We might, like our comrades of Massachusetts, have trouble en route. To be prepared was my part. The line being formed facing me, I ordered “Load with cartridges, load!” wheeled into a column of platoons after the old fashion and started the march, following the city escort. We were then self-confident-ready for anything that might occur. The places of business were closed, giving a gloomy effect. No flags of any description were flying. All people appeared under some fear or repression. They were silent, yet curious and observing. We made the march, however, without disturbance, entered cars again at the Baltimore & Ohio Depot on Camden Street, and after moderate delay were on the way to Washington. While the baggage was in process of transfer I was invited to dine with a Union man at his house. I found there my host and a few chosen friends who were in sympathy with us. As soon as the doors were closed, everyone breathed more freely and heartily spoke his sentiments. With these men, already Unionism had become an intense passion and, like Maccabeus of old, they had a holy hatred, very pronounced, of individual enemies of the Government. They declared that the bloody riot which [131] had stained their streets with blood was not the cause, as claimed, but simply the occasion of the rebellious conduct of prominent city and State officials. “Be on your guard, colonel,” they urged, “against the seeming friendship and pretended loyalty of smiling villains.” Matters just then, not only in Baltimore, but in many other parts of Maryland, were dark and uncertain. It was a critical period. Families were dividing and old friends at feud. These things being so, it was a little strange that the ominous silence on our arrival had not been broken and our bold march through the flagless city interrupted. I believe that the possession of Federal Hill by Butler's soldiers and our own loaded muskets had much to do with the quietude of our passage. From this time on, Baltimore communication was never again broken. The evening of June 7th, as we steamed into the ample Baltimore & Ohio Depot at Washington, we felt that our eventful journey was over. However proud and independent the individual soldier might feel, he found at once that he could not pick up his personal baggage and go straight to a hotel. An officer of Colonel Mansfield's staff with our own regimental quartermaster met us and led the way to a vacant building near by on Pennsylvania Avenue. What at some subsequent dates would have been counted luxury did not seem so then — a bare floor, a chairless room without table or lights was but a cold reception, a depressing welcome to their beloved capital, for whose preservation they had been ready to fight to the death. The contrast to the previous hearty, patriotic receptions was so great as to bring on a general attack of homesickness. Feeling for them the next [132] morning as one would for a homesick youth just arrived at college, and knowing the need of removing at any cost a universal depression, I consulted with my commissary and arranged to give the entire command a breakfast at Willard's for fifty cents a man. Just think of it, to feed a whole regiment at a hotel My army friends did laugh, and I had to confess my lack of wisdom according to ordinary reasoning, for I thus became personally responsible for the large amount. But after a spirited correspondence the State finally settled the account. I reported at an early hour on June 8th to Colonel Joseph K. F. Mansfield, Inspector General of the Army, commanding the Department of Washington. He was already frosted with age and long service. Probably from his own Christian character no officer of the army then could have inspired me with more reverence than he. At that time Mansfield appeared troubled and almost crushed by an overwhelming amount of detail thrust upon him; but after two hours delay he assigned me my camp on Meridian Hill.
