University of Virginia Library

30. Camp Life
By JAMES KENDALL HOSMER (1862)

NOV. 23, 1862. I propose to keep a diary of my soldiering, and am now making my first entry. Brother Ed and I are going to the war together. He is nineteen, and leaves a clerk's desk in an insurance-office. I am older, and leave a minister's study. It is the Fifty-second Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers. I am in our little tent at Camp N. P. Banks, not far from Jamaica, in Long Island. The tent is perhaps eight feet square, and meant for seven soldiers. A leg of ham partly devoured, with gnawed loaves of bread and some tin cups, lie just at my right foot. Corporal Buffum, six feet and two or three inches tall, is writing borne, just at the other foot. Joseph McGill is sleeping, wrapped up in his rubber blanket. The floor of the tent, at the sides, is covered with knapsacks, blankets, and soldiers' furniture. Silloway, a black-whiskered, fine-looking soldier, put his head in, but, to my relief, does not enter; for where could I put him while I write?

We left Camp Miller, where the Fifty-second organized, two or three days ago. For the first time, the knapsacks, full-loaded, were packed on, the canteens were filled, the haversacks were crammed with two days' rations. It was a heavy load as we set off in

a cold November rain, nearly a thousand of us. It rained harder and harder : but Greenfield streets were filled with people; and the nearer we came to the depot, the thicker the crowd. Then came the last parting and hand-shaking: eyes were full, and lips on a tremble.

At midnight we reached New Haven. Ed had been on guard at the car-door in the drizzle, and now came off duty. We trundled on to the steamboat-wharf, climbed out, and formed in two lines; many of the boys turned round for their first sight and sniff at salt-water. The Traveller was at hand, aboard which, rank after rank, we marched,— on top, between decks, into cabin below, and saloon above.

The morning was gray and wet. It poured as we stood on the forward deck; but my rubber blanket shed the rain, and my havelock, of the same material, kept it off head and neck. On upper deck and lower deck, and through every window, one could see the crowding hundreds,— curious faces, bearded and smooth; dripping blankets and caps; the white string of the canteen crossing the band of the haversack upon the breast. Stout fellows they were, almost all; the pick, for spirit and strength, of two counties.

Past great ships, past iron-clads fitting out at the Novelty Works, past the Navy Yard, now down between the two great cities and around the Battery, and stop at a North-river pier,— haversack on one shoulder, canteen on the other we go. "Now, Silas Dibble, hook on my knapsack, and I will hook on yours; "a rubber blanket is over all; then comes a helmet, with the long flap down on the shoulders. The march begins. Dirty and hungry we go through the muddy streets.

We tramp in over the old Union race-track at length, upon the enclosed grassy space, and are at our camp-ground. It is dreary, dismal, miserable. There are no overcoats; we are all perspiration with our march under the burden and there's no chance for tea or coffee, or any thing warm: it is a sorry prospect, boys, for comfort to-night. But never mind. Behold how the Yankee will vindicate himself in the face of the worst fortune ! Fences are stripped of rails; and we have blazing fires in no time, which make the inhospitable, leaden sky speedily blush for itself. Rubber blankets are tacked together, and tents extemporized. Corporal Buffum, Ed, and 1, strike a solemn league. We find two sticks and, a long rail. We drive the sticks into the ground for uprights, then lay the rail on top. Buff um and I tack our blankets together with strings through the eyelet-holes. We place the joining along the cross-timber, letting the blankets slope away, roof-fashion, on each side toward the ground, fastening them at the edges with pegs, and strings straining them tight. Then we spread Ed's rubber on the ground underneath, put our luggage at one end, and crowd in to try the effect. We have to pack in tight, big Buffum and Ed not leaving much room for me; but the closer the better. The north-wind blows, and the air threatens snow. We survey our wigwam with great admiration. I lie down for the night with revolver and dirk strapped one on each side, unwashed, bedraggled, and armed like Jack Sheppard himself. We freeze along through the hours. We get into one another's arms to keep warm as we can, and shiver through till daylight.

When morning comes, all is confusion. The regiment looks as if it had rained down. It is clear, but

raw. There is no chance to wash now, nor all day long. Our tents come. We pitch them in long rows, well ordered; floor them from fences near by; and carpet them with straw—and marsh hay. Six or seven of us pack in here like sardines in a box, lying on our sides, " spoon-fashion."

Our guns were issued to us the other day; and are beautiful pieces, of the most improved pattern,—the

Springfield rifled musket of 1862. Mine is behind me now, dark black-walnut stock, well oiled, so that the beauty of the wood is brought out, hollowed at the base, and smoothly fitted with steel, to correspond exactly to the curve of the shoulder, against which I shall have to press it many and many a time. The spring of the lock is just stiff and just limber enough; the eagle and stamp of the Government are pressed into the steel plate; the barrel is long and glistening, and so bright, that when I present arms, and bring it before my face, I can see nose and spectacles and the heavy beard on lip and chin, which already the camp is beginning to develop. Then there is the bayonet, straight and tapering, smooth to the finger as a surface of glass, and coming to a point sharp as a needle.

We have dress-parades now; and, the other afternoon, I was a spectator instead of taking part. The Fifty-second is formed 'four deep. I have often seen them in line at Camp Miller; but now we have our arms, and look more like soldiers. They are still as men can be at the parade rest. Now, from the right flank, come marching the drums down the line; slow time; every eye to the front; the colonel, hand upon sword-hilt, facing them all,—tall, straight, soldierly, his silver eagles on each shoulder. The drums have reached the end of the line, and turn. First comes a long, brisk roll, thrice repeated; then back along the line with quicker time and step, round the right flank again, past the adjutant; the thrice-repeated roll again sounding muffled, as it comes to me through the now intervening line of men,—a peculiar throb, as if it were inside of the head. It is the adjutant's turn. He is at his place in front of the line. "First sergeants to the front and centre! "Ten soldiers, straight, sash at waist, march forward, and, one by one, report. It is Ed's turn now, tall, fine, bright-eyed soldier that he is. His gloved hand gives the salute; and I hear him, through the music of other regiments, "Fourth company all present or accounted for."Buttoned up to the chin he is, in his dress-coat; his sash, with bright revolver belt, outside; his gun at his shoulder with true martial poise. "First sergeants to your

posts! "It is the turn of the commissioned officers. They step out to the front, in full-dress uniform, a fine-looking row of men; then march forward, with brave, unanimous step, in a brilliant, glittering line. It is over, and visitors near step up to me to inquire about the regiment. I feel proud of the men, proud of the colonel, proud of the brilliant officers who have marched forward to salute in concert,— the white-gloved hands simultaneously at the visor. Back go the companies into the streets of the camp, under the first sergeants. I am proud to see how Ed gets his company by the flank, and promptly manœuvres them.

We have had a flag presented to us; but it is too splendid and heavy for actual service. Our real flag, for service, is more modest, and yet handsome; of silk, floating from a staff of ash with the name of the regiment printed in gold upon one of the crimson stripes. As the wind comes off the bay to us at battalion-drill, the heavy silk brushes my cheek. We shall know each other well during these coming months. I take off my bayonet, and invert it, that it may not wound the flag it is to defend. We have also the white flag of Massachusetts, the Indian and uplifted sword upon a snowy field; plain enough, whenthe breeze smooths it out, for the senior captain to see from his post on the right flank, and Sergeant Jones, right general guide, whose post is still farther off. When drill is over, we must guard our charge to the colonel's tent, roll the crimson and azure folds carefully about the staff, and put them under shelter; then our day's work is done.