After Enlisting with Company I

Camp King, Cape Elizabeth: August 6-12, 1862

I had no inclination for the business, but once committed in a momentary spasm of enthusiasm to serve under certain circumstances, which I never expected to occur, I found myself face to face with the alternative of going or showing a white liver by backing out. I decided to do as I had agreed and enlisted for "three years, unless sooner discharged." Shot or starved should have been added to the contract.

Given time for reflection, I had a thousand fears and misgivings. I moved in a dazed sort of way and couldn't believe I had done such a thing. Naturally timid and shrinking, it seemed impossible that I had, even for a moment, thought seriously of going into the service. I consoled myself with the thought that I should, if I lived, have a chance to see some of the country and might witness a battle, which I greatly desired, only I wished to be a safe distance from it—a mile at least.

August 6th was the day of enlistment. Ed Eastman was the recruiting officer and William Hobson was captain of the company. Our examination passed off all right. We were accepted and ordered to hold ourselves in readiness to report in Portland whenever they desired our company. And they desired it much sooner than we anticipated—the very next day. (p. 166)

Mustered into Service as an Infantryman

August 18th and 19th

The 18th was the day of our muster into the United States service for three years. The mustering officer was Major Gardiner, a full-blooded West Pointer who has a crushing hatred for all volunteer troops. How we lived through this day, I know not. Somebody surely has formed a conspiracy to see how much the back can carry and not break, how much the flesh can suffer and not die. Several men fainted and fell from the ranks of dress parade but we managed to stand for hours while one company at a time was inspected. We found mustering into the service by a West Pointer a slow, painful performance. Red tape stuck out all over him like porcupine quills. It was with difficulty that he could get near enough to hand us our guns. He stood off and threw them at us. This, we learn, is not intended as a special token of disfavor; it is simply the West Point style.

The inspection continued, every detail undergoing the closest scrutiny. Our West Pointer was determined to find fault with something or somebody. By the time the first three companies were inspected, the rest of the regiment was flat on the ground, except for Jim Jose. He stood as a monument of endurance and folly. If it be not folly to thus punish oneself currying favor with some official snob, then I don't know what constitutes folly.

The ordeal was finally over and only one man was given permission to retire from service, but he has declined. He enlisted to escape domestic tyranny and has no desire to return.

We engage in drilling and otherwise preparing for the business before us. We have some company from Saco—wives, mothers and sisters who come in on some pretense or other almost daily. On Sunday the ladies of Portland made us a dinner of pies, cakes, cold meats, and other luxuries not mentioned in commissary supplies. We have not suffered for anything thus far, due to our Saco friends, but does not prevent us from appreciating the Portland ladies' attentions. In the afternoon the Reverend Lovering of Park Street Unitarian Church came out and gave us a flowery discourse in which he was pleased to inform us that "all who died in defense of the flag had a sure passport to heaven." This is all very well for talk, but the Reverend evidently doesn't care to try it on. I feel that death is one of those things to which distance lends enchantment, so notwithstanding Mr. Lovering's bland audacities of speech and fine-spun theories, I don't care to cultivate a closer acquaintance with the hollow-eyed monster. It never does furnish much satisfaction to listen to these cowards who talk of pluck but are so destitute of the quality themselves. Why shrink from that which is so desirable as the glory of war? I am just perverse enough to want to share it. (pp.169-170)

Just Before Their First Major Battle

December 11th

While it was yet dark we were suddenly startled by the boom of a cannon, quickly followed by another. These were the prelude to an ever-memorable battle.

Instinct told us what was coming. The shudder that passed over our frames as we answered to the roll call on this chill December morning was not altogether the result of the weather. We knew was the "cannon's opening roar," and the long expected and dreaded day had come at last. The ball had opened and we should soon be dancing. By the time it was fairly light, we had orders to move immediately. By 7 o'clock the cannonade had become a roar, and the city was enveloped in a cloud of smoke and mist.

Our guns on Stafford Heights opened on the doomed city, and there was an almost continuous line of fire from Mrs. Scott's Hill on the right to Pollock Mill on the left. We soon started, and had an idea that we were to advance over the river at once so we began to brace ourselves for the shock. Mingled fear and curiosity filled our bosoms as we moved along. Curiosity to see a battle and to know how we should act in our first fight. Lurking under it all, the fear that we should fall in the fray. I am sure that some of us actually wished ourselves at home.

We didn't cross the river immediately but turned off to the left and marched down the river to a place called the Brooks Farm. Here we hauled up, listening to the terrible roar of nearly two-hundred guns belching fire and destruction on the city. Burnside was carrying out his threat to lay Fredericksburg in ashes if the Confederate forces didn't evacuate it within forty-eight hours of his ultimatum.

The shelling of the city was not for the purpose of destroying property, but to dislodge the Rebels occupying the houses and stone walls near the river, thus preventing our troops from laying pon-toons. But the shelling didn't dislodge them, and so no progress was made in crossing. Finally a crew crossed over in pontoons and eliminated the sharpshooters, and the troops were soon driving the Rebels through the streets and lanes of Fredericksburg toward the heights in rear of town. A running fire was kept up through the forenoon. At the same time, shelling was maintained and a large portion of the city was rendered useless. One third of it lay in ashes. The firing was kept up all day at intervals, and after dark the sky was lit by the glare of shells.

We passed the day on the Brooks Farm, and for us it was a day of terrible suspense. Nothing could be seen because of the mist and smoke enveloping the city, but we could hear the firing and cheering as one regiment or brigade after another crossed the river and entered into the fray—the deadly fray. And when I use this phrase it is not idle chatter. There is a meaning to it which the soldier comprehends....

As we laid there hour after hour hearing all this, our imaginations ran riot and we expected every moment to be ordered in. It was not in easy matter to keep our men within hailing distance, so eager were they to catch a glimpse of what was going on. Up to noon there had been no battle, only the fighting in the streets. After sunset we moved down into a piece of pine woods and bivouacked for the night. We had no news of what our army had accomplished and were in a state of appalling uncertainty.… (pp. 170-172)

Day Before the Battle of Fredericksburg

December 12th

Didn't move for the day. Kept out of sight of the Rebels until after dark, when we moved down into a grove of oaks not far from the river. This movement was owing to our division (Birney's) having been borrowed by Franklin as a reserve, ostensibly, but actually further his designs against Hooker. Franklin thus weakened Hooker. He also intended to throw this little force over the river instead of his own larger one.

We were allowed to build only the very smallest fires and to make no noise. We didn't know just how near we were to the enemy, this being a new section of country to us, and it was dark and overcast we couldn't tell anything as to our whereabouts. I made coffee and then retired with dismal forebodings. What is before us? Possibly it might be my last night on earth. Even worse, ere the setting of another sun I might be mangled and bleeding. Such thoughts crowd in up me and prevent me from sleeping. (p.172)

Day Before the Battle of Fredericksburg

December 14th

It being Sunday, we made no demonstrations, and the enemy, also of a devotional turn, made no disturbance until afternoon. As we are suspicious that they might attempt to get a hold on our flank, it was deemed necessary to throw back our left so that our flank rests on the Rappahannock. After this a flag of truce was sent to protect our men who went out to bury the dead and bring in the wounded. The Rebels thronged the works opposite and gave us an idea of the number of our opponents. Most of them are clad in blue, so it is a plain case that our dead have been contributing largely to the Rebel wardrobe. The truce was limited by the Rebels to two hours, consequently we didn't even get all the wounded, and the defunct ones were left unburied.

Officers, Union and Rebel, found time to meet on the picket line and wet their whistles, then separated. As our stretcher-bearers were bringing in a wounded man, a Reb picket discharged his piece and one of our men was minus a toe. Perhaps this was accidental, but we chose to regard it as an exhibition of treachery. After the truce ended, the pickets resumed firing incessantly till darkness put an end to it.

I have almost forgotten to describe an occurrence during the truce. A. P. Hill, one of the ablest Confederate generals, sent his compliments to General Berry and begged to say, "I have never seen a brigade so skillfully handled on a battlefield." This was not an unmerited compliment, only it wasn't General Berry's brigade that he had handled so well, it was simply the 17th Maine. The way we had double-quicked down the old Richmond turnpike under fire, come to a front and delivered a volley, and then charged, is not easily surpassed.

After dark we drew rations of corn or rye (in a liquid state), though we would have much preferred it in palatable pork. There are times when whiskey is needed, this being one of them, for it is damp and cold. We have been worked hard and are nearly used up. We have also come to the conclusion that we should be relieved. We have been here over forty-eight hours and are well aware that there is nearly a whole grand division lying on the northern bank of the Rappahannock, which has not participated in the fight at all. (pp. 174-175)

Post War Thoughts

It is all over now, and I can only regard it as a hideous dream—the smoking ruins, the sodden field, the trailing banner, the slaughtered thousands and wailing families, the roar of cannon, the Rebel yell and the Yankee hurrah have all passed away and we again return to peace. (p. 176)

June 10th-11th (1865)

Returned to Portland from Saco and prepared to be mustered out of service. This day Uncle Sam refused to feed or clothe us any longer, so we were thrown on our own resources. Pending our release, though, we were put under guard and given mouldy bread and rotten pork, which were promptly stamped into the mud. After this we acted so badly that they were glad to hurry up and get rid of us.

Just before noon we marched to Portland and turned over our guns and equipment (those of us who were not foolish enough to buy them). After this, we hung around waiting for the paymaster. He didn't get to Company I before midnight. Those of us from Saco had a stage waiting to convey us home, where we arrived about 2 A.M. on Sunday, June 11th, 1865—a happy set of mortals.

The Maine Reader, edited by Charles and Samuella Shain, Houghton Mifflin Company, Boston, MA, 1991, pp. 177-181.

Image of John West Haley care of The Rebel Yell and the Yankee Hurrah: The Civil War Journal of a Maine Volunteer, edited by Ruth Silliker, Down East Books, Camden, NJ, 1985.

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