"The Irish Ninth in Bivouac and Battle"
by Michael H. Macnamara
CHAPTER XX.
Winter Quarters. -- Those Pies. -- Punch. -- The Child of the Forest. -- A Reconnoissance to Barnett's Ford. -- Sharp Marching. -- Horse Racing. -- How we spent St. Patrick's Day. -- Fatal Accident.
HAVING again settled ourselves down at Falmouth, in front of Fredericksburg, we cast about for something to vary the monotony of camp life. The first thing to be done, however, was to prepare for winter, which was now upon us. We therefore went to work, erected log foundations over deep cellars, fixed our wall and shelter tents upon them, devised and build practicable fireplaces with mud chimneys, and soon began to feel very comfortable. Sutlers, which the majority of our fellows, to this day, call, "Settlers," and purveyors swarmed about the camp, and all kinds of articles, edible, useful, and ornamental, could be purchased of them by paying unheard-of prices. Bakeries were established with "patent ovens," invented by some enterprising genius in New York, who supplied soft bread to the troops. These bakers received their flour from the government, and in making the bread they managed, likewise, to make a large percentage. "Cute" men, hearing of the great success of the "patent ovens," determined to come down to Falmouth from Washington and start opposition bakeries. A number of them came down and manufactured pies. "Pies" -- that was the sweet, luscious appellation given to some flat circular pieces of pate, baked brown, in one of said ovens. A few bites off one of the pies would bring you to a few berries, of what kind the soldiers have never discovered; and after curiously examining these hidden mysteries, finding they could make nothing of them, it was deemed best to press them into the crust and swallow them incontinently. Gradually the sutlers and purveyors became more enterprising, and would bring down ale, &c.; the advent of the beer, we know, was a joyful occasion; we had not tasted any for more than a year, and as this was remarkably good, it was received and drank with a great deal of satisfaction.
Our evenings in camp were spent cheerfully and pleasantly. Before a blazing fire of no ordinary dimensions, half a dozen of us would be seated under the canvas shelter in front, watching with profound interest the solemn and systematic proceedings of one of "ours." From one pocket he would take a few lemons, which he would place, with considerable dignity, upon the bed. Then, stooping down and making a few vigorous dives under that rustic couch, he would reappear with two or three suspicious-looking canteens; these, with a mysterious wink, he would deposit beside the lemons; this done, half a dozen anxious voices would cry out simultaneously, "Harry !" The individual addressed, whose optics were rather sharp, and whose sense of smell was rather keen, would unthinkingly expose his proximity by instantaneously introducing his head through the partial opening in the tent. "Well, gemmen?" "Bring __ the __ sugar __ Harry __ and __ one spoon __ and, my 'Child of the Forest," be expeditious !" Harry was commonly known as the Child of the Forest. He looked more like a victim fresh from the rack. He was a huge, ungainly, loose-jointed fellow, and always, when walking, seemed to proceed sideways, like a rooster preparing to fight. Well, Harry would produce the sugar from some mysterious corner, which was placed beside the other necessaries. Then a few anxious voices would insinuatingly hint, for the edification of one of our circle (who had joined the Child of the Forest within), "I'd make it pretty strong, Nick, if I were you." "O, yes," the balance would chorus, "make it hot and strong;" and then ominous silence would ensue, every eye being bent on the dignified compounder. Soon the mysterious decoction would be completed; then half a dozen drinking tins would be filled with the steaming and fragrant beverage yclept "punch," and soon, very soon, emptied, -- Harry looking on at the rapid consumption with what we should imagine to be a fair resemblance of the grin of a pleased demon displayed on his huge face; and with a chuckle, would turn around and shuffle away to his cook-house, hidden in some remote part of which he would watch the advent of some daring fellow who would come to abstract some of the articles of the mess, and, when he appeared, pounce on him with a tragic growl, and a "I've got yer now !" but sometimes, before he had concluded the sentence, he would be knocked into a kettle of his own soup !
A draught from the steaming jug of punch completely changed the scene. Good humor sparkled forth on every face, the bright glow from the fire seeming to increase in warmth, till we moved back our seats, and threw ourselves into more comfortable attitudes. Conversation would soon merge into relations of adventure, surmises as to pending movements, home, friends, and country; occasionally the narratives would take a cheerful tone, then melancholy, and at times even terrible; and, amid a breathless silence, the narrator would proceed till our interest had been thoroughly excited, and then abruptly stop; and we all laughed merrily to think that we had so soon been interested; then songs would be sung, -- for many of our circle were good singers; then came solos, glees, quartets, and choruses, that would, for power and energy, if not for melody, rival the elaborate concerts of our own dear little city of Boston.
Thus the time passed on, varied by some slight marches and reconnoissances. One of the latter we well remember: it was made by our brigade, under the command of General Barnes, to Kelley's Ford, on the other side of which the rebels were in force, having rifle-pits upon the banks of the river.
We started early on the morning of December 30, and, after marching rapidly many miles, halted for the night; and, as we could not light fires for fear of attracting the attention of the enemy, we were compelled to go to bed supperless, but, being very weary, slept soundly. A very heavy mist fell during the night, and when we awoke in the morning our blankets were saturated. We continued our march, and reached the ford, our cavalry, who were in advance of us, capturing four or five rebels. Having accurately ascertained the enemy's position, we started back the same morning for our camp; continuing on our way, our men showing evident signs of exhaustion, we arrived near Harwood Church, ten miles from our camp. Here choice was given us, either to encamp for the night, or march onward to camp. After some consideration, the decision was, "keep on:" this we did, and reached our quarters at Falmouth about eight o'clock. That reconnoissance was the hardest march performed by any brigade in the army of the Potomac. We marched fifty-four miles in less than thirty-one hours; deducting from that the eight or nine hours we rested on the first night, there will be left, we think, a record of endurance highly creditable to those who took part therein.
After this tough sample of military labor, we were allowed to rest, and pass away the time as best we could. One of our principal sources of amusement was horse-racing. The regiment boasted many remarkable specimens of horse flesh, all of them being, in the estimation of their owners, something extraordinary. Among these was one called the "Cat," which, in the language of one of our men, "wasn't much to look at, but the devil's own boy to go." Where the Cat came from, to whom he belonged, or where he finally went, nobody knows. Dr. Ryan, however, introduced him to our regimental turf; the doctor swore that the Cat was sired by one of the best stallions in the country, and foaled by a mare that would knock bright spots out of Flora Temple. As the doctor was "up" on horse flesh, no one contradicted him; but when they went away they would silently gyrate their thumbs upon the nose and invest their pile upon the other side. Ryan generally rode the Cat, and by some hocus-pocus always managed to come in ahead. So it was that the fame of the wretched-looking Cat went up. There was another noted horse we saw there, rejoicing in the modest appellation of the "War Horse." Tradition said he was very fast, but the old fellow never would verify tradition. He was matched against the Cat, but the tremendous gap intervening between the latter and himself completely destroyed his reputation for fleetness. It is but justice, however, to the old War Horse, to say, that he always held his character for being a "fast eater."
Many very fine races were run there, however, in which the horses of General Griffin, our division commander, took part; the white Arabian of Colonel Guiney; the fine animal "Dick" of Lieutenant-Colonel Hanley; and, between horses, the property of other officers of the brigade. Very exciting times we used to have; and the brigade would turn out en masse to witness these racing carnivals, which helped to pass time pleasantly away.
In this manner we jogged along until the month of March, when we began to make preparations for the celebration of St. Patrick's Day. Arrangements on an extensive scale were made for a pleasant celebration. "Goodies" were brought from Washington by the sutlers, and a large wall tent erected, in which, after the festivities of the day, the officers and their friends and guests were to assemble and spend the evening. The morning of the 17th came upon us bright, beautiful, and bracing, and found the camp in a fine state of cleanliness, and tastefully decorated with evergreens and appropriate mottoes. A tall pole was erected on a vacant spot, opposite the regimental quarters, which was thickly greased: on the top of the pole was a furlough paper for ten days, which was to be the prize for the successful climber. A number of candidates appeared, and about ten o'clock in the morning, these slippery ascensions commenced. One tall, stout fellow made a desperate effort to lift himself from the ground, and, after trying for about half an hour, was reluctantly compelled to give it up, having in that time only achieved about an inch; he looked wistfully at the paper fluttering above him, and then turned away to give room to an ambitious youngster, who succeeded in getting half way up, when, coming to a spot greasier than the rest, he began to slip, and did not pause until he came to ground, amid the roars of the crowd.
Several other enterprising spirits attempted the task, but the pole slipped through their hands, and the furlough fluttered tauntingly above them, until, at last, no more could be found to make the attempt, and then the crowd adjourned to the race ground, where several fast runners were in line; an exciting race was then run, when the grand event of the day came off -- a horse-race, in which several of the fastest horses of the brigade were entered. It was in this race that Quartermaster Thomas Mooney received the fearful injuries which eventually terminated his life.
This unfortunate occurrence closed the festivities, and cast a shadow over the spirits of us all. Lieutenant Mooney was highly respected by his associates, and was a genial, warm-hearted man, and the sad termination of his life was deeply regretted. Every care was bestowed on him by the surgeons and his brother officers, but all in vain; he died shortly afterwards, and his remains were conveyed to his home in Boston.
The Irish Brigade, at this time, was encamped about two miles from us; they also had a grand celebration, at which General Hooker was present; some splendid samples of horse flesh were brought upon the ground, and, in addition to flat races, a steeple chase was run in presence of an immense assemblage.
That winter at Falmouth was the most genial and comfortable one we ever spent; and after the toil of marches and the ordeal of battles, we gladly look back on it with feelings of pleasurable satisfaction.
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