Excerpted from A Brief History of the Thirty-fourth Regiment by Lieutenant Louis N. Chapin (1903):
March 29, 1862, finds the Thirty-fourth Regiment, with nearly all the rest of the First Brigade, onboard steamer, R. Williams, anchored for a little time directly in front of Mount Vernon, on the Potomac River, having shipped from Alexandria same day. But this stay is only, and incidental. Two days later the same regiment finds itself on the same good ship, anchored within a stone’s throw of the famous Fortress Monroe, and Old Point Comfort. Nearby were many other ships, crowded with men, who had come down the river on the same expedition as ourselves, whatever that may be. Likewise, you might have seen a little boat that presently is to revolutionize all modern naval warfare, and all the navies of the world; albeit, it was the most unpretentious object in the whole aggregation. It was the little Monitor, resting after her conflict with the Merrimac, March 9. The sail down the river, except for a heavy snowstorm just at the start, had been uneventful, although, for a portion of the voyage, it was pretty rough sailing. The next day, April 1, the vessel proceeded to Hampton, where the troops were landed. The condition of Hampton at this time was that of a perfect ruin. By order of the Confederate authorities, every building in the place had been burned. The inhabitants were turned out, destitute, forlorn, forsaken. This destruction was probably about as wanton and cruel, and uncalled-for as any act in the whole history of the rebellion. The story is told by the good Chaplain, Rev. J. J. Marks, attached to Kearney’s Division, and who wrote a little book about the Peninsular campaign, that after the rebels had evacuated the town, a detachment of soldiers was sent back to attend to this burning business; and that one of the officers stayed at night with his uncle. After he had a good visit with his uncle’s family, and they had talked about old times in a very tender fashion, and breakfast being over, and family prayers being said, the officer informed his astonished uncle that he had been sent back to burn the town, and that, as a matter of conscience, he considered it his duty to begin with that house, which he did.
The morning of April 4th finds the regiment advancing toward Yorktown, and that night a stop is made at Big Bethel, which had been the scene of the earlier conflicts, when Theodore Winthrop, the author of the two of the brightest books ever published fell for the honor of his country, April 5 at Yorktown. The passing traveler, along that “thoroughfare,” would have been astonished at the magnitude of the task accomplished in the construction, within so short a time, of that road through the wilderness to Yorktown. The march is over miles, and miles, of corduroy road. Now a corduroy road is built by laying one little log beside another, and sometimes covering them with dirt. How many little logs in a mile? How many in ten miles? For every log, a tree had to be cut down, stripped of limbs, and laid in its place making a military road, that horses could travel over safely, and haul heavy loads over; and through swamps at that.
All the way up to Yorktown there were most formidable fortifications. At Big Bethel, and again at a place called Harrison’s Mill, there were works that would have withstood a long siege. Why were they so quickly abandoned? The answer to this conundrum was furnished by a young lady of color, who was found, with many other people of her persuasion, eagerly appropriating what the rebels had abandoned: “Oh,” said she, “da booms dugged ‘em out.” Now. At Yorktown, we find the same formidable works; and evidently the rebs have no idea of leaving them in a hurry. “De booms” don’t seem to worry ‘em, and they give back as good as we can send.
The siege of Yorktown lasted just a month, and it was a period of hard work. Every soldier became a digger. Picks and shovels are weapons now. Heavy details every day, to dig trenches and throw up earthworks. And dangerous picket duty, too, in front of the enemy. Pickets had to be changed at night; for no movement of that kind could be made by daylight, we were so close. And the weather! Don’t speak of it. Rain it could, and rain it did. Said one soldier, writing home on April 9: “We passed another terrible night last night. The rain fell in torrents and we were completely soaked. To stand out anywhere, last night, and hear the coughing, and the “Oh dears,” which told the actual suffering, was almost as bad as to pass through the hospitals after a battle. Yet,” adds this philosopher, “it is not well to complain of the weather.” Another man, writing home at this time, says he had made up his mind not to turn in at all that night, the prospect of getting any sleep was so slim. Typhoid fever, that inevitable accompaniment of swamp ground, and wet weather was quite prevalent. Out on picket, there was continual snipping. You mustn’t show your head if you didn’t want it perforated. Every day the earthworks rose and rose, and presently black-throated guns began to peer over them. It seemed like it was to be a siege, while every day there was talk about an assault. What that Great Procrastinator, General McClellan intended to do, it would be hard to say. Now, balloons, in wartime are supposed to be a great help. You can see over into the enemy’s country and see all he is doing. That must make him feel very uncomfortable. And seeing just what he is doing, you know just what to do yourself. Of course. Now the Union balloon was up most every day and sharp-eyed men in it were peering over into the rebel lines. We were not to be caught napping. If they were doing anything, we should know it as soon as they did. Clearly enough, a balloon is a great thing in wartime. May 3, the writer of his was out on the front line, digging with the rest. Someone said, “There is a balloon.” And sure enough there it was, taking a good look, just as it had every day. But there was nothing to be seen and we kept on digging. The next morning what should we hear but that the rebels had left, bag and baggage; and they had been leaving, bag and baggage, for days beforehand. And we had never known a thing of what they were up to. Surely a balloon, in time of war, is a great thing. It contains a great deal of gas, but not much solid information. Of course, “Little Mack” could have known what the rebs were up to, but that wasn’t his business. His business was to howl for reinforcements. One man can’t do everything.
The writer of this sketch wrote a series of letters to a home paper (the Mohawk Courier) during the whole period of the regiment’s service, letters which now have helped him out on many a name and date. And we find that he wrote, at this time, Sunday morning, May 4 the following: “At the time of the announcement of the evacuation, we were lying on picket, scarcely half a mile from the nearest point of the rebel works; and it seemed almost incredible that these towering battlements, from which the enemy had been thundering all night long, had be forsaken.” But they had.
At once the news ran, like a fire, along the lines, and without a moment’s delay the men began to swarm over into the rebel works. With what interest did they prowl about, exploring every nook. It would consume a great deal of valuable space if we should try to describe the works. They were certainly very extensive. The enemy had left no stone unturned. After a while, we learned that the streets were paved with danger. Bombs would explode under the feet of the swarming soldiers. The wonder is that no more were hurt. Why would the rebels abandon such formidable works? It was a clear case. It was because of the terror that the name of Little Mack inspired.
On Monday afternoon following our brigade began to move forward. But that afternoon and night were a time long to be remembered. We thought we had heard of its raining before, and all during the siege; but it never rained until the night of May 5, 1862. Reader, you have heard of its raining pitchforks. It was bitterly cold, blowing great guns, and raining torrents. We pretended to be on the march: we were hot after the fleeing rebs; we were threshing the ground just in their rear; but to tell the naked truth we must have advanced about ten rods all night; we would not like to overstate the distance. There was no road, but there was a river of mud. The men built such fires as they could, and sang, and joked, and told stories of people at home in comfortable beds, and nagged each other, with “Soldier, will you work?” “No I’ll sell my shirt first,” and all that sort of tirade, which showed the dreadful depravity of the situation. Along toward morning, we were ordered back to our old camp. O, McClellan is a hustler when he gets after a fleeing enemy.
But the next day, as it wore on, out came the sun, the sky became blue, the noisy winds blew themselves away, and all the discomforts of the past night were cheerfully forgiven. That day we took the little steamer, Daniel S. Williams, and went thirty miles up to West Point. We reached it just a little too late to take part in the bloody battle of Williamsburg. But some of the men went over the field, and the sights they saw were bloody. The woods were thickly strewn with the dead and wounded, and the buildings in the town were filled with the same. The rebels had fled so precipitately that they had been compelled to leave their wounded behind, their dead unburied. The inhabitants of the town had become terror-stricken and fled from the approach of the terrible Yankees. The roads leading way from town were strewn with property thrown away by the inhabitants in their flight. And farther away the roads were choked with fleeing women, and children, and servants. Surely, war sweeps a harsh broom.
The next stage in our advance brings us to New Kent Court House. Here we arrive Saturday, May 10, having left West Point the day before. During the march, we halt for a few hours, along with the entire division of infantry, cavalry, and artillery, about 11,000 men, on a splendid farm, owned by a man by the name of Eltham. “There were more guests at the table than the host invited.” And there were others. For just now the army is attacked by in front, rear, and flank, by armies of mosquitoes. Their onslaught was sudden and vigorous, and victorious. They carried the day, leaving the field covered with the bodies of their victims. The weather, also, was an enemy in itself, for it was blistering hot, and the men were completely whipped out with march. Scores fell out; but at New Kent Courthouse they had a chance to catch up, and the whole army again got its wind. The reports at that time showed that there were 15,000 sick men in the Army of the Potomac.
Thursday, the 15th, we are on the road again, and come to a little place called Austin’s Church. This march to Austin’s Church was a tough one. The mud was over shoe tops; the soil was a sticky clay, which held the feed like a bootjack, or else slipped and threw you down. On the 18th we broke camp at Austin’s Church and came on to a place which we called Camp Cumberland, where we remained until the 21st. That day, Wednesday, May 21, was also a day-long to be remembered. You see we are getting our memories pretty full of these long-to-be remembered days. We broke camp at 6 o’clock in the morning and marched fourteen miles. People at home often read in the papers about long, forced marches of twenty-five or thirty-five miles a day. Stories like these are generally to be discounted, the same as stories about men “itching for a fight.” With all a soldier has to carry, and the circumstances under which he does his traveling, being usually in a crowded road, with frequent and tedious halts—for what, nobody knows, we called this march of fourteen miles, under a burning sun, a record-breaker. All day long we were pushed on unmercifully. The mud had now changed to a dry sand, and the men suffered greatly from thirst. As one officer wrote home: “As a general thing water was scarce and precious as molten gold; while the little that could be obtained after a rush and push and a general squabble, was too foul to drink.” Men and officers as well fell out of the ranks by dozens. It is said three poor fellows died from heat and exhaustion. But there was no doubt about the beauty of that country. We passed many fine old mansions, the darkies were very much in evidence and greatly excited at the coming of the Yanks. At one point we passed Roper’s Church, the place where Washington was married to the beautiful Mrs. Martha Custis. Late in the afternoon we arrived within two miles of Bottom’s Bridge and encamped on an open field near the Richmond & York River Railroad. We then learned that we were fourteen miles from Richmond and twenty-six miles from West Point. The men were greatly elated to learn that the Eighty-first and Ninety-second New York Regiments and Bate’s Artillery, were encamped nearby, and there was a great deal of visiting back and forth.
The 22nd was a day of rest. On Friday, the 23rd, began the issue of the famous whiskey ration. Half a gill was doled out to every man twice a day. There was some debate among the men in regard to the propriety of this whiskey business. It wasn’t very likely to keep the men from getting sick, and it was certain to make mischief. The temperance men, not wanting the stuff themselves, had compunctions about giving it to others.
Monday, May 26th, found us at the Tyler House, an old-time slave plantation, the home of the President Tyler family. Here we remained until May 31, a date that will always stand as a marked one in American history.
The following is the program prescribed for us in General Order No. 4, dated August 8, 186, at Camp Jackson and which had been followed ever since, with few variations: Reveille, (all up), 5 am. Company Drill, (no excuses accepted,) 5:30. Surgeon’s Call, (the very sick ordered to the hospital,) 5:30. Breakfast, (you got your own,) 7. Morning Roll Call, (hurry up, and get in line,) 8. Guard Mounting, (unlucky Tommy Atkins, who has to go on) 9. Discharge of foul guns, (not much to that) 10-11. Dinner, (bean soup today, good.) 12. Company Drill, (“Captain, can’t I be excused? I don’t feel very well.” “No excuses, sir; get your gun, and fall in.”) 4 pm. Battalion Drill, (what new knot is that blankety-blank officer going to tie us up in today?) 6. Dress Parade, (a dozen or more new orders for one thing or another) 7. Company Roll Call, (stentorian voice of Talcott, “Sir, all are present or accounted for”) 8. Retreat, (far up and down the valley, and across the hills, gleam the pale lights through the white tents) 9. Tattoo, (Get Phil Will and Johnny Johnson, and come around to my tent and we’ll have a little game on the quiet.” 9. Lights out, (and the great camp sleeps, while the faithful sentries, down at the river, and hovering about the camp, pace their lonely beats, dreaming of the loved ones far away, and of comrades who will never wake to greet the morning light; calling, calling, through the night: “Ten o’clock, eleven o’clock, twelve o’clock, and all is well.” 9:30.
More excerpts from A Brief History of the Thirty-fourth Regiment
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