November 11, 1864
The
McClellan procession might have spared their tapers, as he has gone up, poor
Mac, a victim to his friends! His has been a career manqué, and a hard
time he has had, and low he has fallen. The men who stood, as green soldiers,
with him in front of Yorktown, where are they? Many thousands lie in the barren
land of the Peninsula and the valley of Virginia; thousands more in the
highlands of Maryland and Pennsylvania and in the valley of the Shenandoah.
Many are mustered out — their time expired — or sick, or crippled. The small
remnant are sifted, like fine gold, through this army, non-commissioned
officers, or even full officers. What an experience it is for an infantry
soldier! To have carried a musket, blanket, and haversack to the Peninsula, and
to the gates of Richmond, then back again to the second Bull Run; up to
Antietam in Maryland; down again to Fredericksburg; after the enemy again to
the Rappahannock; and at last, the great campaign, like all others concentrated
in six months, from the Rapid Ann to Petersburg! All this alone on foot, in
three long years, at all seasons and all hours, in every kind of weather,
carrying always a heavy load, and expecting to fight at any moment; seeing so
many men shot in each fight — the great regiment dwindling to a battalion — the
battalion to a company — the company to a platoon. Then the new men coming
down; they shot off also. Till at last the infantry-man, who left Boston
thinking he was going straight to Richmond, via Washington, sits down
before Petersburg and patiently makes his daily pot of coffee, a callous old
soldier, who has seen too many horrors to mind either good or bad. It is a
limited view of a great war, but, for that very reason, full of detail and
interest.
Of
course we might have known that this pack of political “commissioners” could
not get down here without a shindy of some sort. The point they brought up was
fraudulent votes. A long-haired personage, fat and vulgar-looking, one of that
class that invariably have objectionable finger-nails, came puffing over to
General Meade's tent, with all the air of a boy who had discovered a mare's
nest. He introduced himself as a Mr. Somebody from Philadelphia, and proceeded
to gasp out that a gentleman had been told by an officer, that he had heard
from somebody else that a Democratic Commissioner had been distributing votes,
professedly Republican, but with names misspelled so as to be worthless. “I
don't see any proof,” said the laconic Meade. “Give me proof, and I'll arrest
him.” And off puffed Mr. Somebody to get proof, evidently thinking the
Commanding General must be a Copperhead not to jump at the chance of arresting
a Democrat. The result was that a Staff officer was sent, and investigation
held, and telegraphs dispatched here and there, while the Somebody puffed
about, like a porpoise in shallow water! Finally, four or five people were
arrested to answer charges. This seemed to please Stanton mightily, who
telegraphed to put 'em in close arrest; and, next morning, lo! a
lieutenant-colonel sent, with a guard of infantry, by a special boat from
Washington, to conduct these malefactors to the capital — very much like
personages, convicted of high treason, being conveyed to the Tower. Were I a
lieutenant-colonel, I should feel cheap to be ordered to convey a parcel of
scrubby politicians under arrest! But that is the work that Washington soldiers
may expect to spend their lives in. General Meade, I fancy, looked with high
contempt on the two factions. “That Somebody only does it,” he said, “to appear
efficient and get an office. As to X, he
said he thought it a trying thing for a gentleman to be under close arrest; and
I wanted to tell him it wasn't so disgraceful as to have been drunk every night,
which was his case!” That's the last I have heard of the culprits, who, with
their accusers, have all cleared out, like a flock of crows, and we are once
again left to our well-loved ragamuffins, in dirty blouses and spotted sky-blue
trousers.
The day
was further marked by an émeute in the culinary department. I would have
you to know that we have had a nigger boy, to wait on table, an extraordinary
youth, of muscular proportions and of an aspect between a drill sergeant, an
undertaker and a clergyman — solemn, military and mildly religious. It would,
however, appear, that beneath this serious and very black exterior worked a
turbulent soul. The diminutive Monsieur Mercier, our chef, had repeatedly
informed me that “le petit” (the unbleached brother is about a head taller than
Mercier) was extremely indolent and had a marked antipathy to washing dishes —
an observation which interested me little, as my observation went to
show that the washing of dishes by camp-followers tended rather to dirty than
to cleanse the platter, and that the manifest destiny of the plate military was
to grow dirtier and dirtier, till it at last got broken. However, Anderson was
reproved for not washing his crockery, and replied with rude words. On being
reproved again, he proposed to smite Mercier, remarking, he “would as soon knock
down a white man as a nigger.”
At this
juncture the majestic Biddle interfered and endeavored to awe the crowd; but
the crowd would not be awed, so Biddle put Anderson at the pleasant occupation
of walking post with a log on his shoulder. Upon being liberated from this
penalty, he charged upon Mercier, giving him the dire alternative of “Pay me
mer wages, or I'll smash yer crockery!” This being disorderly, I allowed him to cool his
passions till next morning in the guardhouse, when he was paid off.
SOURCE: George R. Agassiz, Editor, Meade’s
Headquarters, 1863-1865: Letters of Colonel Theodore Lyman from the Wilderness
to Appomattox, p. 262-5
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