HUDSON CAMP GROUNDS.
I have enlisted! Joined the Army of Uncle Sam for three years, or the war,
whichever may end first. Thirteen dollars per month, board, clothes and
travelling expenses thrown in. That's on the part of my Uncle. For my part, I am
to do, I hardly know what, but in a general way understand I am to kill or
capture such part of the Rebel Army as comes in my way.
I wonder what sort
of a soldier I will make; to be honest about it, I don't feel much of that
eagerness for the fray I am hearing so much of about me.
It seems to me it is
a serious sort of business I have engaged in. I was a long time making up my
mind about it. This one could go, and that one, and they ought to, but with me,
some way it was different. There was so much I had planned to do, and to be. I
was needed at home, etc., etc. So I would settle the question for a time, only
to have it come up to be reasoned away again, and each time my reasons for not
taking my part in the job seemed less reasonable. Finally I did the only thing
I could respect myself for doing, went to Millerton, the nearest recruiting
station, and enlisted.
I then threw down my
unfinished castles, went around and bid my friends good-bye, and had a general
settling up of my affairs, which, by the way, took but little time. But I never
before knew I had so many friends. Everyone seemed to be my friend. A few spoke
encouragingly, but the most of them spoke and acted about as I would expect
them to, if I were on my way to the gallows. Pity was so plainly shown that
when I had gone the rounds, and reached home again, I felt as if I had been
attending my own funeral. Poor old father and mother! They had expected it, but
now that it had come they felt it, and though they tried hard, they could not hide
from me that they felt it might be the last they would see of their baby.
Then came the
leaving it all behind. I cannot describe that. The good-byes and the good
wishes ring in my ears yet. I am not myself. I am some other person. My
surroundings are new, the sights and sounds about me are new, my aims and
ambitions are new;—that is if I have any. I seem to have reached the end. I can
look backwards, but when I try to look ahead it is all a blank. Right here let
me say, God bless the man who wrote "Robert
Dawson," and God bless the man who gave me the book. "Only a few
drops at a time, Robert." The days are made of minutes, and I am only sure
of the one I am now living in. Take good care of that and cross no bridges
until you come to them.
I have promised to
keep a diary, and I am doing it. I have also promised that it should be a
truthful account of what I saw and what I did. I have crawled off by myself and
have been scribbling away for some time, and upon reading what I have written I
find it reads as if I was the only one. But I am not. There are hundreds and
perhaps thousands here, and I suppose all could, if they cared to, write just
such an experience as I have. But no one else seems foolish enough to do it. I
will let this stand as a preface to my diary, and go on to say that we, the
first installment of recruits from our neighborhood, gathered at Amenia, where
we had a farewell dinner, and a final handshake, after which we boarded the
train and were soon at Ghent, where we changed from the Harlem to the Hudson
& Berkshire R. R., which landed us opposite the gates of the Hudson Fair
Grounds, about 4 P. M. on the 14th. We were made to form in line and were then
marched inside, where we found a lot of rough board shanties, such as are
usually seen on country fair grounds, and which are now used as offices, and
are full of bustle and confusion. After a wash-up, we were taken to a building
which proved to be a kitchen and dining room combined. Long pine tables, with
benches on each side, filled the greater part of it, and at these we took seats
and were served with good bread and fair coffee, our first meal at Uncle Sam's
table, and at his expense. After supper we scattered, and the Amenia crowd
brought up at the Miller House in Hudson. We took in some of the sights of the
city and then put up for the night.
The next morning we
had breakfast and then reported at the camp grounds ready for the next move,
whatever that might be. We found crowds of people there, men, women and
children, which were fathers and mothers, wives and sweethearts, brothers and
sisters of the men who have enlisted from all over Dutchess and Columbia
counties. Squads of men were marching on the race track, trying to keep step
with an officer who kept calling out "Left, Left, Left," as his left
foot hit the ground, from which I judged he meant everyone else should put his
left foot down with his. We found these men had gone a step further than we.
They had been examined and accepted, but just what that meant none of us
exactly knew. We soon found out, however, Every few minutes a chap came out
from a certain building and read from a book, in a loud voice, the names of two
men. These would follow him in, be gone a little while and come out, when the
same performance would be repeated. My name and that of Peter Carlo, of
Poughkeepsie, were called together, and in we went. We found ourselves in a
large room with the medical examiner and his clerks. His salutation, as we
entered, consisted of the single word, "Strip." We stripped and were
examined just as a horseman examines a horse he is buying. He looked at our
teeth and felt all over us for any evidence of unsoundness there might be. Then
we were put through a sort of gymnastic performance, and told to put on our
clothes. We were then weighed and measured, the color of our eyes and hair
noted, also our complexion, after which another man came and made us swear to a
lot of things, most of which I have forgotten already. But as it was nothing
more than I expected to do without swearing I suppose it makes no difference.
The rest of the day
we visited around, getting acquainted and meeting many I had long been
acquainted with. In the afternoon the camp ground was full of people, and as
night began to come, and they began to go, the good-byes were many and sad
enough. I am glad my folks know enough to stay away. That was our first night
in camp. After we came from the medical man, we were no longer citizens, but
just soldiers. We could not go down town as we did the night before. This was
Saturday night, August 17th. We slept but little, at least I did not. A dozen
of us had a small room, a box stall, in one of the stables, just big enough to
lie down in. The floor looked like pine, but it was hard, and I shall never
again call pine a soft wood, at least to lie on. If one did fall asleep he was
promptly awakened by some one who had not, and by passing this around, such a
racket was kept up that sleep was out of the question. I for one was glad the
drummer made a mistake and routed us out at five o'clock instead of six, as his
orders were. We shivered around until roll-call and then had breakfast. We
visited together until dinner. Beef and potatoes, bread and coffee, and plenty
of it. Some find fault and some say nothing, but I notice that each gets away with
all that's set before him. In the afternoon we had preaching out of doors, for
no building on the grounds would hold us. A Rev. Mr. Parker preached, a good
straight talk, no big words or bluster, but a plain man-to-man talk on a
subject that should concern us now, if it never did before. I for one made some
mighty good resolutions, then and there. Every regiment has a chaplain, I am
told, and I wish ours could be this same Mr. Parker. The meeting had a quieting
effect on all hands. There was less swearing and less noise and confusion that
afternoon than at any time before. After supper the question of bettering our
sleeping accommodations came up, and in spite of the good resolutions above
recorded I helped steal some hay to sleep on. We made up our minds that if our
judge was as sore as we were he would not be hard on us. We spread the hay
evenly over the floor and lay snug and warm, sleeping sound until Monday
morning, the 18th.
The mill of the
medical man kept on grinding and batches of men were sworn in every little
while. Guards were placed at the gates, to keep us from going down town. I was
one of the guards, but was called off to sign a paper and did not go back.
Towards night we had to mount guard over our hay. Talk about "honor among
thieves," what was not stolen before we found it out, was taken from under
us while we were asleep, and after twisting and turning on the bare floor until
my aching bones woke me, I got up and helped the others express themselves, for
there was need of all the cuss words we could muster to do the subject justice.
But that was our last night in those quarters.
The next day the new
barracks were finished and we took possession. They are long narrow buildings,
about 100 feet by 16, with three tiers of bunks on each side, leaving an alley
through the middle, and open at each end. The bunks are long enough for a tall
man and wide enough for two men provided they lie straight, with a board in
front to keep the front man from rolling out of bed. There are three buildings finished,
and each accommodates 204 men. We were not allowed either hay or straw for fear
of fire. As we only had our bodies to move, it did not take long to move in.
Those from one neighborhood chose bunks near together, and there was little
quarrelling over choice. In fact one is just like another in all except
location. Walter Loucks and I got a top berth at one end, so we have no trouble
in finding it, as some do who are located near the middle. These barracks, as
they are here called, are built close together, and ordinary conversation in
one can be plainly heard in the others. Such a night as we had, story-telling,
song-singing, telling what we would do if the Rebs attacked us in the night,
with now and then a quarrel thrown in, kept us all awake until long after
midnight. There was no getting lonesome, or homesick. No matter what direction
one's thought might take, they were bound to be changed in a little while, and
so the time went on. Perhaps some one would start a hymn and others would join
in, and just as everything was going nicely, a block of wood, of which there
were plenty lying around, would come from no one knew where, and perhaps hit a
man who was half asleep. Then the psalm singing would end up in something quite
different, and for awhile one could almost taste brimstone. I heard more
original sayings that night than in all my life before, and only that the
boards were so hard, and my bones ached so badly, I would have enjoyed every
minute of it.
But we survived the
night, and were able to eat everything set before us, when morning and
breakfast time came. After breakfast we had our first lesson in soldiering,
that is, the men of what will be Captain Bostwick's company, if he succeeds in
filling it, and getting his commission, did. A West Point man put us through
our paces. We formed in line on the race track, and after several false starts
got going, bringing our left feet down as our instructor called out,
"Left, Left," etc. A shower in the night had left some puddles on the
track, and the first one we came to some went around and some jumped across,
breaking the time and step and mixing up things generally. We were halted, and
as soon as the captain could speak without laughing, he told us what a ridiculous
thing it was for soldiers to dodge at a mud puddle. After a turn at marching,
or keeping step with each other, he explained very carefully to us the
"position of a soldier," telling how necessary it was that we learn
the lesson well, for it would be of great use to us hereafter. He repeated it,
until every word had time to sink in. "Heels on the same line, and as near
together as the conformation of the man will permit. Knees straight, without
stiffness. Body erect on the hips, and inclining a little forward. Arms hanging
naturally at the sides, the little finger behind the seam of the pantaloons.
Shoulders square to the front. Head erect, with the eyes striking the ground at
the distance of fifteen paces." Every bone in my body ached after a little
of this, and yet our instructor told us this is the position in which a
well-drilled soldier can stand for the longest time and with the greatest ease.
This brings my diary up to this date and I must not let it get behind again.
There is so much to write about, it takes all my spare time; but now I am
caught up, I will try and keep so.
SOURCE: Lawrence
Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 1-7
