Both Sides of Army Life: The Grave and the Gay
by Sgt. E. Livingston Allen, Co.K, 13^th New Jersey Volunteers

Attached to Company K of the 13^th New Jersey was one Sam C. Davis, whom the boys nicknamed “Jeff” Davis; one of those cross, crabbed, cranky, crusty, cantankerous fellows, sometimes met with, who was against everybody and expected everybody to be against him. One of the boys espied something on Jeff’s knapsack - and, by the way, he was short and stout, and always carried about four times as large a knapsack as any other member of the company - and he cried out, “I say, Jeff, look at your knapsack; take it off and look at it.” “Mind your business and don’t bother me” replied Jeff; finally, after considerable wrangling, he dropped his load, unstrapped his coffee pot, held it up, and the light streamed through a hole made by a ball. “Consarn them ‘ere pesky rebels” yelled Jeff, “they put a hole clean through my new coffee pot, and I paid forty-five cents for it!” “But see your frying pan, Jeff” called out another. He slowly raised it up, saw that the rim had been shot away from a large part of it, angrily said, “They could not even let my frying pan alone, consarn ‘em, pesky fellows” and then threw it as far as he could. 

After the failure of Burnside, Hooker was placed in command of the army and immediately issued orders increasing and changing the quality of the rations. A German named John Icke, coming down the company street with both arms full, met the author and smiling said, “See vat Hooker feeds us mit; he is fattenen us up fur de schlauter-house.” 

At Chancellorsville, on Friday afternoon, we were ordered down toward Marye’s Heights, out into a swampy forest to “feel the enemy”. To better enable us to do this, perhaps, we were drawn up into an open field and ordered to leave our knapsacks. We did leave them, for not a single soul has ever seen one of them since! The value of my own was not very great; and I have since buried any ill will harbored toward my late antagonists, having shaken hands “across the bloody chasm” with many of the; still it is hard to forget. In a certain knapsack left that day there was a certain package of letters, from a certain person, tied up with blue ribbon! The fellow who got those letters has never been forgiven or forgotten, because those letters were from “the girl I left behind me” - my “own Mary Ann!” We were not driven out of that place; we merely went about a mile further to the right and back of that field where the knapsacks were left, and thus gave the suffering and needy army of Lee some new clothing. 

The tide of war was against us. Slowly but surely the lines fell back, abandoning position after position, defense after defense, until the Union army was occupying an entrenched line on the hills above the swelling Rappahannock. Here the defeated, though not dispirited, army lay, while the drenching rains wet us all and caused the river to rise higher and higher; apparently even Providence was against us, for it was impossible to cross the river or lay pontoon bridges. The swollen stream at last subsided, bridges were put in place, corps after corps was successfully landed on the other side, and the army, saved from capture or annihilation, marched sadly back to its cantonments, save the dear boys who freely gave their lives, limbs and blood for the proud, yet sorely stricken, country they loved. John Icke, the night he took his old quarters, as he threw into the stockade all he had left, said “Didn’t I tell you Hooker was fattenen us up fur de schlauter-house? We’ve been there!” 

John C. Maddox was a member of Company G, 13^th New Jersey Vols. When the roll was called he did not answer his name. It was said that he was seen alive, going to the rear as fast as it was possible for him to get there. Several days passed, but no Maddox appeared. Finally, one fine day, in walked Mr. M., as “large as life and twice as natural.” His Captain, (who had been “sweet” on his sister) inquired where he had been, what had befallen him, etc., to all of which Maddox gave unsatisfactory answers. The Captain, fearing harsh measures night prejudice his case with his sister, marched him before the Colonel, who inquired, “Maddox , where have you been?” “To Washington, sir” “Who ordered you away from the regiment, and when did you go?” “Well, sir” replied Maddox, “I have as brave a heart in my body as any man, but the most cowardly legs you ever saw. When we were going into the fight and the minnies whistled ‘where is he? Where is he?’ I said, ‘Brave heart, go on, there is honor and glory before you!’ Then the shells called out ‘That’s him! That’s him!’ and I said ‘Courage brave heart, there’s glory here!’ But these cowardly legs of mine turned about, against the protest of my brave heart and actually detached me. I ran off the field, crossed the river in a wagon, and ran all the way to the Long Bridge. It was my cowardly legs that did it.” He was court martialed and sentenced to forfeit ten dollars a month for six months out of his pay. Poor, brave heart, suffering for the deed of a pair of cowardly legs. 

Following the battle of Gettysburg, Lee was followed to the Rappahannock. The Twelfth Corps going on the upper part of the river. While encamped at the fords the New York draft riots were in progress and some regiments were sent to New York to assist in quelling them. In one of the regiments composing the 3^rd Brigade were two brothers named Anderson. One was sick in the hospital with typhoid fever; the other attended to him when off duty and ministered to his wants. One day, when the well one was on picket, the sick boy inquired for him and was informed that he was down the river on the picket line. That night at about one o’clock, in his delirium, he eluded his watcher and, clad only in a loose robe, in the chill of night he wended his way to the remotest picket post of the regiment where his brother was then on duty. He dare not leave to care for the loving sick boy; all that he could do was to give him his own blanket and coat and cause him to lie down until relieving time. In the morning they brought the dying boy back; before noon he had gone with the “silent majority”. With cracker boxes and odds and ends of boards a box was made; the dear boy was wrapped in a blanket; an American flag was placed on the box holding his remains; with muffled drums beating the dead march, with arms reversed, the boys followed that stricken brother - who, all alone, walked behind that rude box - down to the spot where the dead boy’s love for his brother had taken him; there he was borne and lovingly and tenderly buried! 

I the fall of 1863, the Eleventh and Twelfth Corps were consolidated, designated the Twentieth, and ordered to the Southwest. The Second Division, under General Geary, fought Hooker’s immortal battle of Lookout Mountain - “the battle above the clouds”. The First Division was stretched along the Nashville & Chattanooga Railroad, guarding it against the incursions of the Confederate cavalry. The “Western Army” as it is sometimes called, did not take very kindly to Hooker’s corps of former “Army of the Potomac” designation. Day after day, as the soldiers were passing over the railroad from hospitals to the front - the convalescents and healed wounded of the battle of Chickamauga - they saluted the Twentieth Corps with - “paper collar soldiers”, “do you get soft bread every day now?”, “you fellows can’t fight”, “Lee nearly always beats you” and “we’ll show you how to fight”. The boys took it good naturedly and bided their time. 

Walking down the railroad from Normandy to Duck River bridge one day, one of the 3^rd Brigade boys met a little colored boy, apparently seven or eight years old. The colored fellow said “Massa, does you want a cook?” “What’s your name?” the soldier asked. “Green” responded the boy. “Green what?” inquired his interrogator. “Green nothing” replied the lad.  “Where’s your father and mother?” “Done ain’t got no fadder - never had any; done ain’t got no modder either now, ‘cause she’s rund off and left Green to be a ossifer’s cook and I want to be a cook too.” “Come along” said the wearer of the red star, “and you can be my cook”. No sooner was Green installed as cook for the mess than he began making inquiries how he might become white. David Hicks, a jolly, rollicking fellow, who stuttered greatly, took Green in hand and proceeded to instruct him how to “turn white”. David said “G-g-r-r-een, y-y-ou m-m-ust h-h-ave y-y-our w-w-ool shaved of-f.” Green submitted gracefully. Dave dexterously used the razor, but left a bunch of wool the size of a silver dollar in the center of Green’s crown, for, as he told him, “it w-w-ould k-k-ill any d-d-darn n-nig-g-ger to t-take all his w-w-ool off at once.” 

Attached to one of the regiments was a character by the name of Young. Of course he was dubbed “Brigham” Young. His cap was always on sideways; his clothing never fit him; his pantaloons were always hiked up on one side, while the other leg was under foot; his feet were so large that it was said the Quartermaster rarely could find a seventeen for him, and, of consequently, it was often absolutely necessary to cut off the toes of the shoes to make them long enough. The size of his feet, as he laid with them to the fire, prevented heat from reaching his body, so he would curl himself up alongside his fire and burn his pants bottoms off. “Brigham” was a hearty fellow - always looking for something to eat. It was intimated that, in a “pinch”, he would steal provisions; but, as he was never caught, it was thought by some to be a slander. One night however, when “Brigham” was one of the guards on the commissary tent, about twenty-five pounds of pork, twenty of hardtack, several quarts of beans, dried apples, vinegar, and molasses, with many pounds of sugar, coffee, etc., were found to be missing. A search of the quarters of the guard revealed nothing; the missing provisions could not be found. Again “Brigham’s” tent was searched. Down about two feet, under boards covered with earth, was found the plunder. Temptation was stronger than “Brigham”; the sight of so much to eat was too much for him. The court martial did not take into account his weakness; he was assessed ten dollars a month for six months. 

While guarding the railroad it was necessary, for the protection of the regiments, to place a cordon of pickets about the camp of each. The usual distance was from a fourth to a half mile beyond camp. One dark, cold night during the winter of ‘63-64 a shot was heard on the picket line, followed by several others, indicating that something was wrong down near Duck River, about a half mile beyond the camp of the 13^th New Jersey. As quickly as possible the regiment was ordered out and in line. As soon as all was ready, silently and as noiselessly as it could, the regiment moved out of its camp, across the railroad, over one field, scaling a fence, crossing another field, and, halting in line of battle behind a fence; right in front, within ten yards, was the enemy in force - two white donkeys! Chopfallen, half-angrily, and with muttered threats against somebody, the Colonel ordered a return. Reaching camp, the irrepressible Maddox was found. He had been on picket. Hearing a rushing, thundering sound coming nearer and nearer his post, he thought the whole Southern Confederacy had broken loose and was coming down pell-mell onto him; so, as a good soldier and faithful sentinel, he had “fired at the advancing enemy and then run to camp to warn the regiment!” The next morning, after roll call, as each company broke ranks, every man went down to Company G’s quarters and, standing in front of Maddox’s tent, placed each hand behind an ear, and moving his fingers to represent the flapping of a donkey’s eares, cried out in imitation of that sleek, solemn quadruped “Auh-ah! Auh-ah! Auh-uh-uh!” 

Early in the spring of 1864 the Twentieth Corps was united at Chattanooga and formed a part of that invincible host which, under the intrepid, fearless and victorious Sherman, was destined in one year to fight its way from Chattanooga to Savannah and thence to Raleigh. In the early part of May we pushed up against the rocky Dalton and pressed the enemy back. Down to Buzzard Roost the corps hurried, carried its slopes and triumphantly marched through the gap. At Resaca the corps hurled itself against the rebel right, charging batteries and works, and capturing guns, prisoners and battleflags. The Second Division was faced by massive works which bristled with guns. With spade and shovel the works were undermined and the “white star” boys dragged the guns from under the eyes of the enemy and drew them to the rear. After the battle was won the soldiers of the other corps said “Boys, you are not paper collar soldiers; you don’t eat soft bread every day and you can fight! We take it all back!” 

At Pumpkin Vine Creek, Hooker and his body guard “ran against a snag.” The First Division of his Twentieth Corps was hurried forward, carried the bridge, drove the rebels some distance and halted for a few moments rest. Hooker personally ordered the Colonel of the 13^th New Jersey to deploy the regiment as skirmishers and directed the other regiments of the brigade to follow in line of battle. Forward moved the skirmish line, on behind followed the battle line; down the rocky slopes of that pine forest with blinding rain beating in their faces and heaven’s artillery thundering above them, did the patriotic boys go; on and on, further and further, faster and faster they went, until, without warning, hidden from sight and protected by the storm, the enemy had drawn them upon their works and batteries! No louder was the roar above them from the clouds than the crash of shot and shell, and explosion of shrapnel and the roll of volley after volley of musketry, which poured into them and mowed them down as grass before a scythe! A mere handful of men had been thrown against the strongest part of an intrenched line, strengthened with batteries (masked and undiscoverable save by a puff of smoke as they were used), and the works filled with the best soldiery of the army. Somebody blundered! It was not a disaster, but a fearful and useless waste of life. John Icke declared that “Hooker has taken us to the schlauter-house agin!” 

The siege of Atlanta, with its constant perils, fighting, death and successes is historical. After its fall the Twentieth Corps entered the city and garrisoned it. Needed rest was obtained, clothing secured, ranks filled, regiments repleted, and all necessary matters attended to preparatory to another campaign. Among the regiments to receive an extraordinary number of recruits were the 2d Massachusetts and 13^th New Jersey. A sergeant of Company K, 13^th New Jersey, was seated in his tent one bright September day writing. A large, bushy head was thrust inside and a coarse voice gave expression to “How are you?” The sergeant was astonished - did not know the man; but, going outside and facing the soldier, asked “Who are you?” The answer came from a large, pompous, coarse, swaggering individual with much show of braggadocio. “My name is Ike Kelsey. I’m a charcoal burner from Passaic County, New Jersey. I’ve heard this was a good regiment and that Company K was a first-rate company, so I’ve ‘listed in it and have come here to help put down the rebellion. The pesky rebels can’t kill Old Ike - d’ye hear me - I’m talkin’ now! No siree - they can’t kill Old Ike, be gosh! Not by a tarnal sight they can’t, be gosh! Ike’s good for ‘em every time!” 

Company K had another queer recruit - Joe Wright. He seemed to have been thrown together. Was a little bit of a weazened, bony piece of humanity, without symmetry or order in his makeup. He was X-eyed and colorado-maduro colored. He was very anxious to learn how to “train” but would always get his piece in the left hand and step off with the right foot. On drill or parade he was always out of line; when it was “right dress” Joe looked (or seemed to look) straight ahead; when it was “front”Joe’s eyes would be seem to be looking right. At last, it became necessary to take him him out alone for drill and to teach him that “eyes right” meant for him to look straight ahead and “front” meant to look toward the right; thus, by reversing the orders Joe could “train” all right. 

While garrisoning Atlanta an attack was made upon the city; a feeble one, it is true; nevertheless, it occasioned a gathering of the troops and a march out some five or six miles. When some three miles out on the road leading to the north, in a little clearing at a crossroad, a strange, sad sight was observed. A cart, with one ox before it - a rickety, broken vehicle - a thin, half-starved ox, fastened by old ropes and leather straps to the cart. In the little cart a little pine box, about two feet long, unpainted and unplaned. By the side of the cart an opened grave; by it an aged negro, with locks as white as snow. In the little box, the body of a white child! The father was killed in the Confederate Army before Atlanta; the mother died of grief; the child dead because there was none but the old slave to nurse it! He was the only mourner; he was also the grave digger, and the undertaker! Oh war! How terrible thou art! Rebellion, what misery didst thou cause! Unholy ambition, with what sins canst thou be charged! 

“The March to the Sea” - that brilliant exploit, immortalized in song and prose - was severe and laborious; howbeit, it was enjoyable until the last two weeks of its duration. On the “trip”, after encamping one night, the sergeant in charge of the Twentieth Corps Provost Guard heard groanings and exclamations as if some one was suffering excruciating agony. In compliance with standing orders that headquarters was to be quiet, he sent someone to ascertain the cause and instruct the party to keep silence. The messenger returned with the statement that Ike Kelsey was dying and wanted to see the Sergeant (Ike’s company was then Corps Provost Guard). Hastening to the place from whence the sounds proceeded, Ike was found writhing with colic and exclaiming “Ike is goin’ to die sure! Ike can’t stand it long! Sergeant, write to my wife - tell her where I am buried and that I was a good soldier. The rebels can’t kill Old Ike, be gosh! But Ike is goin’ to die sure!” Then he cried like a five-year-old boy. The surgeon came and prescribed for him, the sergeant went to attend to his duties, and all was quiet. The next morning the first man the sergeant saw was “Old Ike”, who burst out with “They can’t kill old Ike, be gosh! Ike is good for the Johnnies yet! I’ll give ‘em hail Columbia when I git after them, be gosh! Now I’m shouten’ sure! They can’t kill Old Ike, be gosh!” 

Passing along the road in South Carolina, at a bend on a hill, was noticed quite a gathering of women and children of dusky hue. As the column reached the point of their observation, one elderly, turbaned “aunty” lifted arms and eyes heavenward, and, swinging her arms back and forth, shouted out, while tears rolled down her fat, shining cheeks “Glory, Hallelujah! The Yankees have come!” repeating it several times. Suddenly, as if moved upon by another power, she dropped her hands and, rolling her eyes in utter bewilderment and astonishment, exclaimed”Fore de Lor’, chillin, dey don ain’t got no horns!” An explanation of the old lady’s amazement is found in what has so often been asserted as a fact that it was said by their masters that the Yankees had horns growing out of their foreheads. 

The Twentieth Corps headquarters train, while moving along a road behind the troops, was attacked by mounted infantry. The company was deployed as a line of battle and charged toward a woods into which they had retired. “Old Ike” did not seem to be in fighting trim that day (he had never been under fire); sort of lagged behind and was not at all anxious to “put down the rebellion”. The sergeant, to whom he had confided so much previously, seeing Ike’s dislike of war and carnage, went to him and encouraged him by saying “Ike, now’s your time to win fame and glory. There’s the rebel army (there may not have been twenty within ten miles - they had fled), and now’s your time. Load and fire as fast as possible. Remember, you are battling for the Union and your native land. Give it to the Johnnies strong.” So down went Ike behind a log, loaded, lifted up his piece at an angle of about ninety degrees, and with head down to the ground - fired! The sergeant called the desperate man off the field, fearing he might hurt somebody! Let it be here recorded for the benefit of posterity and future historians that the rebellion did “go down” after Ike enlisted and not before! 

The 8^th day of June, 1865, the 13^th New Jersey was “mustered out” of service and immediately returned to the State. Two weeks later, at Newark, the regiment was settled with by one of Uncle Sam’s paymasters, and Companies C and K, which had been recruited in Paterson, proceeded to the depot to take the train home. A number fo the “boys” from other companies - Maddox was there too - accompanied them to say good-bye and sever the bond which had for nearly three years held them together. The last farewells were shouted as the conductor calls out “All aboard!” Every window on the depot side of the train is raised; out of each man gives Maddox - the noblest(?), and bravest (?) soldier of all - this never-to-be-forgotten parting salute: “Auh-uh! Auh-uh! Auh-uh-uh!” 

The author had a great uncle, a veteran of the war of 1812, living in the upper part of Passaic County, N.J., whom he had promised to visit and talk with about the war if he lived to return. During the summer he kept his promise by paying the aged veteran a visit, finding him almost blind. A few days after arriving at the home of the old soldier the author asked him: “Uncle, do you know a man living somewhere within ten or fifteen miles named Ike Kelsey?” “I-k-e K-e-l-s-e-y! I-k-e K-e-l-s-e-y!” he replied; “Why yes, he’s the biggest liar in the country! He says he killed ten thousand rebels and if he hadn’t enlisted the rebellion would be going yet; that he went down South to put down the Confederacy and it went down! Yes, I know the liar, he lives five miles from here and says he was in your Company, but I don’t believe him.” He concluded to make Ike a visit; tramped over the distance and espied Ike mowing in a field, who, seeing him, dropped his scythe, ran to meet him and shouted “Heigho, Sergeant! Glad you thought enough of Old Ike to come and see him. The rebs couldn’t kill Old Ike, could they, be gosh!” Ike invited him to the house, introduced him to “Sarah Ann” and fourteen or fifteen children - somewhere near that (they were not counted up) - some being great, large, strapping fellows. Ike began to talk about his services, and valor, and courage, and exploits. The Sergeant thought that Ike (and the boys) would not be very well pleased if his stories were denied; indeed, discretion dictated silence. At the close of a three hours visit, which included dinner, a mental calculation proved that, according to Ike’s figures - and it is said figures are always truthful - Ike Kelsey, the great Passaic County warrior, had actually killed - all alone by himself - fourteen thousand, nine hundred and sixty-seven rebels!