The Long Road:
The Shenandoah Valley Campaign - 1864
It was a glorious late spring day. The snappish air was alive with smells: Wild flowers, loamy dirt, wet piles of fall leaves, the pungent smell of animal and human leavings. The line of men, most dragging after a long, forced march, stretched from horizon to horizon; thousands of feet heeled up dust puffs. Charles and his drummer-mate, James McGuire, were lucky; stuck at the front of the new C Company next to the flag bearers, they were in mostly clear air. The gap in the ranks from company to company gave the dust just enough time to settle or be blown to the slight ditches that bordered each side of the Centerville Road.
Charles still did not know what to make of the mix-and-match of the four new companies – A, B, C and D. He didn’t keep track of the comings or goings or men and material; he had no thought of how such movements might affect him on a personal level. Two days prior, Wednesday, Oct. 12th, 1864, he heard Special Order No. 59. That order, signed by Brevet Major-General Emory Upton, put Charles and 97 others from various companies (D, E, F, G and H) into the newly formed Company C commanded by Capt. William A. Lee. Now, the entire Ninth, the newly re-organized Irish Regiment, was headed into the Shenandoah Valley foothills to drive the Rebels back south, away from the Potomac.
As the sun stretched higher in the sky, Charles momentarily took his eyes off his feet and looked at the countryside through the dusty haze. The green slopes of the Bull Run Mountains were off to the right. Through a gap in a sparse stand of hardwoods Charles caught a glimpse of a of the railroad track, slicing into the mountain like a double spider web strand. From talk around the campfire he knew the Shenandoah Valley had seen more fighting than any other section of the country: Manassas, Chancellorsville and Spottsylvania to the south, Kernstown, Harper’s Ferry and Sharpsburg to the east, Charlottesville out to the west. The second- and third-hand stories by the Ninth veterans about earlier battles around the mountains, rolling farmland and deep valleys created an apprehension which bordered on hidden hysteria in Charles . . . and, he thought, in countless other soldiers in the regiment. Thought? More like he hoped other soldiers felt the chicken-skin lickings of fear.
Thus far, the Irish Regiment had been battle-lucky -- or unlucky, to hear a couple of ambitious officers tell it – in either avoiding an all-out charge, being selected for reserve duty, or placed to the outside of battle lines to protect a flank of the main attack force. Word was that the Rebs were sitting, waiting, and ready. “Ready, hell!” Sgt. Thomas Johnson, who moved over with Charles from H Company, bellowed at such a notion. “Them bastids are always ready.” – coming with tens of thousands of veteran soldiers, dead set on pushing the Union regiments out of the valley, and driving them all the way to the Potomac.
“Words are easily spoken, boys,” Sgt. Johnson had said the other night, after supper as the men sat around the campfire, smoking, chewing, jawing. “I heard a visiting officer (he never mentioned one of the Ninth’s own in making a point) say jist the other day: We’ll whip Johnny Reb this time and they’ll never be back in the Shenandoah. Words is cheap chattel. Backing them up by bringin’ them to our lick-log will take some doin’.” One of the older soldiers in the regiment, a grizzled white beard name of Dolan, opined: “This valley has been lucky for the Rebs, that’s for sure.” The sergeant eyed him, one eye closed as smoke from his pipe roiled around his head. “Lucky? Or good? So far, the Rebs have wanted this valley more than we have, laddies. And that’s a fact. But then our boys didn’t have Gen. Philip By God Sheridan to lead ‘em. Now, by God, we do, and by God, we’re going to make a full accounting of our being here. That you can count on.” The words “full accounting” hung in the air like an ax, as each man in sound of his voice assigned to it an individualized meaning.
The road curved now and again, seemingly following a clear but meandering line between stone and wood fences. Charles wondered which came first, the road or the fences. Had to be the road, he thought, putting one foot in front of the other without thought. The road probably followed game trails used by Indians. Least ways, that’s what Jaconett Beer, a well-meaning private surmised at last night’s mess, sharing hardtack dipped in hot lard. It was amazing to think that not 100 years ago this was mostly Indian land. Settlers drove them out just like we’re trying to do the Rebs, and the Rebs are trying to do to us, Charles thought. Somebody always seems to be trying to drive somebody else out of somewhere over some reason or other.
The farmsteads were few, mainly built near the road, but occasionally set back in a large clearing. All, without exception, were sitting on clear-cut ground; except for an occasionally shade tree or two, remaining woodland was well back from the main residences and barns. After living in New Orleans, the houses passed by the ant line of soldiers seemed ramshackled and tiny. Most were closed up tight, windows shuttered, doors closed. Occasionally, there were people, sitting, standing, watching: One old man sat on one porch in a slat-backed chair, whittling and staring at the invading army; an old woman wearing a face-shielding bonnet despite sitting in the shade, seemed to be shelling peas; a younger woman, girl child on her hip, gathered peas from a side garden one-handed. She stopped when she realized the soldiers were staring . . . a thousand eyes focused on her and the baby. The small child dug its face hard into her shoulder, away from the prying eyes. The woman didn’t smile, but did nod her head slightly. A puzzled look hit her face like a skimming shadow. Without a word, without a gesture, she pulled the little girl off her hip and held her aloft, face to the soldiers. A great shout of appreciation from the massed men busted loose in a dam’s flood of emotion. The child started, jerked, and then smiled at the hoorahs and shouts. Clapping her chubby hands, she threw her head back and gazed at the cloudless sky and laughed and laughed. The woman joined in and within a heartbeat the whole section of valley reverberated in joyous laughter that was fresh and alive.
The pounding hoofs of horses dampened the laughter only slightly. Capt. William Lee, accompanied by his aide, rode up and started demanding an explanation. Sgt. Riley spoke quietly to the colonel, whose eyes drifted to the woman and baby. Motioning for the aide to remain in place, the colonel maneuvered his roan through the loose ranks and pulled up at the fence.
“A good mornin’ to you, Ma’m.”
“And the rest of the day to yourself and your men. Major?” The colonel and the men that could hear the exchange smiled.
“That’ll do nicely, ma’m. Jist wanted to thank you for . . . well, whatever it was you did to cheer up the men. We’ve had a long march and we got a longer up ahead of us. Thankee kindly.”
“I didn’t do anything, really. Just let’ em get a good look at Saree Beth,” she said, nodding at the hip-hugging child. Capt. William face softened by a measure.
“A fine baby, that one is, Ma’m. How old, if you don't mind me asking?”
“I don’t mind and nine months . . . tomorrow, I believe.”
“Mine are three years, a boy, and seven months, a girl.” His voice faltered, his eyes clouded. “I haven’t seen the girl yet, but I hear she’s a dandy.” A pulse-pounding silence followed.
“Where’re ya’ll headed, Major?” the woman asked.
“Down this road a piece. We’ll camp nearby but I promise not one man will set foot on your land nor take any provisions. Not these men, anyway, not this day.”
“My husband is with fighting down in Georgia, last time I heard,” the woman said. That’s been a while. I hope he’s all right.”
“For what it’s worth, ma’m, so do I. I surely do. If you don’t mind me asking, ma’m, what’s your name?”
“Elizabeth Blankenship Slocum.”
“Mrs. Elizabeth Blankenship Slocum. I’ll remember this day for quite a spell. I’ll remember you and Saree Beth, you can count on that. Not much pretty and not much good comes out of fighting like this even if it’s got to be done.” The woman was silent and held her baby close. “May I ask you a favor, ma’m?” A nod. “Wouid it be too much to ask if I could hold the baby for just a minute?” Without hesitation, the woman stepped forward and held her daughter at arm’s length. The baby looked at the dirty soldier with the wide hat and bird's nest beard and held out her arms. The colonel took the infant and tentatively held her away from his dusty uniform. Reaching out, the baby snagged a fistful of wiry beard and yanked. Surprised, the colonel jerked back and yelped. The sound of a hundred belly laughs vibrated across the rolling farmland.
“You little scamp,” the colonel said, using one hand to pry the baby’s fingers from his beard. He looked over his shoulder at the men, then turned in a theatrical swirl and held the baby over his head, bobbing it back and forth like a cork on a fishing line on a wind-swept lake. The men cheered and laughed and hoorahed. Turning back to the woman, he gently handed the laughing baby to her.
“I can’t tell you how much this has meant to me and the men", he said. At that, he swept off his wide hat and performed a theatrical bow with his hat way out to the side and his head nearly in the dirt. He jumped on his horse without use of the stirrup and galloped down the line of men, hat waving back and forth in the air. Some of the men tried to imitate the colonel’s bow, Charles included, and their antics left the woman leaning against the fence, laughing.
| George S. Smith is a veteran of
community newspaper wars in four states for more than 40 years. For the
past 12 years he has worked in corporate communications for two Fortune
500 companies and now is senior communications manager for Topcon
Positioning Systems (world's leading satellite positioning company) , in
charge of external and internal communications. With a love of history, and particularly of the Civil War era, Smith recently started researching the Civil War history of his great-grandfather, Charles Montgomery Andres (Army records show "Andre" and correspondence from the War Department concerning a pension is addressed to Charles Aridre, obviously misidentifying the "n" for an "ri.). Andres was a New Orleans orphan and joined the Ninth Connecticut in December 1863, after the Confederacy turned him down as being "too young." Smith is currently working on an historical fiction novel about Andres, a drummer boy, titled "The Long Road." |