Thursday, May 21, 2015

Killed by his Beans

“No man has seen it but all men know it. Lighter than air, sharper than any sword. Comes from nothing, but will fell the strongest armies.”

This tale is about hunger. In 1864, it killed a Massachusetts soldier in a rather strange way.

This story begins on the blustery night of December 1, 1863, amid the Union retreat from the Battle of Mine Run. That night, the weary infantrymen of the 1st Corps trudged east, vacating their entrenchments. Although the bluecoats felt the sting of defeat, a more pressing issue arose in that many of them felt the gnawing pangs of hunger due to their depleted rations. Hunger, rain, cold, and wind culminated in a night of sheer misery. Further, it was a “stop and go” march. Every few miles, the column halted in the darkness, giving the soldiers enough time to fall out and attempt to get comfortable, but only to have their brief, fitful relaxation interrupted by officers who regularly called upon the men to douse their campfires and get moving again.

This stop and go aspect of the withdrawal angered many enlisted men, but none took the retreat as badly as Private William F. Emerson of Company D, 12th Massachusetts. He was a spare man with an active stomach. As a rule, Emerson grew famished with surprising suddenness and intensity, and on this particular night, as one comrade described him, he was “wild with hunger and moaned piteously over his hard fate.” Even more frustrating, Emerson had recently acquired a pint of raw beans, but because none of the pauses lasted for any significant duration, he had no opportunity to cook them. Every time the regiment halted, Emerson immediately went to work lighting a fire, only to have his cooking interrupted by the officers. Each time, he reluctantly regained his place in ranks, his beans still raw. One of his friends, Corporal George Kimball, later related, “[The] occasional halts . . . were of short duration and offered meager opportunities for culinary operations. Emerson, however, improved each shining moment during these brief cessations of the tramp by building fires and making desperate attempts to boil his beans.”

Indeed, the scene even became comical. Kimball continued:

Sometimes the water in his dipper would merely become warm and at others it would show actual signs of boiling, but the inevitable cry of “Forward!” from the colonel would salute Emerson’s unwilling ears at the crucial moment and set him to grumbling louder than ever. Then he would pour on the water and trudge on. The boys, of course, did not neglect to chaff him unmercifully.

Finally, at one stop, which was longer than the others, Emerson got a decent fire going and his beans began to crack open. The inevitable order came to fall in, but Emerson refused to budge. He intended to sit and eat his beans, no matter what the rest of the army did. Sternly, his lieutenant reminded him of the proximity of the Confederates, while his comrades kindly entreated him to shoulder his rifle and join the column. But Emerson would hear none of it. Kimball related, “Hunger had made him desperate. He turned a deaf ear to everything and everybody, exclaiming in a tone which showed that reason no longer held sway over his mind, ‘I’ll eat them now if I have to eat them in hell!’” With that, the column trudged on, leaving Emerson hunched over his fire like a gargoyle. Slowly but surely, his lonely silhouette receded into the dark, squally night.

The soldiers of the 12th Massachusetts never saw Emerson again. The soldiers of the regiment made their back to the encampment at Brandy Station and some of them watched intently the roads as the stragglers from that arduous march ambled their way into camp, but Private Emerson was not among them. The last anyone had seen of him was his stooped form hunkered around this sullen campfire eating his beans.

Eventually, the soldiers in the 12th Massachusetts learned of Emerson’s fate. A report arrived from Georgia confirming that he had died in Confederate captivity. As it happened, Confederate soldiers captured Emerson on the night of December 4 and he became one of the first inmates to enter Andersonville prison when it opened for business in February 1864. The abnormally hungry Massachusetts soldier did not last two months in the awful prison pen, dying of malnutrition on April 7. Emerson’s comrades had to have known that given his aggressive stomach, no place on earth could have presented Emerson with more suffering than the food-scarce wasteland of Andersonville. Indeed, Emerson’s last message to his friends—his prophesy that he would eat his beans in hell, if need be—had become reality in the truest possible way.

The main point of this tale is that although Emerson died on April 7, 1864, his hunger had condemned him to death on the night of December 1, 1863. His decision to fall out and eat his beans set into motion the chain of events that killed him four months later. This concept was not lost on Corporal George Kimball, who remembered the loss of Emerson for the rest his life. Twenty years later, Kimball reminded his readers: “Let us hope that what poor Emerson did to bring about a restoration of the Union and a better order of things and what he suffered in the cause of his country and mankind, may weigh in his favor in that great day when God shall judge us all for the deeds we have done in the body.”

Sharper than any sword, hunger comes from nothing, but will fell the strongest armies.

The Army of the Potomac marches during the Mine Run Campaign, Nov.-Dec., 1863.

Sunday, May 17, 2015

Let Slip the Dogs of War, Part 3

This is a tale about growing up, going from puppyhood to doghood. It begins on a hot day in eastern North Carolina.

At daybreak, April 19, 1862, the 1,952 men who belonged to Colonel Rush Hawkins’s brigade reached a small village called Shiloh, which sat near the beaches of the Pasquotank River. Several hours earlier, at 3 A.M., these Union troops had slogged their way ashore, disembarking a fleet of poorly-anchored U.S. Navy transports. Hawkins’s brigade possessed orders to reach the main road on the peninsula and march north to Norfolk, passing through the town of Camden. Somewhere beyond that point, the bluecoats expected to meet Confederate resistance, and as it later transpired, a battle did indeed erupt. At 3 P.M., Hawkins’s brigade and another Union brigade slammed against a defensive position at the  canal village of South Mills, resulting in a two-hour battle that cost the bluecoats 120 casualties.

But that is another story. As of daybreak, Hawkins’s men were still hours from their destination, seasick, and hungry. Somewhere near Shiloh village—or perhaps beyond it—soldiers belonging to Company I, 6th New Hampshire Infantry, scoured the area looking for water and forage. An unnamed soldier from that company found a farm house. Underneath the porch, in the shade, he found a dog and her litter of three-month-old puppies. The unnamed soldier coaxed the three puppies to come to him, and when one of the dogs took a liking to that attention, the soldier determined to take the little fella along. Not long after, the drums roared the call to “fall in,” and the New Hampshire soldier realized his dilemma. Somehow, he needed to carry the puppy along with his other gear. “How to carry him was a puzzle,” the soldier later wrote. “I had on a pair of boots which I wore from home; these I took off, and tying the straps at the top, [I] put the puppy into one boot, and throwing the pair over my shoulders went thus into battle, . . . puppy and all.”

Nine hours (and many miles) later, when the 6th New Hampshire struck the Confederate line near South Mills, the unnamed Union soldier and his puppy endured the ferocity of combat together (with the dog still slung blissfully on the soldier’s back). As it happened, both man and dog narrowly dodged a cannon ball. A solid shot struck the sand in front of the regiment, causing most of the soldiers to duck. The unnamed private hit the dirt, but the man in front of him, Private Curtis Flanders, remained standing, taking the brunt of the projectile, falling dead over the soldier and his canine companion. (Flanders was, incidentally, the first soldier from the regiment to be killed in battle.)

The soldier and his puppy came out of the battle unscathed, and in fact, along with three other New Hampshire soldiers, they stole a buggy from a nearby home and rode it back to the Pasquotank River during the Union retreat, taking with them a number of pilfered chickens.

After that, the dog became a permanent member of the regiment. The soldiers named him Jep, and he stood in line with the regiment every day at morning roll call, barking when the orderly sergeant called his name. One soldier later wrote, “The boys were very much attached to him, because he showed so much courage and such true loyalty to the regiment, notwithstanding his ‘Southern birth’.” No one ever specified what breed of dog he was, but the few accounts that described him suggested that Jep was possibly a mix of blood hound and Yellow Labrador retriever.

Jep served with the 6th New Hampshire for more than two years, campaigning with the regiment as the war took the regiment to North Carolina, Maryland, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, and Virginia. The regimental historian remarked, “Dogs generally fear firearms when discharged in volleys, but this one went into battle and stuck by to the end.” Circumstances are not clear, but it appears that Jep was killed in action on September 30, 1864, at the Battle of Poplar Springs Church. The morning after the battle, Jep failed to put in his usual appearance at roll call, and as regimental historian Lyman Jackman asserted, “it was always supposed that he was killed the day before, as he was seen in the hottest of the fight.”

The veterans of the 6th New Hampshire felt tremendous sadness at the loss of their beloved dog. It needs no repeating from me a truism, that most dogs, when treated well, become like family. Dogs adore having both place and purpose. In the 6th New Hampshire, Jep had both. (Also, he had about 300 friendly soldiers who could give him a good belly rub at a moment’s notice, which is all any dog really wants.) He spent a preciously short period of time on this earth. It warms my heart to know that for his two years of doghood, Jep spent it with a good set of men. It isn’t the duration of our time alive that determines the quality of our existence, but how often we spend it doing what we love, and with whom we love.

This is "Old Jep," the 6th New Hampshire's regimental mascot. He was born in Eastern North Carolina in February 1862, but was killed-in-action, September 30, 1864.