Tweet
Untitled design (1).png
This accounting is from a collaboration of Randy Allen and Vanessa Shepperson. Vanessa specifically gave the details of her impressions plight as freedwomen. The details are things that actually happened during our event with some depth and detail added by Randy.
August 12, 1863
Today warranted an entry. Although the past few weeks have been good to my goal of preserving pages in this smart date book, Kentucky has lately lost its sense of wonder. I should classify today as unique.
Something of interest, Praise Be. As I trucked along come late afternoon, mingling with fellow returners to the column, I saw an odd collection humanity quite close to our lines. Upon introductions of a few, my suspicions were correct; they were not your typical Kentucky resident, poor trash or otherwise. Nor were they colored refugees, a sight pitifully becoming more and more common in this country.
These were our Loyal Countrymen from East Tennessee. Arrived seemingly by providence as we head in their direction determined to break their shackles. Upon conversation, I was soon very grateful to said providence, as some of the column proved to be quite lovely and charming; a welcome relief to the monotony.
I was particularly taken by a smartly dressed and even more smartly spoken colored woman who hailed from Maryland.
She been freed back in 48 after growing up near Baltimore City. She had been passed down to her Masters daughter Millie, and she granted her freedom as they were companions throughout our lives. With the many duties she had to take on while under their tutelage she became adapt at sewing, and traveled all around taking many projects. This led her to Eastern Tennessee.
She was there when the news of Emancipation broke and expressed to me her delight for her sisters and brothers to join her in a life where they can make their own decisions. A dour look cam over her otherwise sunny expression. Taking a deep sigh she said ”I waited and waited, but alas that time did not come and I made it a goal of mine to leave and spread the word in protest as I went deeper into TN and eventually into Kentucky. Of course I did take it slow and took on projects as I went in trade for supplies and information. I ran in to a group of abolitionists a few days ago and have been journeying with them since. I have been a great aid to them as I have been traveling before.” This I believed true, as she appeared quite as confident a traveler as myself, a veteran of ’61. The sun grew higher, and with great reluctance I bid adieu and again donned my harness, as Brady and I tramped off.
Before dark, we drew the holy trinity again; pork, crackers and coffee, and the sound of bayonets grinding on tin cups made me miss Aunt Grace and her massive flock of geese. The sight of another fellow down the line contentedly grinding away with his mill, made me miss mine immensely. I chattered away with a few friends, debating the merits and shortcomings of our dear General Burnside, and the prospects of the new campaign. The only soldier worse than those who insult Little Mac, are those who hurl daggers at Ol Burn. Pure petty jealousy I expect is the foundation, but I am thankful to say Company C possesses no such gentleman in its ranks.
The end result tasted first rate and was its usual welcome restorative to the inner man. Bootsy was in his usual fine spirits and pipes were lit as the band serenaded us. While it was not box seats at Ordway Hall, the atmosphere provided a worthy competitor as any ten cent ticket.
I’ll confess, I’ve been carrying along some melancholy as heavy as any army blanket or gun belt, and had felt the weight since leaving Mt. Sterling. I decided I would revive myself with some civilization in the form of the circus train I had passed prior. Foolishly I weighed possible relief from the blues against possible army punishment. That scale was tipped by the meeting of such pleasant folks along the road from East Tennessee. I appointed myself “Acting Chief Adjutant General of Occupied Citizens Affairs” and determined to give the “Army of Liberation” a smiling, if sunburnt face of welcome to some folks who certainly seemed in a less ideal situation than my own.
The band finished the day’s twenty-fifth rendition of Yankee Doodle (which somehow still manage to stir me, I slipped past the trees in the headed in the direction I assumed they were. With patriot zeal piece of Salt Pork for barter should the opportunity arise, I made good time. I came upon a lantern light, and recognized the genial fellow I had met earlier, and seen with our Army. He greeted me and directed me further down a rise where I met two men of Tennessee, who had taken the air to be too still in their current bivouac in a hollow around a spring. I assume it is still quite the adjustment from the mountain air, for they seemed otherwise heathy and sharp fellows.
One agreed to chaperone a brief hello, and I found a scene that wouldn’t be out of place in a camping party to the Berkshires, though certainly more humid, and with an underlying sense of uncertainty. I realize now the sight of me and my martial attire probably added to that sense, which I regret.
Thankfully the two lovely young women I had earlier met were awake and fanning themselves by the light of a candle. But for the lack or terrible snoring, I could have mistaken it for a sleeping advance post of our army.
One piece of salt pork warranted two large pork pies, carefully wrapped. I tucked into one immediately . The lady had explained she traded her sewing skills on a job along the road for the pies, and I wonder the scale of the damage garment repaired by her, as they were first rate. I felt self-conscious in my shabby attire, and what was clearly more an act of mercy from decent folks in hard times as opposed to a fair trade. The second woman, slight with a fair complexion offered me a compliment as to the confidence with which we marched. She remarked on the handsomeness of our captain, whom I regrettably informed her, was a married man. But I accepted her compliment on behalf of Company C and the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Such is the hard duty of an Acting Chief Superintendent of Occupied Citizens Affairs.
The mood changed, and I could feel the blues creeping on in spite of the lovely talk. Thankfully, the sweet sewing lady offered me a genuine tobacco cigarette, of which I cannot tell the last time I was able to enjoy, and we walked beside the spring, settling upon a rude wooden bench. Yes, it appears Tennessee women smoke, pipes as well as consume snuff, a fact of which upon learning would cause Sgt. Brown to beam with admiration. I withhold all judgement, believing the old ”Let he without sin, cast the first stone.”
The young lady turned out to be around my age. She felt as if, ”her journey has not been in vain, for they had recognized Emancipation as of the 8th of August, just a few days ago.” She was glad to be there now, welcomed so she may rest a little bit longer before continuing her journey. Rumor claimed Cincinnati may have some work for a lady such as herself. Upon hearing this I at once told her just how much of a true blue Abolitionist I was. She seemed impressed when I mentioned multiple church benefits for the cause I’d attended over the years and recalled how my entire family went without sugar for four whole months in protest of the cruelty of slavery’s involvement in the sugar industry. I perhaps slightly bragged about once attending a lecture by Mr. Garrison in which Mr. Douglas was in attendance. I am thankful she did not press for more details, as I was quite far away, and two fools talked through the whole program. We practically said simultaneously “Am I Not a Woman/Man?”, which made us laugh. After quizzing each other on books, and seemed we had a shared passion for Mr. Hugo’s Les Misérables. The whole scene was striking and odd as something from the a dime novel. We commented how we missed absent friends and relations. A brief silence was broken by a load “Croak!” answered from across the scummy water by another lonesome friend. She decided to retire, and upon returning to the candlelight, I could see the familiar signs of road weariness settling upon two their lovely faces. I made my salutations and gathered my bounty. I’m certain they would have hosted me nearly as well as mother would as, far graciousness and taste, had they an appointed parlor instead of a Kentucky glade.
With impeccable timing Second Sergeant Brown entered the trees, and shattering any sense of domestic bliss, loudly shouted me to my feet and marched me away. It “would neber do to gib it up so, Mr. Brown” indeed. In his anger, the long legged sergeant’s stride was extra long, and I regretted disappointing him more than the usual expected punishments. The two pies in my haversack now felt as a millstone about my neck. Punishment was rough, but fair, as I was to distribute the gains without myself partaking. So goes the world; right makes might.
“Cheshire Pies!” Bootsy declared. Spirits rose with tobacco smoke, and a pie, lacking a few removable bites was sliced and shared. One of the visible tragedies of the war again was brought to mind, as our Hebrew messmate could not partake. Army life is cruel to this man, and his devotion to God, and country is a source of inspiration. Thankfully a rooster found our pot, and I assume it was a welcome addition to my Pard’s Sabbath. We all turned in at the prospect of a hard day tomorrow, and a harder than usual one for myself planned. That night I prayed longer than usual for our former first Sergeant, and cursed the traitorous pill that laid him low. I’m still incredibly proud of the to scale replica of some famous fortifications from wet Carolina sand down on Hatteras. It was cold and wet then, with a wind that would whip right through. I fell asleep remember him, and many right good fellows not encamped tonight with the Army, but instead taking rest in North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland. To rise no more to the drum.
I must close for tonight.
Aug 13, 1863
We woke at dawn, and busied ourselves securing our baggage before company drill. As we wheeled and turned, and performed our usual mindless maneuverings, I was struck by the Tennessee lady’s words, and agreed; our Captain and Lieutenant certainly cut dashing figures in their frock coats and caps. I was beginning to wonder if she had actually seen our company knowing a few of the marchers, but that morning they would have fared well in a competition of most competent looking officers in the regiment. One would even wager their whiskers versus Old Burn’s, but that might be a step far. We performed battalion evolutions before forming to once again take to the road. I busied myself spreading the rumor that we were to be reviewed personally by General Burnside himself, and listening to war stories told by veterans saltier than I. The drum sounded and along we went, turning off the road at a large White House, swarmed with civilians and officers and the flummery that surrounds such scenes. This is Camp Nelson, named, I am told for the fellow Gen. Jeff Davis popped in Louisville last September. A number of our men hailed Captain Harmon, who seemed a sight for their sore eyes. He is a 21st Mass man, though I never made his acquaintance, and is now responsible for all of the commissary stores at this place, and the countless more to follow. A herculean task; the man seems ready to get it done.
It seemed a fine spot. Shade trees surrounded a level plateau where we pitched our tents.
Brady and I reclined under Château du Lobster; our New Kentucky Home, and soon fires were blazing away. Kettles steamed to conjure up that magical dark elixir. I was a busy man, with the expected extra duties. While on guard mount I ran through what I had planned to say when I personally met General Burnside; rather to discuss his carbine or his heroics at Bull Run. They camp hummed with life as a new sutler was found at this post, who seemed decent as well as a man taking photographs. Brady had his made, as Christian well as Christian, and several others which were pronounced true to life by our collective opinion.
Later in the day, I had the chance to formally introduce the party of men and boys from Tennessee to the Sergeant Major. They had been hovering in the shade of the camp, watching the women perform work; either engaged baking, or at service in any multitude of tasks making themselves useful, but sometime in the afternoon came forward looking for employment, if not necessarily enlistment. Now, I usually can’t abide people from Tennessee, and find them vain and lacking patriotism. I personally detest any dandy planter’s son who thinks that by putting some feathers in his hat and rounding up his white trash neighbors feels he is entitled to overthrow domestic tranquility. These gentlemen, judging by their appearance, were certainly not vain and possessed a zeal for the old flag I wished was shared by more of their countrymen. They agreed in joining me to a warm water toast down with Traitor Jeff and be D—ed any pompous fool who would raise up arms against their Nation.
The Sergeant Major was busy and told them to go away and come back later. This decision I regret, as some quickly took to begging sutler script, some raging about the administration, inflation and the current wheel and woe that accompanies modern politics. Another fellow was just as animated, but was all but unintelligible with his accent, the first translating for the second, until growing tired and stuck to his own monologue concerning Constitutional Rights. One inappropriately asked if “ya’ll still burn witches up ‘ere?”. It was enjoyable to a point, but I’ll admit I was thankful for the First Sergeant’s call to a detail. I left with silent promise to blanket toss with comrades the small man in the linen suit at a later date.
There was commotion over the suspected theft of property, and I stood guard over the arrested man until the nonsense was sorted out. This of course was some sort of farce, as I have known Mr F— well since we left Annapolis, and our families have known each other for generations, they have never been thieves. The poor man had to write his own record of his actions, and dejectedly eat dinner on his own. A kind officer pitied him with a sip of port, though we were forced to turn away a few women who had come to pray for him. The redeeming quality was a chance to catch up with him, swapping some stories, and he seems in fine spirits all things considered.
Had a proper discussion with Lt. J— concerning the famous Andrew’s Raiders and their daring exploits in Georgia. He was quite knowledgeable and excited on the subject, I assume he is a well read man. Also I learned while on guard the Photographer is an old friend of mine from New York, and we gabbed away for a good while until I was reprimanded by the first Sergeant. Arms and trappings were struck bright and we sailed through dress parade. Fresh bread was welcome, as well as shrub to revive the inner man. I took more coffee and caught a smile from the Yellow Gal, who had been serving the officers supper. All the miles and heat and all melted away, from Wooster to here and it was all worth it.
While the sun retired we assembled to hear a local minister discuss great actions of antiquity and encourage us in our ongoing struggle. It does one well to be reminded of the fortitude of our ancestors in the revolution, and I recalled if I was living up to their sacrifice in building this nation. I feel as they would be proud. Lt. Col. Hawker was in a fine mood, and the men lolled like contented, overheated cattle in their pasture. In short order Mr. Propes produced his banjo and commenced to making it ring. An excitable young man, Corporal Bates drew forth his weapon as well and soon bones appeared. With repeated drying needed to atone for the humid night air, more songs came round robin, with even a special guest performance by Lt. Wickett himself. I believe it was the fifth version of Old Dan Tucker that was satisfactory to the young corporal Bates; quite the perfectionist, a REAL New England man. The brilliant Mr. Foster would have been brought to tears by a rendition of Lorena, perhaps not with harmony but by sentiment indeed.
We were joined by one of the Tennesseans, beaming at his acceptance into the official corps of civilian scouts. I know he shall be of great use. I recommended he be attached to the staff of the commanding general, as his ability to scout out liquor was second to none and would be a great asset there.
Brady’s Oh be joyful showed it’s mark. Bootsy Sang a new one for me, sweet but sad about Prison. The night wound down with murder ballads, devolving into humor of a decidedly Irish nature, and readings from a book of fiction not approved by mother. Comrades parted ways, and we ran into a very excited Captain Harmon, who graciously toasted our success, and General Burnside with a shared cup of rum. Captain Gulley appeared and we spoke a while of home and plans for the future. Brady and I turned in after splitting the forgotten second pork pie and slept the sleep of future liberators.
August 14, 1863
I heard rumors of a cave once visited by Daniel Boone located along the river, which sounds intriguing. Still oppressively warm.
August 15, 1863
Burnside still has not reviewed the regiment. He shall, I believe it. Weather same but with showers.
August 16, 1863
Post number three overlooked rolling hills with large parks extending down the road. As the teams had departed earlier, I spent the morning guarding a government manure pile. Saw the yellow gal. I smiled but was too far away for her to see. Euchre with guard reserve. The First Sergeant revealed the collection of hearts in someone’s hand while passing behind him, as is true to his form.
Played a rather tasteless game titled Spent Ball, in which one tosses a Minnie bullet at an unsuspecting fellow whilst shouting the game’s title. As one who remembers the original sport I found it less than charming.
Around Noon we formed for Reading of General Orders from the commanding general himself. He was notably absent. With a left face and a forward march we filed down the road on another detail for the post, our new home for the moment.
The blues began to set in, but then the band struck up Yankee Doodle, the colors unfurled, and things were not as bad as imagined.
R.W. Allen
Pvt. 21st Mass. Infantry