Chapter 18

Pat Comes Home

Pat convalesced in the spring of 1865 in a camp in Alexandria, near Washington, officially called Camp Distribution by the War Department and unofficially called Camp Misery by the thousands of veterans who passed through it from 1862 to 1865.

On the afternoon of March 1, a Fenian recruiter approached Pat, who was sitting outside his barracks alone on a bench, and introduced himself. He welcomed the Fenian’s company.

“Someone over there,” and he pointed to a group of veterans, “said your name is Donohue, private. My name is Thomas Carey from County Wexford. Would you be interested in hearing what the Fenian Brotherhood has planned for this year and next?”

Pat had watched the Brotherhood grow in popularity among Irish American soldiers during the war. Its rhetoric captured his imagination. He often dreamed of someday fighting the British, as his father and grandfather had.

“I would,” Pat replied.

“Could you pass the word among others like yourself?”

“Gladly,” said Pat. “There are quite a few of us in camp here.”

“That would be grand.” Carey was a short, stocky, red-haired Irishman. It was obvious to Pat from the man’s red face that he certainly had not taken the pledge and a yellowed lower lip told him Carey was also a heavy pipe smoker.

Pat searched in the encampment where he knew Irish veterans would be lounging. Some had already heard Fenian recruiters, who had free access to army units in both the North and the South during much of the war.

Rebel prisons had released many like him in deteriorated health. Others were suffering from wounds in recent battles across Virginia during Grant’s last push on Lee’s depleted army. Still others poured in daily off ships coming from the Deep South, where Sherman was moving north through the Carolinas.

An hour later, twenty veterans of Irish heritage sat on blankets and campstools under a spreading oak that shaded them from a hot, mid-afternoon sun to hear what Carey had to say. It was a mixed group, mostly unmarried men under 30 from throughout the North, dressed in clean uniforms or in civilian clothes. Four had suffered serious leg wounds and had to be carried or supported by their friends. Two were amputees who came on a horse-drawn cart. Some, only partially recovered from their illnesses, lay listlessly on blankets waiting for Carey to begin. The men warmed up to Carey as he approached each man, shook hands, and passed out cigars.

His introductions finished, Carey walked to an elevated position front and center to the group. With head down, he paused as if pondering how to start his remarks. He introduced himself to the group and related the purpose of their gathering. Then he said, “I’m here to tell you, a great deal of progress has been made by the Fenian Brotherhood in just the past year alone! We’re well organized, don’t ye know now. Thousands of men throughout Ireland have joined the Irish Republican Brotherhood. They’re making it very uncomfortable for Royal Irish Constables, British soldiers, and sympathizers every day now. Men are giving their lives daily to free Ireland from despotic rule, just as so many of your brethren gave their lives for the Union and Abraham Lincoln, our great president.”

The men murmured their approval of what Carey had said. One of the men asked him, “I’ve heard it a dozen times, but what does ‘Fenian’ mean?”

“Ah, I’m glad you asked that. ‘Fenian’ comes from the word ‘Fianna.’ Fianna were ancient Celtic warriors who lived by themselves like monks and defended the Irish people when they were attacked.”

Pat nodded knowingly. He had, indeed, heard Gram tell stories of Finn McCool and the Fianna.

“Let me say a word about the leader here in America,” continued Carey. “John O’Mahony survived the rebellion of 1848 and escaped to America. He has organized circles in every big American city, with centers in those circles called IRAs that drive the circles and keep them on target. His goal is to supply the Brotherhood with the best American arms and to get many of you to join. With the help of men like yourselves, we can throw out the British bastards after 400 years of domination.”

Carey puffed on his cigar while his audience digested his last words.

“So, when you get home, I suggest you find the circle in your city, whether it be Chicago, Buffalo, or New York and consider joining it.”

“What about New Jersey?” someone called out, eliciting laughter from the audience.

“Why, yes! Even if you live in New Jersey,” responded Carey good-naturedly.

“You’re a tough, hardened bunch now and you’d drive the goddamned Brits into the Irish Sea, if enough of you joined the Brotherhood in Ireland. Your government will be helpful, too, what with the Brits supplying the South with ships, arms, clothing, and everything needed to wage war against the American government.”

He looked at each man as he relit his cigar. “Now, if you have any questions, I’d be happy to answer them.”

The men spent the next hour going back and forth with Carey. Tremors of enthusiasm rolled through Pat’s stomach.

He continued to rest beneath the oak for several minutes after the others left, thinking about his Whiteboy father and the great adventure that awaited him if he joined the Fenians and invaded Ireland. “Fekkin’ Brits,” he thought, anger overwhelming him.

After a few minutes lying still, staring blankly off into a blue cloudless sky, he muttered aloud, “I wish I could afford more of these Cuban cigars.”

When the weather in Alexandria turned hot and humid in April, Pat volunteered for a warehouse job. There he worked in a cool basement where good Kentucky bourbon was stored. Pat became an expert at hiding a bottle in his clothes before heading to the barracks. Over the next four months, he drank freely every night with men from Ohio and Upstate New York, many of them Irish. Pat was a central figure in the group, a hero of sorts for smuggling out the best whiskey. He led them in singing, storytelling, and an occasional brawl. Some evenings they marched through downtown Alexandria, shouting and harassing secesh women. Twice, military police threw him into a paddy wagon and he spent the night in the brig.

Military provost guards showed convalescing soldiers enormous leniency. Deeds that would have been punished by court-martial were ignored. Pat took every advantage of lax military and civil discipline and had a great time for himself, but for only a couple of hours a day. He tired easily.

He grew to love bourbon. It hit the brain quickly, making him happy and daring at the front of a gang of veterans out for a good time.

Nights, relaxed in his bunk, his thoughts turned to Annabelle. He was still infatuated with her, imagined making love with her, and schemed to visit her. He was concerned about their child, who by now he figured was more than a year old.

While he had a great deal of freedom to move about in the Alexandria area, he was under orders to remain close to the camp. He asked permission to visit cousins in Sangster, but was refused when the story supporting his request was quickly seen as fabricated. To go as far as twenty miles away without permission constituted desertion. He would not risk dishonorable discharge so close to being mustered out and receiving a pension. Besides, he was broke as his back pay had not yet been cleared.

Patrick struggled to get out of bed. All the beer and booze he had drunk the night before was exploding his bladder. Staggering and unsure of the direction of the toilet, he leaned against a wall a few seconds until his brain cleared. Then he moved out into the corridor and through the outside door. He lurched into the colored men’s latrine. Colored and white slept in separate dorms, ate in their own mess areas, and sat on garden benches which, though not signed WHITE or COLORED, were just as clearly understood. As he stood at the long ditch peeing, a man walked up beside him.

“Hello, Mr. Pat.”

“Henry Woods! Where did you come from?”

“Appomattox. Now I’m one of the cooks.”

“Thanks for the way you treated my brother. You saw he got good care and I know you did the same for other 155th men.” Pat marveled at the size of the young man, a good four inches taller and much more muscular. The last time he had seen him over a year ago, Henry was just a boy.

“Yah, your brother was grateful. Some of them didn’t talk so nice to me when I first joined the surgeons, but they changed. I even sang at their campfires some nights. When I seed CT units in the field ’round Petersburg, I joined the 41st las’ October and fought through to the end.”

“Well, glad yuh made it, Henry.” Pat was thinking, I’d like to ask him about fighting the rebs. The CT ran before the butternuts, I’ve heard many times . . . Maybe some other time.

Henry sensed Pat was in a hurry to get out of the colored latrine. He had wandered in by mistake and did not want to be seen in it with Henry. Dis is the las’ time we goin’ to talk, he thought to himself.

Pat walked back to his bed, made it up, found a broom, and cleaned up some of the mud he’d dragged in. Then he picked up a glass reeking of whiskey and returned it to the cafeteria before heading off to the warehouse.

A week later, after more wild behavior the night before, Pat was cited for disorderly conduct and assigned to clean up the cafeteria with the colored help. Pat knew he would be taunted by other vets for what they considered the worst punishment of all—being forced to work with the coloreds—but he was secretly happy to have the excuse to talk with Henry. He moved in the dish line right alongside him.

“Henry, how you being treated?”

“OK, Mr. Pat. I be needin’ time to find out where my family be. Meantime, I gotta eat and stay dry.”

Pat was quiet for a minute wondering what it must be like to be colored in Northern Virginia or even Washington. There were thousands of contrabands like Henry Woods. He admired the way Henry handled himself, quite self-assured for his age and able to make his way among whites.

“Henry, did you see General Lee when he rode in to surrender?”

“No, but I see his men surrender when dey ran into a Negro wall of CT cav’ry. They had just scattered white troopers when we came along.”

“You were cavalry, Henry?”

“I was, Mr. Pat. And we was as good as anyone. Fought against the best Confederate cav’ry. One of the first units into Petersburg and Richmond. Once Lee surrendered his army, we knew we was free. Wasn’t only Mr. Lincoln freed us. It was General Grant.” Henry picked up a tray of clean dishes, moved it to a nearby cupboard, and returned. “Long as that devil Lee in the field wit’ his army, no nigger in the South ever be free. Appomattox was our big day!”

“I never thought of it like that,” replied Pat. “I never fought with colored troops in the field. Were there many who were allowed into battle?”

“At first, all I do was guard the Center Point Depot. But in de las’ year we be trained and fight jus’ like you boys.”

“And did you hold your own with the rebels?” asked Pat. “I know they hated you coloreds and killed you rather than take you captive. Or if they did put you in prison, they murdered you there.”

“An’ don’t you know, we knowed sure ‘nough, Mr. Pat. So we fought like the sun was never comin’ up again if we get taken by them bastards.”

For the next few minutes, Pat and Henry traded questions and answers about colored troops.

Finally, Pat asked Henry, “By chance did you know Annabelle Lee? You joined the regiment at Sangster. Was that your home?”

“That be it, Mr. Pat. I run from the baddest master you ever did see. But I’s no idea what become of Annabelle after the Union Army lef’. I be mustered out tomorra’ and go lookin’ for my family. You leave me yuh address and if I find her I write yuh straightaway,” said Henry.

“I sure will, Henry. I wish you well and thanks again for all you did for my brother and the other soldiers. I would have liked to have seen you in full uniform and gear on your cavalry horse.” They shook hands and parted.

On Monday, July 10, 1865, Pat was formally mustered out of the U.S. Army. With his final pay, a large sum that covered his time in captivity, he bought a few souvenir gifts for Gram, Jack, and Jo, but saved most of the money. He caught Northern Central trains from Washington to Elmira, where he waited three hours before boarding a New York Central to Buffalo. Boring stretches were made pleasant by a few pints of whiskey he had pilfered. Whiskey was becoming his tonic for dealing with melancholia and boredom. “Nothing wrong with that,” he reasoned. “I’ve suffered enough these last three years.”

At 6:00 p.m. the next day, thirty hours after leaving Washington, he walked from the Exchange Street Station to Louisiana Street, conspicuous in his uniform. The day before, he had telegrammed Gram to expect him. Although he passed several taverns with old friends waving from the front doors and saw numerous neighbors on Elk and Louisiana Streets, he went straight home with only passing waves and greetings.

Maire was waiting at the door, telegram in hand. He grabbed and hugged her. How he had missed this lady! Then he hugged his cousin, Jo, who was now twenty-six. “Jo, what a good lookin’ woman you’ve become!” he said. Pat shook hands with her husband, Harry, and warmly embraced his uncle. “Uncle Jack, you’re a sight for sore eyes, that you are, and I can’t tell you how much I missed you all.”

Gram saw at a glance that her grandson was thinner by far than when she had last seen him. He also smelled of whiskey. Jack and Jo noted his condition as well, but like Gram, said nothing

“Oh Pat, I was so afraid I’d never see you again. So many of our boys are not comin’ home, bless their poor souls. I’m so thankful to God that He kept you alive, one of His favorite few.”

“And John!” interjected Jo.

“And John,” repeated Gram, nodding to her niece, “the both of ye, thank God and His Holy Mother!” She shook and laughed and hugged her grandson once more, crying tears of joy and relief.

“And John, indeed ladies!” roared Pat. “John was my guardian angel! Gram, you’ll never know how many times I thought about desertin’. It was your smilin’ face that kept me goin’ for another day.” He coughed to gain control of the deep feelings that were threatening to show on his face. “I’m so grateful for your letters and boxes. One even reached me in the Salisbury prison. You had angels and Luke Blackmer carting that one, Gram. Luke was a man in town who tried to help us prisoners.”

Gram beamed proudly that God had answered her prayers and seen her package through. Jo had done just as Pat had asked in the single letter of his that reached home while he was in Salisbury.

She had worried over her cousin throughout his time in service as she too read the papers daily. “Pat, we couldn’t take a full breath until you got home,” Jo interjected. “Carrie Duggan read your telegram to Gram, but I had to read it again and again waiting for you to come.”

“Tell me what you all heard from John,” Pat pleaded. “He wrote a brief note in March before the last battles at Appomattox and I heard the 155th was there at the end. So John must have been there too. But no mail from him reached me in Alexandria after March.”

Gram hesitated for a second to gather her thoughts. “Maybe it’s because the regiment was busy rounding up stray Confederates, as he said in his last letter. Jo, you tell the rest.”

Jo was caught off guard. “Well, John wrote that in May they were in a grand march through Washington before all the generals and congressmen and the like. The letter ended saying he’ll be home before the end of July. He says he was amazed that you survived the prison camps, a testament to your endurance. The Union Iron Works was the best training for you, he says, and he can’t wait to see you.”

The five sat around the dining room table with coffee and cake talking like there was no tomorrow. Even usually laconic Jack was bursting with questions. “Pat, how was it?” asked his uncle. “I heard you fought in some awful battles!”

“I was lucky to survive at that,” Pat replied. “One reason was John and George Tipping. Whenever I got into a tight spot, there they were to save me. God be good to George. How we missed that wonderful man!”

He paused and the three waited for him to continue. “Did you ever hear of grape shot, Gram?”

“What, they were shootin’ fruit at you boys?”

Pat laughed. “Yah, but the grapes were made of iron and shot from a big artillery gun that spread iron across the field like rain coming sideways. It would wipe out a whole squad of men, arms and heads blown off. We lost fifty men, half our company, in ten minutes at Cold Harbor.”

Gram and Jo grimaced at Pat’s descriptions. Men did not ordinarily speak so graphically with their women present. Gram pulled out a whiskey bottle from the cupboard and poured Pat, her brother, and Harry a double shot each, Jo a single. Jack brought in a tankard of beer and Jo put a big box of chocolates in the center of the table.

Pat asked Jack about the new elevators he had seen on the river as he walked home from the depot, but the family brushed his questions aside.

Gram grasped Pat’s hand in both of hers and peered intently at her grandson. “You and John were both wounded. What happened?”

“Well, Gram, we were wounded just bad enough to leave the field. John was hit the second day we joined Grant and his Army of the Potomac, a year ago in May. A shell exploded behind us and John caught a slug of iron in the back.

“I bet he didn’t tell you when he wrote, but he could have stayed home with the wound and all. Truth is, he wouldn’t abandon his Company I mates. Gram, you know, most of all he came back to look out for me.”

A broad smile lit up Maire’s face. “That’s our John!”

Pat nodded, grinning. “It wasn’t a month after John got hit that an empty shell hit me and busted up my shoulder.” With that, Pat unbuttoned his blouse and slid it off his back.

“Oh, I see the place.” Gram pushed aside his loose shirt and moved her hand softly over the wound. The scar tissue was visible, but it seemed to have healed well. “The shoulder looks a bit out of whack. Does it hurt, Pat? Can you do your old job at the Works?”

“Ah, it ain’t much now, but I was in a world of pain when it hit me. The shell slammed into my back and blew my shoulder out of its socket.” Although she’d seen more than her share of injuries here and in the Old Country, Maire winced at his words. “Oh my God, Pat, t’was the work of Satan, to be sure.”

Jack nodded and recounted having seen a man suffer the same way when a boom snapped at the elevator.

“Exactly, Uncle Jack. Stunned and staggering around was I. I seem to remember someone grabbed me and threw me to the ground, ’cause there were shells bursting all over the place and minie bullets thick as flies.”

“What kind of war was it that they were shootin’ little bullets at you guys? Were their soldiers little fellas, too?” asked Gram.

Pat laughed so hard tears came to his eyes. “No, Gram. That’s the name for the bullet musket rifles shoot.”

Suddenly, Pat slammed his hand on the table. “I almost forgot!” Reaching into his breast pocket, he produced an article wrapped in a small square of linen. Handing it to his uncle, he said, “Here, Uncle Jack. I picked this up just before I left Washington.”

Unwrapping the package, Jack withdrew two oval grey bullets, less than an inch long, that had collided in flight and fused together.

“It’s two minies that hit each other, probably shot by opposite sides, one by a Confederate and the other by a Union soldier,” Pat announced.

Now it was Jack’s turn to look dumfounded. “Can ye believe that? My goodness,” said Jack and he held the odd chunk of lead before the women. “Do ye see that, Maire? Jo? Isn’t that somethin’?”

Harry asked to see it and rolled it around in the palm of his right hand and then across the table to Jack.

“Imagine what a swarm of flying bullets could do to flesh and bone!” said Pat. Gram and Jo shivered at the thought. Pat was about to describe what minies did to human flesh, but he caught himself in time.

Jack reached out to hand the souvenir back to Pat, who held up his right palm. “No, no, Uncle Jack. It’s yours. I thought you might like it.”

“Why, thank you, Pat.” Jack smiled and rewrapped the gift in the linen cloth and deposited it in the pocket of his jacket. “Wait till the men see it at work tomorra.”

Eager to end the grisly topic and realizing he had been too long in the company of men grown hard and crude, Pat gave the two women the gifts he had bought them, silver necklaces with images of the White House carved on light blue glass. They tried them on immediately and both kissed Pat on his cheeks at the same time.

Pat explained, “I bought them from a Cherokee Indian selling them on the street near the train station in Washington. I just liked them and thought they’d look great on both of you . . . and indeed they do!”

Pat waited until the women settled back and continued the story of his wounding. “One of the guys walked me back to the field hospital and a week later, I was in a hospital in Philadelphia. Gram, I tell you, life was good in Philly. Lots of surgeon’s assistants and nurses to look after me, change the dressing every day. Good food. I was in no hurry to get back. No lice, that’s what I liked most. Day and night in camp and in the field the lice attacked us. Lice are the best army in the world, even in the coldest weather.”

The evening drew on with more questions and more stories. Pat noticed that Gram’s eyes were drooping and her head nodding. Pat said they would talk more later. He was home for good, so Gram pulled herself up with a hand from Pat, hugged him for dear life, and told him she loved him more than all the saints and angels in heaven. He pushed a wad of bills, $90, into her apron pocket. Unconscious of her new wealth, she lumbered off to bed, using her grandson for a cane.

The evening’s conversation was over. Jo said she and Harry had to leave. Jack said it was time he went to bed, too. They all had to work the next day. Pat decided to hold for another day the photographs he had bought for the three of them of President and Mary Lincoln before he left Washington. He felt like a new man, healed and well. He was so excited to be home that he knew he would not be able to sleep. Besides, he couldn’t wait to see the boys at Kennedy’s, so out he went and tied on a dandy.