THE BELVIDERE STANDARD
AUGUST 5, 1862
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ILLINOIS'S MR. LINCOLN AND THE
GRAND ARMY OF THE REPUBLIC
NEED THE MEN OF BOONE COUNTY!
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AN IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT
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The Boone County Board of Supervisors has called out a subscription of $60.00, to be deposited in the First Bank of Chicago, for each man who enlists in the Grand Army of the Republic from our county.
All able-bodied men are asked to report to the Belvidere courthouse tomorrow, Wednesday, August 6, at seven o'clock in the morning to muster in.
Company G has already selected officers for their grand adventure, and a finer body of men we have never seen together. In fact, if Mr. Thomas Humphrey and Mr. Elliot Bush had had their pick of the county, their success could not have been better.
"Sixty dollars, Albert," my good chum, Charlie Ives, says to me. "I've never seen that much money in my life."
"I haven't seen such money since I left Queens."
It's our day off from farm work, and we are standing on the sidewalk in front of the Standard's newspaper offices. The recruitment announcement has been posted to their front window amid red, white, and blue bunting and a daguerreotype of President Abraham Lincoln.
After two years in the Midwest, my lilting brogue is gone. No more up-and-down, up-and-down speech for me, like the rising and falling of the Whitehead Bramble. I've learned to talk flat—as flat as the Illinois prairies. When I came out from Queens, no one could understand a word I said. Not even my employer, Mr. Cleary, who was born in County Clare.
I listened carefully to the speech of Americans born out here. All those er's in their words reminded me of a train's engine trying to get started on a cold morning: er, er, er, er, er.
And yet, when I'm distracted or agitated, my Irish brogue comes rushing back, like the spring floods on the Piscasaw River. I wonder if my brogue would come back if Johnny Reb were to start shooting at me.
"Queens, New Yorrrk," I repeat, my r's like gravel on the back of my tongue.
"I heard you the first time," Charlie says crossly. "Let's go! A grand adventure, it says here. I've never been out of Boone County. I haven't seen the world the way you have."
"I could put my sixty dollars in the bank."
"Aw, spend it, Albert, for once in your life! We're signing up, aren't we? You're a soldier now!"
"I never said I'm signing up."
"It would be good to leave for a spell." Here Charlie drops his voice to a whisper. "Sheriff McCutcheon suspects it's us tipping over the outhouses."
I grin. "He doesn't know about tipping over the cows as they sleep, then? But Charlie, what if the Rebs start shooting at us?"
"We'll shoot back." Charlie stares at me. "You're not scared, are you?"
This question is guaranteed to get my blood up. Any boy would take tea with the Devil himself rather than admit to being scared of anything. "Of course not!" I retort. "Who'd be scared of a bunch of scrawny Rebs?"
"I'll see you at seven tomorrow morning, Albert. Sharp."
"Sharp it is. A grand adventure." My heart starts to hammer against my constant companion.
I go back to Mr. Cleary's farm to say goodbye. He's out in the fields with his draft Shires, harvesting his first crop of oats this year.
Just this April he taught me to scour the sod with his plow. After this harvest he'll scour the sod again and plant another crop of oats for a second harvest in early November.
When I tell him my intentions, he stomps his foot on his own black soil in disgust. "Don't leave the farm, Albert. Why, you're more than three hundred miles from the nearest slave. Have you ever seen one in your life?"
"No, sir."
"Slavery's a relic, left over from when the English had colonies on the eastern seaboard. Let the American-born dodge the bullets. Don't you understand? It's not an Irishman's fight. Stay here, lad. There's plenty of work. Once the recruits go, there'll be nothing but women left in Boone County. How are we farmers going to get the crops in? How am I going to get the next harvest in? How am I going to break the new ground?"
I look over Mr. Cleary's fields, the sturdy green plants with golden tassels tossing in the prairie breeze. I've never seen soil so black and rich as here. There's not a rock in sight to crowd the roots. Plants burst out of the earth, even bigger and healthier than the year before. "You've got your wife, and your three daughters," I reply.
"Busting sod isn't women's work."
"President Lincoln is from Illinois. He needs our help."
"He's from Kentucky," my employer argues back. "His wife's family is one of the biggest slave holders in the Bluegrass. He doesn't need your help."
"I love this country, Mr. Cleary. It's given me everything."
"Aye," he replies sadly. He reaches out to shake my hand. His are rough farmer's hands, with the earth so ground into the palms that they'll ne'er be scrubbed pink again. "Pay close attention when they teach you how to shoot. Keep your head down in battle, Albert. You're smaller than most. That'll help. And come back home to us when this war is over. I've often thought of you as the son I never had."
"Why ... why, thank you, sir."
I walk forward and give his mares, Cheese and Crackers, four strokes on the nose each. "Goodbye," I whisper into their ears, which are the size of corncobs. The horses gaze down at me with placid brown eyes. Just like everything else in America, Cheese and Crackers are oversized, massive, and bursting with health.
He thinks of me as his son.
It still jars to know I've done such a fine job keeping my secret safe. It jars even more to know how easy it is. Men wear trousers and women don't. People are too busy with their own affairs to look any further into the matter than that.
Mr. Cleary comes toward me, stroking Crackers's flanks. "Come back to us, lad, and I'll give you my blessing to marry one of my daughters.... You needn't look so shocked, Albert. I'd like to keep the farm in the family."
"I—I've never thought of your daughters in that way, sir," I stammer. "I think of them as sisters."
"You may change your mind after living in a soldiers' camp for months on end. Have you money for a Belvidere boarding-house bed this night?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Cleary slaps me on the back. "This war will be over soon—you can rely on it. In time we'll blockade the rivers and ports, and the Rebs will run out of everything. They'll have to give up secession then. We'll welcome them back as brothers, and we'll all have to try to forgive and forget.
"When the oats are in, I'll go into town and pay your bounty in full. You're worth sixty dollars to this family, free and clear."
"Thank you." My voice chokes. "Goodbye." I step away from the team.
"Cheese, forward. Team, haw!"
Cheese first, then Crackers. Their massive bodies step forward, then turn left on a dime. It's as though Mr. Cleary is nothing but a cornhusk doll and his iron McCormick plow no more than a soup plate. These draft Shires don't even know how strong they are.
Tears sting my eyes. I turn away before Mr. Cleary can see me.
I can never, never come back to this farm! Not if Mr. Cleary wants to marry me off to Catherine, or Rose, or Fiona. I can never see these good, kind people again. I'm leaving yet another family behind. In horror, I wonder if the Cleary girls have ever looked at me or thought of me as more than a brother.
Surely not.
And yet I'm free, freer than Catherine, or Rose, or Fiona will ever be. Or the O'Banion sisters, either, come to think of it. Girls don't even know what freedom is. I can't imagine going back to a life of wet, muddy skirts pulling me down at every step and my labor worth a fraction of a man's.
Goodbye, the Clearys. I wipe my eyes and head to the farmhouse.
My clothes are my freedom, but I've long since learned that I can't cry. Not just because boys don't cry, but because my constant companion won't give me the air I need for the sobs. Jennie would surely be sobbing by now.
Mrs. Windermere's all-in-ones, corselets, and iron-ribbed crinolines are prison bars, sure enough, but keeping a girl's spirit inside a man's clothes is prison bars of a sort as well.
The next morning Charlie Ives and I join the Illinois 95th, Company G, Infantry. If we're to believe our own Lieutenant Colonel Humphrey, it's the best company in the entire Grand Army of the Republic.
We rush out of the boarding house to be on time for our enlistment. On my very first day of army life, I learn its first rule: "Hurry up and wait." At seven o'clock there are three hundred of us standing in line in front of the courthouse as the sun breaks over Belvidere Commons. Boone County has given President Lincoln all the men he wanted. The families here will pay our bounties by subscriptions, five or ten dollars a month to a soldiers' fund in the First Bank of Chicago. We'll each get thirteen dollars a month from the federal government whether we're fighting or not; we soldiers can draw on the bounty or have it waiting for us when we return.
I decide to keep my bounty for when I'm mustered out.
Everyone has already said his goodbyes. There are no families or sweethearts among us.
We stand in line for hours. The August sun gets hotter by the minute.
I hadn't thought about standing in front of army doctors for a physical. As I get closer to the recruitment tent, I watch in horror as doctors ask men at random to take off their shirts. They tap chests and listen to heartbeats. With no females around, the inductees strip in the open air to change into Union blue.
"Hurry it along!" Captain Bush yells. "We've got a train to catch."
I've been listening to the men state their name, age, hair and eye color, and so on. If I give my particulars quickly, maybe the doctor will let me alone.
A doctor turns to me. "Your name?" he barks.
I rattle off quickly, "Albert Cashier. Age: eighteen. Height: five feet three. Hair: auburn. Eyes: blue. Marital status: single. Occupation: farmer. Nativity: New Yorrrk." I make sure he hears that er. I'm not sure they'd take someone from Ireland, and I've heard from Charlie that eighteen is the age President Lincoln is looking for. He's going to claim to be eighteen as well. In truth, I have no idea how old I am.
The doctor snorts. "You don't look eighteen and you don't sound like you're from New York. They all say Noo Yawk."
I think quickly. "I've lived in Illinois for a long time, sir. Sirrr."
The doctor snorts again. "That's a good answer, Private Cashier. Pick out a uniform. Next!" The luck of the Irish! Just like that, I'm in the Grand Army of the Republic.
The smallest uniform I can find fits easily over my shirt and constant companion. The bright blue coat hangs almost to my knees. I make sure my coat is buttoned and my thighs are covered before I pull the gunmetal gray trousers on. I have to roll up the cuffs. Even the smallest of the caps falls to my ears.
The boots are finest leather, but even the smallest pair I can find are too big. I decide to use my farmer's boots until they wear out. I'll need a second pair of boots for winter. I can wear two pairs of socks with the army boots.
We each get a haversack with full kit: a plate, a canteen already full of water, and tableware all made of tin; a bedroll; two towels; two washcloths; regulation soap; two pairs of underdrawers, two pairs of woolen socks.
Our bedrolls have a rubberized backing, for sleeping in the wet and cold. We each have a mucket—a combination mug and small bucket. A mucket has a handle on the side and another on the lid.
Everything has USA stamped on it, even the soap.
Charlie calls out, "Aren't we going to shoot at the Rebs?"
"Weapons and ammunition are waiting for us at Camp Fuller," Sergeant Onley Andrus replies. "Company G, this car! All aboard."
Charlie and I board a train heading south for De Kalb County, in central Illinois. It's hurry up and wait again. We don't budge from Belvidere station for hours. Soon everyone is complaining about the hot wool uniforms. But no one seems to notice that, with my extra layer of clothes, I'm sweating buckets.
As the engine whistles, families and sweethearts seem to come out of nowhere to wave goodbye. The men rush to the windows, straining to see loved ones. Of course, no one has come to town to say goodbye to me.
The train finally leaves the station amid a flurry of steam, pocket squares, and tears. The First Methodist of Belvidere's choir sings "The Battle Hymn of the Republic": "His truth is marching on."
Mess sergeants hand around paper sacks of hardtack and salted beef for an early dinner. I've heard about this hardtack. It's like sliced bread that has been left out to dry for days and days. We wash it down with water.
"We're leaving Boone County in a few minutes," someone announces, and I look out the window at the Cleary farm, as flat on the horizon as sheets of green pond water. The sturdy barn and silo are the size of Christmas toys. I look closer. There're all five Clearys! They're standing next to the tree line where their farm ends. Each is waving a red or white or blue cloth as our troop train chugs past.
We drill constantly. We learn to snap open the stock of a Sharps & Hankins carbine repeating rifle to load and reload it. We learn to thrust our bayonets into hay bales. We learn to stay in formation during a charge. We learn how to pack our haversacks. We march for miles and miles to build up our strength. Then we drill some more.
These farm boys have been around guns since they could walk, and they sail through shooting practice on the first day. I have to train and train. I've learned to fold my extra towel against my right shoulder, for the rifle's recoil feels like it could break my collarbone.
"Private Cashier!" Sergeant Onley Andrus barks. He pulls my towel off my shoulder and throws it in the mud. "You planning to take a bath during battle, Private?"
"No, sir."
Sergeant Andrus puts his face inches from mine and gives me a hard stare. I will never, never use a towel as a cushion again, no matter how sore my shoulder is!
"Pick up that towel and wash it, Private. Then ten laps around camp."
"Yes, sir."
My entrenching tool has become a good friend. Lots of men go into the woods to answer calls of nature. I'm not the only one.
In October my monthly visitations stop.
Is there something wrong with me? Am I sick? There is no one on the face of the earth I can talk to about it, either. Then I remember Mr. Cleary once telling me that mares training for the racetrack become "racy." That is, they gain so much muscle and lose so much fat that they lose their monthly visitations, too.
Farm work turned my body to hard muscle. Constant drilling has made my body harder still. I've become racy—thank God for that.
Every six weeks I stand in line to get my regulation haircut, just as everyone else does. The 95th is mostly young fellows; some of us aren't shaving yet.
Having been in men's company for years, I couldn't blush demurely in response to these soldiers' raw jokes and ribald stories if my life depended on it. Except for my trips to the woods, and my constant companion, there are entire days when, I'm surprised to say, I forget I'm female.
Then there are days when I can't forget. Like the hot Indian summer day when, after a long hike, the 95th throw off their clothes and jump into the creek.
"C'mon in, Albert!" Charlie yells. "The water's fine."
"I ... I'm wanted for more target practice." I retreat quickly. Two hundred ninety-nine naked men!
Everyone comes to supper cool, refreshed, and smelling considerably better. Everyone but me. The South is famous for its heat, but no matter how hot it gets, I'll never be able to swim with the fellows.
Charlie and I get to be good friends with Robert Horan, who becomes our tent mate. Robbie studied English Literature and scrivenering at Oberlin College in Ohio. He now works as the officers' aide de camp and secretary, writing dispatches in a clear hand. He boasts about fixing the officers' grammar, too.
The autumn rains turn Camp Fuller to muck. Our socks don't dry. At the first freeze the ground hardens into ankle-twisting ruts as we drill and drill. Half our company is off their feet. The other half is limping.
On November 4, Illinois Adjutant General Fuller comes to visit his camp.
Colonel Church orders us to fall into ranks, stand in formation, and wait. Something is up—something big. The camp rumors have been blowing hard on the wind all week. Some say we're to be sent east to Maryland, to try to push General Lee's Army of Northern Virginia into southern Virginia. Others claim we're to be sent south to Corinth, Mississippi, to stop General Van Dorn, who's been trying to retake the town since summer. I've also heard we're to be sent west to the New Mexico territory, to join Union troops from California, who have been fighting the Rebs and their allies, the Navaho. Or we may go north and out of the war altogether, to protect Norwegian settlers in Hutchinson, Minnesota, from the Sioux.
If I had my druthers, I'd fight the Rebs: A colleen from Belfast has no quarrel with the Navaho or the Sioux.
General Fuller sits astride a magnificent gray Percheron. I doubt General Lee's mount, Traveler, is so stalwart. The general tells us we're to ship down the Illinois River to the Mississippi River, then south to Columbus, Kentucky. We're to serve under another Illinoisan, Major General Ulysses Simpson Grant, Department and Army of the Tennessee River.
As we break camp, Robbie tells us what Sergeant Andrus thinks of Major General Grant. "He says Grant doesn't care how many men die under him as long as the battle is won. At Shiloh he left wounded men by the thousands in the field rather than surrender. For three days those men died, without water or food, without doctors, bandages, or medicine. Can you imagine hearing them call for water, more and more feeble by the hour? Still Grant wouldn't surrender and allow the hospital stretchers out onto the field."
I say, "The Rebs gave up first. We won at Shiloh."
"But at what price, Albert?"
Charlie says, "We'll earn that sixty-dollar bounty."
"Aye, and thirteen dollars a month besides." What have I gotten myself into?
"That's not all," Robbie says. "We're going to Vicksburg on the Mississippi River. Major General Grant's reputation took a beating at Shiloh. He's determined to take that town."