When the war first began, both the North and the South had recruitment rules that banned boys from joining and fighting. The Union held that a recruit had to be at least eighteen, and the South held approximately that same line. In spite of all this, a tall fourteen- or fifteen-year-old could easily bluff his way past a recruiting sergeant.
By far the easiest way for a boy to slip into the army was as a musician—especially as a drummer or a bugler. These were considered nonfighting positions, so a recruiter often allowed a boy to sign on without worrying about his age. The Union army alone had need of more than 40,000 musicians, while an estimated 20,000 served for the South.
Jeff discovered that many of the lads who joined as drummers and musicians were younger even than he.
He also discovered that the South was not ready to fight a war. He and the other recruits found themselves marching in their street clothes, using wooden guns and even cornstalks for training. One lucky unit might find itself outfitted by the proud citizens of its town. However, this produced a rainbow of uniform colors and styles on both sides. One regiment called itself The Highlands and proudly marched off wearing kilts!
The South’s economic power lay in its production of cotton, not in manufacturing. When President Lincoln ordered a complete blockade of all Southern ports, problems in the South multiplied. No wonder recruitment posters made very clear that “volunteers furnish their own clothes.”
The result was a hodgepodge of colors in the Confederate army. Once, while watching a group of new recruits drilling, Lieutenant Majors remarked, “It looks like a circus parade and not a serious army.”
When uniforms finally did arrive for Jeff and his fellow drummers, the result was not completely pleasing. Jeff found that his trousers were too long by three or four inches. The shirt was coarse, too large at the neck, and too short elsewhere. The cap was an ungainly bag with a pasteboard top and a leather visor—and the overcoat made him feel like a little nubbin of corn in a large husk!
“Why, I can’t wear this!” Jeff exclaimed.
Tom laughed. “You fellows just exchange around. Better still, get Pa to take you to a tailor downtown.”
Jeff began a campaign at once, and his father agreed when he saw the poorly fitting uniform. After a trip to the tailor, Jeff came back wearing a natty uniform of which he was very proud.
But getting the uniform was only the first step. Once outfitted, the real problems would start.
Every army depends on the movements of soldiers in one way or another. When an enemy position must be taken, the last thing an officer wants of his men is that they charge without an order. Even when the enemy is not in sight, well-trained troops form units that have logic and order. In every battle soldiers must be trained to follow orders, even if they cannot see the need of them. Whether advancing or retreating, the units that do not keep their positions according to their orders are likely to be defeated.
“Now,” Tom said, “you’ve got to learn how to be a soldier.”
The sergeant of A Company, a short, muscular man from Alabama named Holmes, spoke his opinion bluntly. “You’ve got to get these movements down to where you do them without thinking. I know you boys don’t like to drill—but these drills are going to save your lives when we get into battle.”
In truth, Jeff handled the marching drills easily, as did his fellows. They were young, healthy, lean, and energetic. And Jeff was pleased to find that as far as marching was concerned, he could keep up with any of the older men.
On the first hard march, one of the large soldiers, who had been giving the boys a hard time, played out.
Jeff received a thrill to see him lying beside the road, gasping for breath, and he could not resist the urge to say, “Hey, big man, come on! We’ll never get to Washington with you lying there resting like that!”
Later, Jeff was to be sorry for that.
Curly Henson was the soldier’s name. He was a brawny fellow with red hair and a fiery temper. The day after the march, Curly stopped Jeff outside the mess hall, grabbed him by the collar, and pulled him up almost on his toes. “You had a pretty good time making fun of me on that march, didn’t you, kid?”
Jeff squirmed in his grasp but was powerless in the large man’s hands. When the soldier reached out and cuffed him across the jaw, he gasped but said nothing.
Henson shoved him away so that he fell sprawling. “Now, that’s lesson number one.” He grinned. “You’ll get a few more as time goes on.”
Tom had been made a sergeant, and he observed the incident. He came up and helped Jeff to his feet. “What did you do to Henson?”
“Oh, I guess I made fun of him for falling down on the march.”
“Well, he’s going to make life miserable for you. I guess I had better talk to him for you.”
“Don’t do that,” Jeff said quickly. “It wouldn’t be right. I’ll take care of myself.”
Tom stared at him. “If he gets too rough, come and tell me about it.”
It did get rough during the next few days. Curly Henson never missed an opportunity to humiliate the boy. He found opportunities to ridicule him in drill and to trip him as he was walking with his mess kit in his hand, so that he spilled his supper. Each time Henson laughed loudly and said, “Well, you learn how to keep your mouth shut yet, Majors?”
Finally, Jeff could stand it no more. I’ve got to get him off of me. He’ll make my life miserable if I don’t, he said to himself. And lying at night in his bunk, he thought up a plan. He knew that he was no match for the young man in a fistfight, so he determined on a rather rash action.
The next day he kept a watchful eye on Curly, and, sure enough, the big man sauntered over after breakfast and tipped his coffee cup so that it spilled down the front of Jeff’s uniform. “Hey, look how clumsy this kid is. Can’t even drink his coffee without spilling it.”
Jeff had been sitting down. He rose quickly and noticed that all the other soldiers were keeping an eye on him. They had been well aware of Curly’s persecution. With his heart beating fast, Jeff reached over and picked up two muskets with bayonets attached. He tossed one of them toward Henson, who caught it, blinking in surprise and calling out, “Hey, Jeff, stop.”
Jeff raised his musket, its bright bayonet pointed right at Henson. “I can’t beat you with fists, so let’s try it this way, Henson.”
A mutter went up from the men, and one of them said, “Don’t do it, Jeff.”
Henson looked at the bright tip of the bayonet, and Jeff saw fear in his eyes.
Jeff took a step forward. “We’ve got an even chance this way. You stick me, or I’ll stick you—so let’s go at it.” He took one more step and lifted the bayonet as if to thrust it forward.
Henson yelled, “Hey, some of you stop this kid! I don’t want to hurt him!”
Suddenly Tom was there. He said, “Go on, Henson. You’ve been pushing the boy around. Let’s see if you can take it.”
Henson blinked as he saw the face of Tom Majors, and he muttered, “Aw, Sarge, I was just having a bit of fun.” He tried to grin weakly and said, “I don’t want to.”
“You’ve had your fun, Curly,” Tom said. He was as tall as Henson and almost as heavy. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to show favoritism. But the next time you get out of line, we’ll just see how well you stand up to a bayonet.”
Henson swallowed, turned, and walked away quickly.
Tom turned to Jeff and said, “Well, Private, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble from him.”
Jeff looked around and saw the admiring looks from the other drummer boys and some of the older men as well. He said, “I hope not, Sarge.”
Later, when he was alone with his father, Jeff said, “I didn’t know what else to do, Pa. He was making life miserable for me.”
“I hate that it came to such a thing. There’s some men,” his father said harshly, “that are born bullies. Henson’s one of them, I suppose, but from what Tom said, I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble.”
That incident was the one sour note in Jeff’s training.
He spent hours practicing the drum calls along with the other boys and discovered that he had enough musical ability to learn the signals quite easily. It became a pleasure to him to rattle the drums loudly.
Once, the teacher, a grizzled sergeant, came by and said, “Majors, you’re doing fine. Got a natural flair for beating on that drum.”
“Why, thank you, Sergeant.” Jeff felt the warmth of the compliment. “I aim to do the best that I can.”
As time wore on, he became adept at long marches and at executing the commands of the officers. He won the approval of his father and even of one far more important individual.
President Jefferson Davis came to review the troops, and Jeff proudly marched by, rolling the drums along with Company A. He got a good look at the president, a tall man with a lean, drawn face. He remembered hearing that the president was not in good health and thought, He looks kind of weak. We sure don’t need a sick man for president of the Confederacy.
Later in the day, the commanders of the various units came to review their troops, and newly promoted General Thomas Jackson walked along, greeting each lieutenant and commenting on his company.
When he came to Company A, he said, “Lieutenant Majors, it’s a pleasure to see you.”
Nelson Majors returned the salute sharply. “I’m glad to see you again, General. This is a good company we have here. I hope you’ll come to be proud of it.”
Jackson was a tall man with a stoop, and again he wore a forage cap pulled down nearly over his eyes. His uniform was not new—it looked almost shabby. He glanced over the company that was drawn up to attention, and he nodded. They looked very fit. “I’m sure you’ve done a good job, Lieutenant Majors.”
At that moment, Jefferson Davis arrived with a group of the Cabinet, who had been speaking with soldiers down the line.
General Jackson said, “Mr. President, this is Lieutenant Majors, one of our fine engineers who came from Kentucky to join the regiment. And I believe this is his son. Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, Mr. President. This is my son, Tom, a sergeant in the company, and my youngest son, Jeff, who’s become a fine drummer boy.”
Jefferson Davis had a lean, cadaverous look, but his eyes lit up. “Fine! I congratulate you, sir, on your contribution to your country.” He shook hands with Nelson Majors, then with Tom, and finally turned to Jeff. “And you, young man—you’ve enlisted for a soldier. How old are you, my boy?”
“Almost fifteen,” Jeff said quickly.
Jefferson Davis’s hand was almost skeleton lean, but it was very strong as he shook Jeff’s hand. “Bless you, my boy. May the Lord watch over you and keep you safe. And both of you as well,” he said to Lieutenant Majors and Tom.
The visitors moved along, and when the company was dismissed, Jeff said, “I got a letter from Leah. She told about meeting President Lincoln.” He grinned at his father. “Now I can tell her she’s not the only one who’s ever met a president.”
* * *
The days stretched on, filled with boredom and monotony for most—marching and drilling and practicing—but to Jeff these things were exciting. He did not have time to write a letter to Leah for a while. But a week after meeting the president, he sat down and wrote,
Dear Leah,
I got your letter It was exciting your getting to meet President Lincoln, but I have news too. A few days ago, President Jefferson Davis reviewed our company, and I shook hands with him, Leah. Isn’t that something, you and I meeting the presidents of our country?
He bit the end of his pen and tried to think of something personal to say. Finally, he wrote,
This is all the exciting news, but I have to tell you I’m a little bit scared, Leah. I think everybody is. Nobody wants to admit it, but I’m wondering what I’ll do when the bullets start flying. Pa said every soldier is a little worried about that. I worry about you some too. You be sure you and your pa stay well back. I don’t think I could stand it if anything happened to you, Leah. After all, we’re best friends and always will be.
He put down the pen, folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and went to give it to his father. “Pa, could you see that this gets sent?”
His father saw the name and address, and he nodded. “I’ll be glad to, son. I’m writing to Leah’s mother to find out about Esther.”
The sound of drilling came to them, sergeants shouting commands, and from far away hoofbeats and the shouts of artillery men as they pulled cannons across the open field.
“Pa, do you think we’ll be going to fight soon?”
“I’m afraid so.” His father reached over and put his hand on Jeff’s shoulder. “When the fighting starts, you keep your head down. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you, Jeff.”
Jeff nodded and answered, “You too, Pa.”
They both knew that in a battle a bullet had no eyes—either one of them and Tom also could be killed or wounded. But they did not speak of that, and as Jeff left he was once again filled with apprehension as to how he would behave when the bullets started flying.