Irish Brigade, Army of the Potomac, Virginia, 1862
Lavelle looked every bit the part. Every bit the part of the beau idéal of a soldier in his Union-blue uniform. The breeches came up a bit short on the ankle, for his full height of six feet and one inch. But he was pleased how the jacket stretched comfortably over his broad-shouldered frame.
The kepi – the French military cap with the horizontal peak, which would keep the sun from his sharpshooter’s eyes – sat square on Lavelle’s head, accentuating the raw-boned structure of his face. The eyes themselves gave nothing away. Would fix on a thing, take it all in … work it all out … and then move on. From under his fighting cap, a sheaf of wheaten-coloured hair swept back over a firm but not unkind forehead.
He checked his kit issue, calling aloud each item in turn.
‘2 flannel overshirts … present and correct!
2 woollen undershirts … present and correct!
1 pair white cotton drawers … present … not correct!
One pair?’ he queried to himself and laughed.
‘One pair of white cotton drawers absent without leave!
2 pairs cotton socks … present!
2 pairs woollen socks … present!
2 coloured handkerchiefs … present!
2 pairs stout shoes … present!
2 towels … present!
1 blanket …’ He paused, examining the article.
‘1 blanket … with hole in middle, present!
1 blanket for cover … present!
1 broad brown hat … present!
1 lb. Castile soap … present!
2 lb. bar rough soap … present!’ It is either going to be a short war, he thought, or else a dirty one!
‘1 belt knife … present!
Thimble … present!
Housewife … present … and ready for duty.’
He laughed again, checking off the two large needles, spool of stout linen thread, beeswax, buttons and a paper of pins, all in a buckskin bag, which constituted the ‘Housewife’, as it was known.
‘Housewife … present … in all but human form!’ he said, still laughing at the idea of it.
‘1 overcoat … present!
1 painted canvas cloth, 7 feet 4 inches long by 5 feet wide … present!’
He clicked to attention and saluted the kit laid out before him.
‘All present and correct, sir, Sergeant Lavelle! Apart from a missing pair of drawers.’
A man would need a second pair, with all that marching to be done. He’d see the quartermaster about that. Otherwise it was all there and the knapsack in which to carry it.
He checked his gun and his sharpshooter’s spectacles. Amber-coloured to increase contrast when spotting a target, the periphery frosted to create a pin-hole effect in the centre for greater accuracy. Not that he always needed to use them when shooting the enemy.
He picked up his rifle, balanced it in his hand.
Three months now he’d been with the Irish Brigade in the Army of the Potomac, named after the river that flowed through Washington – the Northern capital.
Lavelle was proud to be with the Irish Brigade. The Brigade’s three regiments – the 63rd, 69th and 88th New York Volunteers – had been mainly formed from that city’s teeming refugees who had fled Ireland’s Great Famine of the 1840s. Lavelle smiled to himself. These same Irish now fighting for Lincoln had ensured Lincoln’s loss of New York City in the 1860 elections. No more than Lavelle himself the Irish did not want in power an abolitionist Republican Party who would bring the slaves north to take their lowly-paid jobs. When war broke out however, the Irish answered the call of their powerful countrymen in America including the charismatic Democrat, Thomas Francis Meagher, to ‘fight for freedom’. A call they were well used to answering in their own country. Their view was that the lowly Irish would ‘up’ themselves in the eyes of their adopted country – if they fought, and more especially died, for it.
In spring 1862, the non-Irish 29th Massachusetts Regiment had been joined with the Irish Brigade to bring it to the required strength of four regiments.
Three bloody months.
Lavelle felt good today.
Ready for Rebs.