On the March in the Civil War
By Carlton McCarthy in 1861
The order arrives, curt and compelling: "Move!" Instantly, a ripple of anticipation and anxiety courses through the ranks. "Where?" "When?" "What for?" The questions, whispered and shouted, reflect the soldier’s inherent need to understand the purpose behind the impending exertion. More often than not, however, such knowledge remains elusive. The march commences shrouded in uncertainty, its destination a mystery known only to a select few. Despite this, seasoned soldiers develop a knack for piecing together fragmented information, gleaning hints and rumors along the way, transforming vague directives into educated guesses about their ultimate objective. The immediate imperative, however, remains clear: preparation.
The orderly sergeant’s voice cuts through the air, a stentorian command that brooks no delay: "Fall in!" Time becomes a precious commodity, a rapidly dwindling resource. Before a soldier can properly roll his blanket, locate his essential cooking implements, secure his haversack, and shoulder his ax, the roll-call will be completed, and the tardy will find themselves assigned to unpleasant extra duties. This threat of punishment for delay invariably fuels a frenzied burst of activity throughout the camp.
The soldiers are faced with a series of rapid-fire decisions, forced to prioritize necessities amidst a collection of hard-won conveniences. Each man must confront the agonizing choice of what to keep and what to abandon. A soldier eyes his skillet, its blackened surface a testament to countless meals cooked over open fires. He lifts it, testing its weight, mentally calculating the toll it will exact after miles of relentless marching. Regretfully, with a furtive glance betraying a hint of shame, he sets it down, surrendering to the inevitable logic of the march. Another, perhaps overzealous in his pursuit of comfort, must now select which of his multiple blankets to sacrifice. The old water bucket, sturdy and reliable, appears cumbersome, but a determined soldier, possessed of both strength and foresight, claims it with affection, recognizing its invaluable service in the days to come.
This is a time of farewells, both large and small. Farewell to the relative luxury of the bread tray, a symbol of domesticity now rendered impractical. Farewell to the carefully constructed bed of clean straw nestled between two logs, a sanctuary of rest soon to be exchanged for the unforgiving ground. Farewell to the meticulously gathered piles of firewood, the product of arduous labor. Farewell to the fleeting friendships forged with local girls. Farewell to the familiar solace of the nearby spring, the comforting warmth of the shared fire, and the camaraderie of fellow soldiers remaining behind. A general farewell is extended to the surrounding landscape, to the very hills and valleys that have become temporary homes.
It is a paradox of the march that soldiers often discard the very items they hold most dear. Blankets, overcoats, shoes, even essential provisions like bread and meat, are sacrificed to the relentless demands of mobility. What one man deems too burdensome, another often seizes upon as a treasure, quickly appropriating the discarded item. In this way, despite the apparent waste, little is truly lost within the marching column.
The initial hour of the on the march in the Civil War is usually marked by a semblance of order. The men maintain their positions within the ranks, advancing in disciplined columns. However, this rigid formation soon begins to dissolve under the pressures of fatigue and boredom. A lively whistle breaks the silence, followed by the spontaneous eruption of song. Laughter echoes through the ranks as route step, a more relaxed gait, replaces the strictures of formal marching. The ensuing atmosphere of jovial singing, laughter, talking, and joking defies description, a testament to the resilience of the human spirit in the face of adversity.
Indeed, the troops on the march in the Civil War are often so cheerful and outwardly buoyant that an observer might struggle to comprehend the hardships they endure. In the summer months, dust and heat combine to inflict a brutal toll. The soldiers’ nostrils, coated with layers of dust, become parched and feverish. The grit grinds between their teeth, and their eyes struggle to penetrate the haze. Dust infiltrates every crevice, invading eyes, mouth, ears, and hair. Shoes become filled with sand, and clothing offers little protection against the pervasive grime. The heat, at times, becomes oppressive, yet the men gradually acclimatize, developing a remarkable capacity for endurance. Their heavy woolen uniforms, designed for colder climates, prove to be a constant source of discomfort. Lighter clothing made of tough linen or cotton would offer significant relief, highlighting the often-overlooked drawbacks of woolen attire for soldiers, even in winter.
When the dust and heat abate, a different set of adversaries emerge to torment the marching troops. Mud, cold, rain, snow, hail, and wind take their turn in afflicting the weary soldiers. Rain, in particular, is regarded as the most demoralizing condition a soldier can face, surpassing even the most severe cold in its capacity to inflict misery. Wet clothes, wet shoes, and wet blankets permeate the column. Meat and bread become soggy and unappetizing. Feet become waterlogged, and the ground transforms into a quagmire. Wet wood refuses to burn, depriving the soldiers of warmth and comfort. Arms and ammunition become damp and unreliable. The ground offers no respite for sleep, and swollen creeks present treacherous obstacles to ford. Muddy springs become the only source of water, and a thousand other discomforts accompany the relentless rain.
There is no solace to be found on a rainy day or night, save for the refuge offered by a blanket and oilcloth. Cold winds, driving the rain into the faces of the men, amplify the sense of misery. Mud often reaches depths that submerge horses and mules, requiring soldiers to assist one another in extricating themselves from the treacherous holes that punctuate the road.
Occasionally, when the marching column stretches for a mile or more, a wave of cheering erupts from the front ranks, a sound that swells in intensity as it moves down the line. This spontaneous outburst often signals the passage of a beloved general officer, accompanied by his staff. At other times, the same cheering and enthusiasm may greet the appearance of an obscure or unpopular officer, who recognizes the gesture as a mocking salute and responds with a sheepish expression. However, no individual, regardless of rank, can inspire a more prolonged or heartfelt cheer than a hare that leaps across the road, prompting the column to momentarily abandon its discipline in a chaotic chase. It is often remarked, as the rolling shout echoes through the ranks: "There goes old General Lee, or a Molly Cotton Tail!" The on the march in the Civil War could also be fun.
The most uplifting moments on the march in the Civil War occur when the column enters a welcoming village, where the inhabitants express genuine affection for the troops. Matrons and maids compete to demonstrate their devotion to the defenders of their cause. Remembering absent soldiers, brothers, or husbands, they smile through their tears and offer heartfelt welcomes to the road-weary troops. Their meager supplies are generously shared, and words of encouragement are spoken as the column passes through.
Ultimately, the experience on the march in the Civil War is one of mixed emotions, a blend of pleasure and pain. Chosen friends walk together, sharing conversations and camaraderie. The passing landscape provides a constantly shifting panorama, offering visual stimulation for the weary soldier’s eyes. The occasional turnip patch or onion field provides an opportunity for illicit refreshment. And, perhaps most importantly, the thought of reaching camp, of finding rest and respite, sustains the soldiers throughout their journey. The on the march in the Civil War was a common and regular thing that they did.
By Carlton McCarthy, 1861. Compiled and edited by Kathy Alexander/Legends of America, updated May 2023.
Notes and Author: This tale was written by a soldier named Carlton McCarthy and was included as a chapter in Albert Bushnell Hart’s book, The Romance of the Civil War, published in 1896 and now in the public domain.
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