Not long ago I was searching files of New York papers for 1864, when my eye caught the headline, “Thanksgiving Dinner for the Army.” I had shared that feast. The words brought me a vision of a cavalry brigade in winter quarters before Petersburg; of the three-miles-distant and dim steeples of the besieged city; of rows and rows of canvas-covered huts sheltering the infantry corps that stretched interminably away toward the Army of the James. I fancied I could hear again great guns of “Fort Hell” infrequently punctuating the far-away picket-firing.
Rain, rain, and rain! How it fell on red Virginia that November of ’64! How it wore away alertness! The infantry-men—whom [Page 199] we used to call “doughboys,” for there was always a pretended feud between the riders and the trudgers—often seemed going to sleep in the night in their rain-filled holes far beyond the breastworks, each with its little mound of earth thrown up toward the beleaguered town. Their night-firing would slacken almost to cessation for many minutes together. But after the b-o-o-oom of a great gun it became brisker usually; often so much so as to suggest that some of Lee’s ragged brigades, their march silenced by the rain, had pierced our fore-front again, and were “gobbling up” our boys on picket, and flinging up new rifle-pits on the acres reclaimed for a night and a day for the tottering Confederacy.
Sometimes the crack-a-rac-a-rack would die down to a slow fire of dropping shots, and the forts seemed sleeping; and patter, patter, patter on the veteran canvas we heard the rain, rain, rain, not unlike the roll of steady musketry very far away. [Page 200]
I think I sit again beside Charley Wilson, my sick “buddy,” and hear his uneven breathing through all the stamping of the rows of wet horses on their corduroy floor roofed with leaky pine brush.
That squ-ush, squ-ush is the sound of the stable-guard’s boots as he paces slowly through the mud, to and fro, with the rain rattling on his glazed poncho and streaming corded hat. Sometimes he stops to listen to a frantic brawling of the wagon-train mules, sometimes to the reviving picket-firing. It crackles up to animation for causes that we can but guess; then dies down, never to silence, but warns, warns, as the distant glow of the sky above a volcano warns of the huge waiting forces that give it forth.
I think I hear Barney Donahoe pulling our latch-string that November night when we first heard of the great Thanksgiving dinner that was being collected in New York for the army. [Page 201]
“Byes, did yez hear phwat Sergeant Cunningham was tellin’ av the Thanksgivin’ turkeys that’s comin’?”
“Come in out of the rain, Barney,” says Charley, feebly.
“Faith, I wish I dar’, but it’s meself is on shtable-guard. Bedad, it’s a rale fire ye’ve got. Divil a better had ould Jimmy himself (our colonel). Ye’ve heard tell of the turkeys, then, and the pois?”
“Yes. Bully for the folks at home!” says Charley. “The notion of turkey next Thursday has done me good already. I was thinking I’d go to hospital to-morrow, but now I guess I won’t.”
“Hoshpital! Kape clear av the hoshpital, Char-les, dear. Sure, they’d cut a man’s leg off behind the ears av him for to cure him av indigestion.”
“Is it going to rain all night, Barney?”
“It is, bad ’cess to it; and to-morrow and the day afther, I’m thinkin’. The blackness [Page 202] av night is outside; be jabers! you could cut it like turf with a shpade! If it wasn’t for the ould fort flamin’ out wanst in a whoile, I’d be thinkin’ I’d never an oi in my head, barrin’ the fires in the tints far an’ near gives a bit of dimness to the dark. Phwat time is it?”
“Quarter to twelve, Barney.”
“Troth, then, the relief will soon coming. I must be thramping the mud av Virginia to save the Union. Good-night, byes. I come to give yez the good word. Kape your heart light an’ aisy, Char-les, dear. D’ye moind the turkeys and the pois? Faith, it’s meself that had the taste for thim dainties!”
“I don’t believe I’ll be able to eat a mite of the Thanksgiving,” says Charley, as we hear Barney squ-ush away; “but just to see the brown on a real old brown home turkey will do me a heap of good.”
“You’ll be all right by Thursday, Charley, I guess; won’t you? It’s only Sunday night now.” [Page 203]
Of course I cannot remember the very words of that talk in the night, so many years ago. But the coming of Barney I recollect well, and the general drift of what was said.
Charley turned on his bed of hay-covered poles, and I put my hand under his gray blanket to feel if his legs were well covered by the long overcoat he lay in. Then I tucked the blanket well in about his feet and shoulders, pulled his poncho again to its full length over him, and sat on a cracker-box looking at our fire for a long time, while the rain spattered through the canvas in spray.
My “buddy” Charley, the most popular boy of Company I, was of my own age,—seventeen,—though the rolls gave us a year more each, by way of compliance with the law of enlistment. From a Pennsylvania farm in the hills he came forth to the field early in that black fall of ’64, strong, tall, and merry, fit to ride for the nation’s life,—a mighty wielder of an axe, “bold, cautious, true, and my loving comrade.” [Page 204]
We were “the kids” to Company I. To “buddy” with Charley I gave up my share of the hut I had helped to build as old Bader’s “pard.” Then the “kids” set about the construction of a new residence, which stood farther from the parade ground than any hut in the row except the big cabin of “old Brownie,” the “greasy cook,” who called us to “bean—oh!” with so resonant a shout, and majestically served out our rations of pork, “salt horse,” coffee long-boiled and sickeningly sweet, hardtack, and the daily loaf of a singularly despondent-looking bread.
My “buddy” and I slept on opposite sides of our winter residence. The bedsteads were made of poles laid lengthwise and lifted about two feet from the ground. These were covered thinly with hay from the bales that were regularly delivered for horse-fodder. There was a space of about two feet between our bedsteads, and under them we kept our saddles and saddle-cloths. [Page 205]
Our floor was of earth, with a few flour-barrel staves and cracker-box sides laid down for rugs. We had each an easy-chair in the form of a cracker-box, besides a stout soapbox for guests. Our carbines and sabres hung crossed on pegs over the mantel-piece, above our Bibles and the precious daguerreotypes of the dear folks at home. When we happened to have enough wood for a bright fire, we felt much snugger than you might suppose.
Before ever that dark November began, Charley had been suffering from one of those wasting diseases that so often clung to and carried off the strongest men of both armies. Sharing the soldiers’ inveterate prejudice against hospitals attended by young doctors, who, the men believed, were addicted to much surgery for the sake of practice, my poor “buddy” strove to do his regular duties. He paraded with the sick before the regimental doctor as seldom as possible. He was favored by the sergeants and helped in every way by the men, and so [Page 206] continued to stay with the company at that wet season when drill and parades were impracticable.
The idea of a Thanksgiving dinner for half a million men by sea and land fascinated Charley’s imagination, and cheered him mightily. But I could not see that his strength increased, as he often alleged.
“Ned, you bet I’ll be on hand when them turkeys are served out,” he would say. “You won’t need to carry my Thanksgiving dinner up from Brownie’s. Say, ain’t it bully for the folks at home to be giving us a Thanksgiving like this? Turkeys, sausages, mince-pies! They say there’s going to be apples and celery for all hands!”
“S’pose you’ll be able to eat, Charley?”
“Able! Of course I’ll be able! I’ll be just as spry as you be on Thanksgiving. See if I don’t carry my own turkey all right. Yes, by gum, if it weighs twenty pounds!”
“There won’t be a turkey apiece.” [Page 207]
“No, eh? Well, that’s what I figure on. Half a turkey, anyhow. Got to be; besides chickens, hams, sausages, and all that kind of fixin’s. You heard what Bill Sylvester’s girl wrote from Philamadink-a-daisy-oh? No, eh? Well, he come in a-purpose to read me the letter. Says there’s going to be three or four hundred thousand turkeys, besides them fixin’s! Sherman’s boys can’t get any; they’re marched too far away, out of reach. The Shenandoah boys’ll get some, and Butler’s crowd, and us chaps, and the blockading squadrons. Bill’s girl says so. We’ll get the whole lot between us. Four hundred thousand turkeys! Of course there’ll be a turkey apiece; there’s got to be, if there’s any sense in arithmetic. Oh, I’ll be choosin’ between breast-meat and hind-legs on Thanksgiving,—you bet your sweet life on that!”
This expectation that there would be a turkey a-piece was not shared by Company I; but no one denied it in Charley’s hearing. The boy held it as sick people often do fantastic notions, [Page 208] and all fell into the humor of strengthening the reasoning on which he went.
It was clear that no appetite for turkey moved my poor “buddy,” but that his brain was busy with the “whole-turkey-a-piece” idea as one significant of the immense liberality of the folks at home, and their absorbing interest in the army.
“Where’s there any nation that ever was that would get to work and fix up four hundred thousand turkeys for the boys?” he often remarked, with ecstatic patriotism.
I have often wondered why “Bill Sylvester’s girl” gave that flourishing account of the preparations for our Thanksgiving dinner. It was only on searching the newspaper files recently that I surmised her sources of information. Newspapers seldom reached our regiment until they were several weeks old, and then they were not much read, at least by me. Now I know how enthusiastic the papers of November, ’64, were on the great feast for the army. [Page 209]
For instance, on the morning of that Thanksgiving day, the 24th of November, the New York Tribune said editorially:—
“Forty thousand turkeys, eighty thousand turkeys, one hundred and sixty thousand turkeys, nobody knows how many turkeys have been sent to our soldiers. Such masses of breast-meat and such mountains of stuffing; drumsticks enough to fit out three or four Grand Armies, a perfect promontory of pope’s noses, a mighty aggregate of wings. The gifts of their lordships to the supper which Grangousier spread to welcome Gargantua were nothing to those which our good people at home send to their friends in the field; and no doubt every soldier, if his dinner does not set him thinking too intently of that home, will prove himself a valiant trencherman.”
the vast encampment before Petersburg a biting wind
blew that Thanksgiving day. It came through every
cranny of our hut; it bellied the canvas on one side
and tightened it on the other; it pressed flat down
the smoke from a hundred thousand mud chimneys, and
swept away so quickly the little coals which fell [Page
210] on the canvas that they had not time to
When I went out towards noon,
for perhaps the twentieth time that day, to learn whether
our commissary wagons had returned from City Point with
the turkeys, the muddy parade ground was dotted with
groups of shivering men, all looking anxiously for the
feast’s arrival. Officers frequently came
out, to exchange a few cheery words with their men,
from the tall, close hedge of withering pines stuck
on end that enclosed the officers’ quarters on
the opposite side of the parade ground.
No turkeys at twelve o’clock!
None at one! Two, three, four, five o’clock
passed by, and still nothing had been heard of our absent
wagons. Charley was too weak to get out that day,
but he cheerfully scouted the idea that a turkey for
each man would not arrive sooner or later.
The rest of us dined and supped
on “commissary.” It was not good commissary
either, [Page 211] for Brownie, the
“greasy cook,” had gone on leave to visit
a “doughboy” cousin of the Sixth Corps.
“You’ll have turkey
for dinner, boys,” he had said, on serving out
breakfast. “If you’re wanting coffee,
Tom can make it.” Thus we had to dine and
sup on the amateur productions of the cook’s mate.
A multitude of woful rumors
concerning the absent turkeys flew round that evening.
The “Johnnies,” we heard, had raided round
the army, and captured the fowls! Butler’s
colored troops had got all the turkeys, and had been
feeding on fowl for two days! The officers had
“gobbled” the whole consignment for their
own use! The whole story of the Thanksgiving dinner
was a newspaper hoax! Nothing was too incredible
for men so bitterly disappointed.
Brownie returned before “lights
out” sounded, and reported facetiously that the
“doughboys” he had visited were feeding
full of turkey and [Page 212] all manner
of fixings. There were so many wagons waiting
at City Point that the roads round there were blocked
for miles. We could not fail to get our turkeys
to-morrow. With this expectation we went, pretty
happy, to bed.
“There’ll be a turkey
apiece, you’ll see, Ned,” said Charley,
in a confident, weak voice, as I turned in. “We’ll
all have a bully Thanksgiving to-morrow.”
The morrow broke as bleak as
the preceding day, and without a sign of turkey for
our brigade. But about twelve o’clock a
great shouting came from the parade ground.
“The turkeys have come!”
cried Charley, trying to rise. “Never mind
picking out a big one for me; any one will do.
I don’t believe I can eat a bite, but I want to
see it. My! ain’t it kind of the folks
I ran out and found his surmise
as to the return of the wagons correct. They were
filing into the enclosure around the quartermaster’s
[Page 213] tent. Nothing but
an order that the men should keep to company quarters
prevented the whole regiment helping to unload the delicacies
of the season.
Soon foraging parties went from
each company to the quartermaster’s enclosure.
Company I sent six men. They returned, grinning,
in about half an hour, with one box on one man’s
It was carried to Sergeant Cunningham’s
cabin, the nearest to the parade ground, the most distant
from that of “the kids,” in which Charley
lay waiting. We crowded round the hut with some
sinking of enthusiasm. There was no cover on the
box except a bit of cotton in which some of the consignment
had probably been wrapped. Brownie whisked this
off, and those nearest Cunningham’s door saw disclosed—two
small turkeys, a chicken, four rather disorganized pies,
two handsome bologna sausages, and six very red apples.
We were nearly seventy men.
The comical [Page 214] side of the
case struck the boys instantly. Their disappointment
was so extreme as to be absurd. There might be
two ounces of feast to each, if the whole were equally
All hands laughed; not a man
swore. The idea of an equal distribution seemed
to have no place in that company. One proposed
that all should toss up for the lot. Another suggested
drawing lots; a third that we should set the Thanksgiving
dinner at one end of the parade ground and run a race
for it, “grab who can.”
At this Barney Donahoe spoke
“Begorra, yez can race
for wan turkey av yez loike. But the other wan
is goin’ to Char-les Wilson!”
There was not a dissenting voice.
Charley was altogether the most popular member of Company
I, and every man knew how he had clung to the turkey
“Never let on a word,”
said Sergeant Cunningham. “He’ll think
there’s a turkey for every man!” [Page
The biggest bird, the least
demoralized pie, a bologna sausage, and the whole six
apples were placed in the cloth that had covered the
box. I was told to carry the display to my poor
As I marched down the row of
tents a tremendous yelling arose from the crowd round
Cunningham’s tent. I turned to look behind.
Some man with a riotous impulse had seized the box and
flung its contents in the air over the thickest of the
crowd. Next moment the turkey was seized by half
a dozen hands. As many more helped to tear it
to pieces. Barney Donahoe ran past me with a leg,
and two laughing men after him. Those who secured
larger portions took a bite as quickly as possible,
and yielded the rest to clutching hands. The bologna
sausage was shared in like fashion, but I never heard
of any one who got a taste of the pies.
“Here’s your turkey,
Charley,” said I, entering with my burden. [Page
“I’ve got my turkey
all right enough at Cunningham’s tent.”
“Didn’t I tell you
there’d be a turkey a-piece?” he cried gleefully,
as I unrolled the lot. “And sausages, apples,
a whole pie—oh, say, ain’t they
bully folks up home!”
“They are,” said
I. “I believe we’d have had a bigger
Thanksgiving yet if it wasn’t such a trouble getting
“You’d better believe
it! They’d do anything in the world for
the army,” he said, lying back.
“Can’t you eat a
“No; I’m not a mite
hungry. But I’ll look at it. It won’t
spoil before to-morrow. Then you can share it
all out among the boys.”
Looking at the turkey, the sick
lad fell asleep. Barney Donahoe softly opened
our door, stooped his head under the lintel, and gazed
a few moments at the quiet face turned to the Thanksgiving
turkey. Man after man [Page 217]
followed to gaze on the company’s favorite, and
on the fowl which, they knew, tangibly symbolized to
him the immense love of the nation for the flower of
its manhood in the field. Indeed, the people had
forwarded an enormous Thanksgiving feast; but it was
impossible to distribute it evenly, and we were one
of the regiments that came short.
Grotesque, that scene was?
Group after group of hungry, dirty soldiers, gazing
solemnly, lovingly, at a lone brown turkey and a pallid
sleeping boy! Yes, very grotesque. But Charley
had his Thanksgiving dinner, and the men of Company
I, perhaps, enjoyed a profounder satisfaction than if
they had feasted more materially.
I never saw Charley after that
Thanksgiving day. Before the afternoon was half
gone the doctor sent an ambulance for him, and insisted
that he should go to City Point. By Christmas
his wasted body had lain for three weeks in the red
Virginia soil. [Page 218