My Civil War Story

The following story is my first (and so far only) attempt at writing a semi-fictional American Civil War story. If anyone would like to comment on my story, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE e-mail me at the address at the bottom of the page. Also, I know that after you read this that one aspect of it may confuse you, so just tell yourself, "It is just a story, and I should really relax." :-) Enjoy!!

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On April 15, 1862, I first arrived in America. I had left Ireland with my wife and two daughters just over a month earlier. After we went through immigration, our first priority was to find lodging. Luckily, a good friend of the family, who had been living in America for three years, offered us room and board. We gladly accepted. He had been very successful, and owned a fairly large apartment in New York. It was a wonderful place to live. When we first arrived, we received a warm greeting from himself and his family. We sat down that night and discussed where I would go next.

"Where do you plan to work?" he first asked.

I told him I did not know.

He thought for a moment, then told me something that would change my life. "The army is looking for soldiers. An Irish Brigade is being raised right here in New York. They pay you a $200 bounty just for signing up."

I thought for a moment. Should I become a soldier? Surely, $200 was a very tempting offer, and my family had very little money. But was it a wise decision? The war had not gone well for the North. Even in Ireland we heard news of the American Civil War. Though a little-known general named Grant had made advances in the West, the situation in the east did not look good. The Union Army had been defeated at Bull Run, causing a serious blow to morale. Men who had volunteered for ninety days were now finishing their service and going home. Soldiers were needed. It would be a good way to show my allegiance to my new home. That settled the matter. The next morning, I enlisted as a private in the 69th New York Infantry Regiment, under the command of a Colonel Nugent.

I was sent to training camp, where my comrades, mostly Irish-born immigrants, learned how to fight. Training went by quickly, and before long we had been assigned an official position in the Army of the Potomac. Our regiment, along with the 63rd and 88th New York Regiments, the 116th Pennsylvania Regiment, and the 28th Massachusetts Regiment, were mustered into service as the 2nd Brigade, 1st Division, II Corps. We marched, a fresh brigade of 3000 men. We thought we could lick the whole reb army.

That was four months ago. I am now a corporal in the 69th. I have seen action in some of the bloodiest battles of this war; The Seven Days Battles and the Second Battle of Bull Run among them. Our brigade has lost a full third of their men. And we are on the march again. Bobby Lee is marching through Maryland, and we are on the way to stop him. We march eight hours a day, sometimes more. When we finally rest, we are fed hardtack, salt pork, and coffee. Camp life is hell. All of us are quiet, thinking of the coming battle. Our minds wander back home, to our families. Not a day has gone by that I do not miss them. I regret joining this army. This was not how I pictured serving my country. Every day brings new horrors: disease, exhaustion, homesickness, and death. I have seen people die in battle many times before, but nothing is quite like seeing your friend slowly die from disease. It is a horrible feeling.

I shook the thoughts from my mind. Laying back, I closed my eyes. I knew that I would relive the horrors of war in my dreams, and did not try to avoid it.

The next morning I was ripped from my nightmares by a loud bugle call. The men of my regiment stirred, then raised as if from the dead, preparing for another monotonous day. It was September 17th, 1862. Colonel Nugent called us together. He had something to tell us.

"Gather round lads. Today, or tomorrow, we will be going in to battle. Just beyond that rise–" he pointed at a ridge just to the north, "Bobby Lee is waitin' for us. I have just received word from General Meagher that we are to move out. Gather your things, and get something to eat. Dismissed."

So we were going into battle again. General Meagher, our brigade commander, must enjoy playing with our lives. Of course, it was not he who ordered us to move. Oh well, I thought, it was better not to worry about it. I gathered my things, ingested some less-than-edible hardtack, and lined up with my comrades. In front and behind us was a long line of blue soldiers. The column began to move forward. In a few short hours, I would stare death in the face once again.

The march was over shortly. Within an hour, we had been placed just one mile from Confederate lines. Around us, the sounds of battle could be heard. A placement of artillery on our left lobbed shells at masses of rebel infantry. I heard the shell whistle toward their targets, then explode, sending dirt and grass and limbs into the air. My comrades and I watched a regiment of Federal infantry cut down in a desperate attempt to break rebel lines. Men died by the hundreds. In some places the musketry fire was so thick, entire companies were wiped out where they stood, the corpses still in perfect formation. I shuddered. Why had I decided to fight? Because I need to serve my country, I told myself. Again, my thoughts drifted to my family in New York. I missed them dearly.

My thoughts were interrupted by Colonel Nugent. "Boys, line up! Combat formation!" Like machines, we moved ourselves into formation. Colonel Nugent walked out in front of our regiment, planting his sword in the ground before him. "Boys, we are to make a charge."

Instantly a buzz ran through our ranks. We had seen the results of a charge. At Fair Oaks, our brigade lost several hundred men in a single attack. All of us lost friends that day.

"Quiet down, quiet down," Nugent said. "Our objective," he continued, "is the rebel line directly facing us." He pointed with his finger. "All of you know what you must do. Hit them hard and true, and don't stop until they break lads." With those words, Nugent extricated his sword from the ground. He walked over to his mount, a reddish mare called Erin, and climbed on. He raised his sword, pointed it toward our target, and said, "Forward!"

We moved forward at an even pace. Around us, other engagements, like our own, were undoubtedly being fought. I heard the clatter of muskets, and the heavy boom of the artillery. A shell exploded nearby; I was shaken but did not let it show. The rebel lines grew closer as we moved forward. I began to discern tiny figures in the trenches in front of us: rebel soldiers. Soon, we came under the fire of aimed muskets. Balls whizzed by, most missing. As the distance between ourselves and our target closed, the accuracy of our enemies increased, however. A man next to me took a bullet in the arm. He cringed, collapsing where he stood. We were less than 100 yards from enemy lines. Colonel Nugent, still riding alongside our regiment, gave a new order.

"Double quick!" he shouted.

Our pace moved to a run, and we lowered our muskets. At 60 yards, the rebels raised themselves up, aimed their weapons, and fired. A hundred bullets cut through our ranks. I saw men die all around me. The smack of bullets on flesh filled my ears. I shuddered. I looked over at Colonel Nugent. He was slumped across his horse's neck, the noble mount still carrying him forward. Panic waved through me. Men around me obviously were feeling the same thing. We had no one to lead us! I was terrified, but fought off the urge to run. I must do this for my country, I told myself. Biting back my fear, I let out a fierce yell. Men around me snapped out of their panic-stricken state. They moved forward with me, charging forward at a full sprint. Another wave of musket fire shot through our ranks. I felt a hand smack me in the chest, and suddenly I stopped in my tracks. I fell to my knees, placing my hand against my chest. I looked down. Blood leaked through my fingers. I had been hit. Giving up, I fell forward. As I lay on the field, slowly dying, my thoughts drifted toward home–not New York, nor America, but to the green and rolling hills of my native Ireland. I inhaled my last breath, then fell silent.

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