Chapter 10: More From Before – Punishment Detail

John Bell Hood and his Army of Tennessee had escaped from Atlanta and moved quickly into north Georgia, threatening Sherman’s supply lines from Chattanooga. After his own ineffective pursuit, General Sherman detached General George Thomas and the Army of the Cumberland to run Hood to ground.

My brother, Amos, accompanied his artillery unit in the pursuit of the Rebel army. But C Company had been assigned to a brigade in the garrison forces of the Army’s District of the Etowah and was not with the Fourteenth Ohio and the Army of the Cumberland when they moved out.

On the eighth of September, eighteen sixty-four, the Union Army had been in control of Atlanta for nearly a week. C Company and the scout-sharpshooter platoon had been assigned quarters in a railway station in the northwest part of the city.

We had just finished evening chow when a messenger informed me that Captain Bostick wanted to see me. Fear for my brother’s welfare gripped my heart. Captain Bostick was waiting out in the street. He returned my salute and, seeing my worried face, he said, “No, this is not about Amos; as far as I know, he’s fine. But I didn’t want to go in there and have everyone jump to their feet and go through all that folderol while you’re relaxing after supper, so I just sent a soldier in after you. I hope you don’t mind.”

Deeply relieved, I replied, “Not at all, Captain. The boys were definitely relaxing, though not exactly tranquil. There’s an Indian leg-wrasslin’ tournament in progress and your entry would have messed up some serious betting.”

“I thought it sounded too noisy for officers to attend. Our usual after-supper game is whist, but the betting is just as dear.” He paused then looked me in the eye and said, “Colonel Bischoff wants to see you.” The way he said it sounded ominous.

Regimental headquarters was nearby in a large home that had been operating as a boarding house before we took it over. Captain Bostick led me through the entrance and immediately up a flight of stairs. As I started up the stairs, I was able to catch a glimpse of one end of the dining room, thick with cigar smoke, and laughing, uniformed men, at a table, holding pasteboard game cards in their hands.

On the second floor, the Captain led me to the end of the hall where he knocked on the frame of an open door. I could see Colonel Bischoff and two junior officers seated around a bedstead that had been converted to a makeshift map table by the placement of a door across its head- and foot-boards.

Colonel Bischoff looked up and Captain Bostick came to attention -- as did I -- and said, “I have Private Becker with me, sir.”

Bischoff said, “Fine, fine.” Then to the other officers, “Gentlemen, if you would be good enough to excuse yourselves for a few minutes?” The officers, a lieutenant and another captain, both stood, came to attention, then left the room.

Colonel Bischoff, rising to his feet, said, “Come in, come in. Thank you, Captain, please be at ease. Private Becker, Seneca, it’s a pleasure to see you again. What have you heard from your family?”

“Well, if you mean...”

“Yes, about your brother, Caleb.”

“Pa sent money to buy a coffin and have Caleb’s body sent home. They’ll bury him in the cemetery in Defiance. They have a special section for soldiers killed in battle. Pa says the town’s collecting money for a monument to commemorate the fallen.”

Bischoff, a solemn expression on his face, nodded. “And you’ve his grave marked so you can recover his corpse?”

“We do, sir, at the Union cemetery outside Chattanooga.”

“The transport money wasn’t a hardship for your father?”

“Not so much, sir. With the war, Pa’s been able to plant more corn which he sells, plus me an’ Amos send most of our pay home.”

“Any more brothers at home?”

“Just our three sisters sir, and a brother-in-law with bad hearing. He’s helping on the farm.”

Bischoff nodded again, then sighed. He sat in his chair, then said, “Please, pull up chairs and sit, men.” We followed his instructions as he searched through a stack of papers at his elbow until he found the page he sought.

He looked at me, unsmiling, and said, “Seneca, you’re being transferred to another regiment in the Etowah District, the Forty-fourth United States Colored Infantry Regiment at Rome, Georgia; that’s about sixty miles northwest of here. I’m sorry to be losing you. You’ve been an outstanding soldier.” Then he looked down. “Too outstanding, as it turns out.”

I admit, I was immediately distressed, but not for what might be thought the obvious reasons. Personally, I had nothing against colored folks. But for a colored man I saw on a canal boat when I was traveling home from Uncle Sammie’s, I had absolutely no personal experience of colored people. I knew little beyond what I read in Uncle Tom’s Cabin or newspaper articles about slavery, or seen for myself, now that I was in the South. Having interacted with darkies in Tennessee and Georgia, I realized they were just folks like the rest of us, but so beat down they even called a farm-boy like me, “Sir.” Oh, they had different facial features and hair, but then so did some of the Onodowa’ga I’d met.

But two things bothered me about the transfer. First, I would be leaving my friends and would no longer be able to visit so easily with my brother. But the other thing was that I knew the colored troops were issued the poorest equipment, if they received any at all, and they were given short shrift in many other concerns, too, like rations, uniforms, and assignments.

Bischoff was looking at me and said, “It may seem like you’re being punished, Seneca, and maybe you are, but it’s not for anything you did. You’ve done an exemplary job. But the problem is, you’re part Indian.” He shook his head. Seemingly disgusted, he said, “Tell him, Captain.”

Bostick, who had shrunk back in his chair was caught off-guard and sat up suddenly. “Yes, sir,” he snapped out, then smiled at his own reaction.

Looking serious again, Bostick said, “Well, Seneca, it seems General Thomas was bragging on your exploits at a general officers’ staff meeting yesterday, a meeting presided over by General Sherman. One of the other generals asked General Thomas why you were called Seneca, and General Thomas explained that you were part Indian, of that tribe. This afternoon, we received your transfer order, signed by General Sherman’s chief-of-staff. Colonel Bischoff sent me to the headquarters to see if I could get it rescinded, but his request was denied.”

Bischoff said, “As brilliant a strategist as our Commanding General is, he is also known for his intemperate bigotry. I’m sorry, son.”

I nodded. I had heard rumors of Sherman’s harsh treatment of the coloreds. “Thank you, sir. I will miss the Fourteenth. You run a good outfit, Colonel, if it’s not too bold of me to say.”

Bischoff smiled. “Indeed, it’s not too bold. It’s the kind of words that cheer me in my purpose. I sincerely thank you for your boldness.”

Then he lifted another sheet of paper. “But there is a sliver of good news for you, too,” he said. “You’re being sent to the Forty-fourth ostensibly to select, train, and lead a platoon of colored scout-sharpshooters. To do that properly, you’re being promoted to corporal. Congratulation, Corporal Becker.” He offered me his hand, which I shook. Then Captain Bostick did the same.

A promotion this soon after my enlistment was indeed a surprise. Amos had been with his unit for nearly two years before he received his corporal’s stripes. Here I was, barely seven months in uniform. I suppose every silver lining demanded a suitable cloud.

The leave-taking was more difficult than I’d expected. I felt a bond with the men of my small platoon, a sense of trust and unity of purpose and skill. Leaving them had the feeling of stripping myself of every shred of security we’d all bled to establish.

Sergeant Lange said, “It’s the way of the army, son. The purpose of the drills, and exercises, and practice is to build up that sense of responsibility to one another within a group of men. That will be your job in your new assignment. Men join the army for the cause, but they fight and die for the men at their side.”

That hearkened back to some things Uncle Sammie had said, about family and clans depending on one another. I realized the burden of training a new unit was going to be much heavier than I’d anticipated.

Amos was more sanguine. “It might be easier on us both,” he said. “With both of us fighting in the same battles, we are always concerned about the other, and I, at least, find that wearying, and sometimes distracting.”

I agreed, as my first thought after any artillery engagement was to discover Amos’s welfare. Being ignorant of one another’s immediate circumstances would probably help to reduce our risk by allowing us to concentrate on our own responsibilities rather than worry about our brother.

“Besides,” he said, in a joshing mood, “you’re still wet behind the ears and I don’t want my own reputation as a corporal sullied by what I am sure will be your many clumsy mistakes.”

Amos was granted a week’s leave to arrange Caleb’s transport to Defiance, while I was to report posthaste to my new assignment. We rode a train together as far as Dalton, where I was to report to my new company.

Captain George Gray, from Connecticut, was commander of Company A of the Forty-fourth United States Colored Infantry Regiment, which had been detached from the garrison at Rome, forty-six miles to the south and sent to garrison Dalton. I reported to him in Dalton on September tenth, eighteen sixty-four. I sat down with him and First Sergeant Michael Jones, of the First Platoon. Both were white men, as were all officers and most senior Sergeants in colored regiments. I thought I recognized not only the Sergeant’s brogue, but also his accent.

“An would ya’ be from the wee isle o’ Manhattan now, Sergeant Jones, me bucko?”

Jones guffawed and suggested I never talk like that in Five Points if I expected to get out alive. He said, “You must have had a Paddy in your unit.”

“A Paddy in fact, Paddy O’Kelly, one of our corporals, a stub of a man we called Leprechaun. Second-best scout in the platoon.”

Captain Gray smiled, nodding. “I believe Captain Bostick mentions him in a letter he sent me, when he learned of your transfer. He mentioned that a quarter serving of Indian blood earned you our commanding general’s intolerant accolades.”

I shrugged. “Like our sergeant was fond of saying, ‘It’s war, it’s not supposed to be pleasant.’” Turning serious, I said, “I’ll do the best I can, sir, and reserve the complaints for the important things.”

Jones, nodding at my assurances, asked, “Do you go by Seneca, or would you prefer your Christian name?”

“It’s all the same to me, Sergeant. Whatever you think would better serve.”

Captain Gray said, “I like the connotation of the Indian name in regard to scouting. Besides, many of our Negro soldiers seem to have an affinity for things Indian. I think it could work to your advantage.”

Jones said, “Likely so, sir.” Then he looked at me. “So we’ll call you Seneca, Corporal Becker.”

We discussed setting up a small platoon similar to the Fourteenth Ohio regiment. I explained, “In a fashion, scouting and sharpshooting has as much, if not more complexity than artillery warfare, not to deny the, uh, technical considerations of the artillery, as my brother called them.” Both of them seemed uncertain of my meaning. “What I mean to say, sir, is that there is a considerable amount of detail to learn and then to practice, and practice repeatedly, until it becomes second nature. Scouting is a job performed under the nose of the enemy, sometimes on the enemy’s side of the line. To do that with any measure of success demands immediate reactions that are often contrary to lifetime instincts. The smaller the platoon, the more skilled we can become, and the more value we can provide to the regiment. To a large degree, sir, a smaller unit would have more value, over a longer period, than a larger group, as a larger group could not serve the same purpose.”

The Sergeant said, “I take your meaning, Seneca. It would be comparable to having a hundred dentists assigned to the regiment, where what you really need is but a few.

Gray said, “A point well made, Corporal. However, there are nearly seventy volunteers for the scout platoon. How will you narrow it down to a couple dozen?”

“A shooting contest, first, sir.”

He and the Sergeant looked at one another. Jones said, “We’re mighty tight on powder and ball, Seneca, nor am I sure our long weapons are up to proofing.”

“What is your, uh, our main firearm, Sergeant?” Captain Gray smiled at the changing allegiance that my correction represented.

“Mostly smooth-bore Springfield Model ‘Forty-seven musketoons.”

“Those are the short-barrel smoothbores, right, Sergeant?”

“Short in more ways than one,” Jones said. “The regiment has only four-hundred and sixty muskets for six-hundred twelve infantrymen.”

I shook my head. “You probably know they have neither the range nor the accuracy for a sharpshooter. Is there any chance we could get some Spencers?”

“Not likely, Seneca,” Captain Gray said.

“And if we did get some, someone would take them away from us,” Sergeant Jones added.

“What about some long-barrel muskets, or anything with a rifled barrel? Just a couple dozen?”

They were both quiet for a moment, then they looked at one another briefly, before Captain Gray turned to me. ‘Maybe,” he said. He looked again at the Sergeant. “Do you think Digger might...?”

Sergeant Jones raised his eyebrows and gave a half-shrug. “If we promised him his corporal’s stripes back, he might have an idea, sir.”

The Captain turned to me. “We have a white infantryman who has been involved with stealing and selling army supplies, though we’ve had no real proof of his involvement, just enough in irregular activities to reduce him in rank.”

Sergeant Jones said, “Under current circumstances, as far as a shooting contest, we might allow each trooper to fire one ball, but we could have nothing like a tournament, or best shot of three, or anything beyond a single shot per man. And that would be with the musketoons.”

But I’d had a more practical idea. “Actually, Sergeant, as I think about it, we may eliminate many of the men with a simple eyesight test. One thing required of a sharpshooter is unusually good eyesight. There’s no two ways around that. And I realize that doesn’t necessitate ball and powder to determine.”

“How would you propose to set that up?” Captain Gray asked.

After a brief thought, I said, “Sir, I would paint an arrow on a round plate, then take it a measured number of yards downfield, set it in place, and have the trooper use his arm to point the same direction as the arrow. I would stand in front of the plate between each trooper’s test and change the arrow to one of the eight compass points, then have the next man indicate the direction, and so on. Those who pass are tested again at a further distance.”

Captain Gray asked, “To be clear, the plate would be upright, on its edge?”

“Yes, sir, like a bullseye target.”

He looked at Jones. “That seems more than sensible.”

“Save a lot of black powder, sir.”

“And the shooting contest?” Captain Gray asked.

“Might we see what our cadger can come up with, first, sir?”

Duncan “Digger” MacTavish, was a late-twenties, cheerful, medium height, freckle-face, mostly clean-shaven redhead without a hint of Scottish brogue.

“Surprised that I don’t talk with an accent, Corporal? Actually, Corporal Seneca, I’m talking with a north Ohio accent, the accent most people have in your corner of the Union. We all have accents, we just can’t hear our own, since it’s what we know as common speech. Do you think the Rebs hear themselves as speaking with a drawl? They don’t. We’re the ones who talk funny, far as they’re concerned, with our clipped, hurry-up way of speaking. Moreover, a Texan’s drawl is different from an Alabaman’s, the same way north Ohio is different from New York City.

“I’ve got a Scot’s brogue buried in me somewhere. For instance, I can tell ye,” and he switched to a narrow, rolling brogue, “‘a nod’s as guid as a wink tae a blind horse’.” Abandoning the accent, he said, “But I’d have to explain that those words are all plain English. The brogue may charm the ladies, but it draws attention when what I often want to be is unnoticed.”

“Tough to be unnoticed with that red hair, Digger.”

“The hair can go under a hat, Corporal, and I shave off even these whiskers and can put a tan on my skin with a light application of watered-down boot polish. Then, if I hunch my shoulders and lean on a cane or walk with a shuffle, I become a different man.”

I recalled my recent deception by shouting in what I hoped was a southern drawl, but I could have sounded South Carolina or Louisiana and had no idea of it. I realized Digger MacTavish had a way of dealing with people the way I dealt with enemies in the woods.

“So what do we need to do to get some decent rifles?”

“You do know that General Headquarters will never let us keep breech-loaders or repeaters?”

“Sergeant Jones made that clear.”

“And no one in the chain of command will authorize anything but garbage for our niggra regiment?” He spat out the last with bitterness.

“Captain Gray as much as said so.”

“So, unless you have about four hundred dollars to buy a couple dozen Model ‘Sixty-ones, you’re gonna have to steal ‘em.”

I said, “And we’ll need minie ball cartridges.” Meaning paper cartridges holding a proper measure of powder and the minie bullet. One tore off the end of the paper wrapping (in battle, usually with your teeth) and dumped the powder down the rifle’s barrel. Then you inserted the minie bullet and used the gun’s ramrod to seat the bullet on the powder at the closed end of the barrel, beneath the firing mechanism.

The genius of the minie bullet, invented by a Frenchman of that name, was that it was cone-shaped, rather than a round ball, and its base was hollow. When the rifle was fired, the expanding gasses (and smoke) from the powder caused the soft lead “skirt” around the bullet’s hollow base to expand.

That expansion had two beneficial effects. First, it sealed the barrel, trapping all the force of the exploding powder behind the bullet, taking fullest advantage of its propelling force to accelerate the bullet for the full length of the barrel, usually to a thousand or more feet per second. Additionally, the expanded skirt engaged with the spiral rifling on the inside of the barrel, imparting a stabilizing spin to the bullet. The combination of better propulsion and stabilizing spin allowed the minie ball to fly significantly farther and truer than would a round ball.

Digger sighed. “Is that all you need? Why not some artillery pieces? Cavalry mounts? Perhaps a railroad locomotive?” I’d been shaking my head to his absurd suggestions, but he’d paused, then said, “Actually, a locomotive might prove to be easier. Sure you don’t want one?”

“Rifles, powder, and ball,” I said.

He looked at me speculatively for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Fine then, Corporal. I’ll need five dollars and some help. Have you ever been flogged with a bullwhip?”

That question startled me, but I thought of my own experience. While I’d cracked a bullwhip a time or two, I’d never had one used on me, though I had managed to put a slice in my own cheek the first time I’d snapped one, when I was ten years old. I told him I hadn’t had the pleasure.

Hearing this, Digger said, “Then I suppose it has to be me. But now we need someone with experience wielding a whip.” The two privates who often worked with Digger knew another Negro trooper who could snap a whip expertly, so we were in business.

Two days later Digger, several uniformed troopers (for purposes, we’ll assume all enlisted troopers accompanying me in this narrative are colored men, for the duration of my association with the Forty-fourth United States Colored Infantry Regiment), a drummer boy (also a Negro), and me, were riding in an Army freight wagon pulled by four Army mules. Digger, shirtless but swathed in a blanket, was chained to the sideboards at the head end of the wagon. He sagged against, but was otherwise held upright by, a post bolted to the front boards, just behind the driver’s box.

I carried written orders, signed by Provost Major Franklin Tufts (who we’d invented), to see that Digger received five stripes from the whip to be delivered at each of the several locations where he had pursued larcenous activities against the United States Army.

With the drummer boy beating a steady tattoo, we gained entry to the quartermaster’s stores at a rail yard north of Dalton and we found our way to the isolated section of the yard reserved for rail cars carrying various munitions -- though we were now absent four of the infantrymen who’d entered the yard with us. At the munitions section, we paused in a wide wagon yard some fifty feet from the quartermaster’s office: a rail car which had been converted to a clerk’s workspace.

I dismounted the wagon, along with the two neatly-uniformed infantrymen who had remained with the wagon as the drivers. The drummer then discontinued his drum roll and the troopers took up formal guard positions between the wagon and the rail cars, their musketoons at port arms.

The drumming had attracted the attention of the stores workers, including the young lieutenant in charge, who stood on the small landing of the temporary stairs leading to the office-converted box car.

I walked over to the bottom of the stairs in smart order, saluted, and announced, “Sir, I am Corporal David Farragut of the Provost Detachment and I am charged with delivering corporal punishment to...,” and I opened the rolled order sheet to read aloud, “ ... Private Duncan Walter MacTavish for larceny and other crimes committed against the United States and its Army in the Department of Etowah during the months of June through August of eighteen hundred and sixty-four, said corporal punishment to consist of the delivery of five strikes with a whip at each of five locations whereat said crimes were committed, punishment to be witnessed by assembled garrison or staff.”

I rolled up the orders and stood at attention. “Sir, this munitions stores yard is our second stop. May I have our drummer sound assembly to summon your men to witness the punishment?”

Looking around he said, “Go ahead, Corporal, but I think everybody is already here.”

“Thank you, sir.” I turned and ordered, “Drummer, sound assembly.”

The boy began the pattern of rapid rolls interspersed with individual beats that called soldiers to gather in formation. The ten colored enlisted men and two white sergeants formed a line facing the lieutenant and he ordered “About face. Stand at attention to witness punishment.”

I ordered the drummer to hold then I stepped sharply back to the wagon and climbed up to the driver’s box. Standing at attention, I ordered a third trooper, who was himself standing at attention in the back of the wagon, “Private, attend to your whip.”

He untied the looped, leather-plaited whip from where it had been secured to his belt. He shook out the loops where it was clearly visible to the quartermaster squad. The whip was short, about six feet in length, of a size commonly used by slave overseers. This time it was in the hands of a Negro and the human back that was to receive its kiss was white. I wondered if anyone else appreciated the novel contrariness that it represented.

Facing the assembly, I again unrolled the sheet I carried and reading from it, I began, “Attention to orders,” then I again read aloud the specifics as I had to the lieutenant.

After rolling up the orders, I snap-turned to the trooper and ordered brusquely, “Private, five stripes. Drummer, commence punishment roll.” I pulled the blanket from Digger’s shoulders to reveal his back, marked by the inflamed transverse red stripes and the blue bruises of welts that one expects as the result of a serious, but not crippling, application of a whip. The troopers in line all craned their necks to catch a glimpse. The young lieutenant looked but then moved his gaze away and down toward the line of soldiers.

The drummer began a steady, ominous roll and the executioner once more shook out his whip in plain view of the assembly. He then swung the whip back and swiftly forward, making connection with Digger’s back, but only after its force had been played out on the post near Digger’s head. I could see all of the soldiers cringe and Digger cried out, but I shouted at the whip-wielding trooper, “Put your back into it, damn your eyes, or I’ll see that you get a taste.”

The trooper made slow, deliberate motions, shaking out the whip, taking two deliberate measuring swings, then finally pulled back and delivering another swift stroke, this one ending in a loud crack as the whip played out in the empty space a few inches below the pit of Digger’s outstretched arm, though Digger jerked and howled as if he had actually been struck.

“That’s better,” I said, loud enough for all to hear over the drum. “Now three more like it.”

The trooper delivered a third and fourth blow, missing Digger’s back just like the one before it, but on the fifth, Digger howled especially loudly and appeared to lose consciousness, sagging in the chains.

I looked over his shoulder at his back and I shouted at the executioner, “You fool, I said no blood, you weren’t to break the skin. Get in the wagon. I’ll deal with you back at camp.”

Then I leaned down and fetched a rag from the bed of the wagon and began to dab at Digger’s skin, high on his back, at the same time pouring the chicken blood thinned with vinegar from the vial that had been concealed in the rag.

I shouted, “Drummer, enough. Get up here and tend to this man.” Then I stood at attention and announced, “The sentence has been carried out. Lieutenant, I apologize for this mishap. With your permission we will withdraw and I will tend to his wounds in a less public place.”

“Go ahead, Corporal.” Looking to the line of troopers, the lieutenant said, “Assembly dismissed,” and he turned and went into the office.

I ordered the guards back and they climbed up to the driver’s box and got the mules moving. We turned about and headed toward the gate, some five hundred yards distant. The quartermaster troopers were still standing outside the office, talking and gesturing as they watched us pull away.

Well away from the munitions section office, but still about a hundred fifty yards from the section gate, we pulled to the side near the last rail cars on the siding and I stood fussing behind Digger. Then I had the troopers climb down from the driver’s box, come around the back, and climb back in, to help lower Digger from the post. In the commotion, the other four troopers, who we’d dropped off, appeared from between the railroad cars and, from a stack on the other side of the track, began the transfer of two long wooden crates, eight bushel-sized wooden crates sealed with red wax and labels marked “Danger, Explosives,” and three eight-inch square, red-waxed paperboard cartons with a similar danger warning. We loaded all of them into the wagon, then all of us climbed aboard and we resumed our exodus.

“David Farragut?” Digger said.

“The name just popped into my head at the last second.” We were back in camp and I was trying to wash the paint and chicken blood from his back. The chicken blood washed off easily. The paint clung to the old scars from an actual whipping that he had obviously once received.

“I’m not surprised,” he said over his shoulder. “David Farragut is a rather well-known admiral of the Union Navy who has won several important battles along the coast of the Gulf of Mexico. You’re lucky the lieutenant didn’t make anything of it.”

Feeling defensive, I said “Would it be unlikely, with so many men under arms, that two of them might have the same name?”

“Not at all. That’s why you were supposed to use the name John Williams. There are probably dozens of them in the army. But you switched to the name of our most famous naval hero.”

I huffed, “I suppose naval battles are important, but does he have a price on his head?”

He twisted further around. “What are you blathering about?”

“The Rebs put a price on my head. It’s up to two hundred dollars.”

“Wait, that’s you? You’re the sharpshooter the Rebs are in such a tizzy over? I thought that scout was an Indian.”

“Also me, hence the nickname Seneca. I’m one part in four Onodowa’ga, or Seneca.”

“Seneca’s not your name? What is?”

I resumed scrubbing his back. “Judah.”

“Huh,” he said. “So you’re worth two hundred dollars to the Rebs.” He twisted his head toward me again. “Let me know if it gets to two fifty, would ya?”

The five dollars, which had been supplied from Captain Gray’s pocket, was distributed with fifty cents going to each of the six troopers who’d gone on the mission, a dollar to the hostler who’d supplied the wagon, mules, and the stock whip, four bits to the drummer, and four bits for the chicken and some paints. After we took the blood, we gave the chicken to Captain Gray. He gave it to Sergeant Jones with our compliments.