In October 1861, a Luzerne County attorney named Caleb E. Wright traveled south from the Coal Region to visit his friends in the 7th Pennsylvania Reserves. He found the regiment stationed north of the nation’s capital along the Potomac River at a place they called “Camp Sharpe.”
Thankfully for us, Wright considered himself something of a writer and in his later years, would publish both stories and poetry. He brought a writer’s perspective to the Civil War scenes he witnessed on the Potomac.
In the letter, published in the Luzerne Union, he described the conditions in the camp of the 7th Reserves, the patterns of life in camp, and descriptions of some of those he encountered in camp.
He detailed the musical labors of a 71-year-old Irish-born drummer in the regiment’s band, Thompson Kirkpatrick, who claimed to have been in the British Army as a drummer at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815. Father Thomas P. Hunt impressed him with his fiery fervor for the Lord and defeating the Confederacy – “doubly armed against both Satan and seceders.”
And when he left the camp and traveled back to Washington to depart via train, he made a stop at the unfinished United States Capitol, climbing to the top of construction site and looking out over Washington, DC, now an armed camp surrounded by thousands of US Army soldiers.
He wrote:
“There arises in the mind of him who stands in the grand dome of his National Capitol, and looks out on the vast preparations the loyalty and resources of the North have made in so few months, a conviction that all is safe—that the constitution exists—that the government is yet the government of the whole Union—that people of loyal sentiments in the North and South may rest assured that treason can never overwhelm a compact so mighty in power and vast in resources—and that a time is not far distant when the majestic empire of the West, capable of vindicating itself against rebellion of such magnitude as that now in arms, will rise with renewed splendor out of the conflict to inspire the admiration and excite the awe of transatlantic nations.”
From the Luzerne Union, October 16, 1861
[Army correspondence of the Union.]
CAMP SHARPE, Washington, D. C.,
October 7th, 1861.
MR. PRINTER:—Allow me to write you from the theatre of war. I am here in all the stir and bustle of a vast entrenched camp, as comfortable as it now is. Snug and comfortable as the head-quarters of the 7th Pennsylvania Regiment at Washington, I deem it a fitting place for a short communication.
Having slept in perfect security in the turbulent city of Baltimore, at the hotel of Col. Mann, late of Bucks, I came on over the Baltimore and Washington Railroad, staid a short time at the Capitol, and then reached Col. Harvey’s camp, to be received by him with all the courtesy of an old friend and the frankness of a soldier.
Now let me draw you a sketch of a camp in the actual service. Camp Sharpe embraces an area from six to eight acres, on a gentle slope, with a small rivulet on each side. Around this, day and night, a few rods apart, stretches a line of sentinels, ceaselessly moving back and forth in their well-beaten path. Every two hours they are relieved from duty, to come on again in four. Here on the highest ground, at the left side of the enclosure, by a small cedar, opposite the flag-staff and centre of the camp, is the tent of Col. Harvey.
To the right are the tents of the various officers of his staff, chaplain and musicians. Some sixty or eighty feet in advance, is another line of tents, occupied by the Captains, Lieutenants, &c., and further forward those of the men. Beyond these spreads out the parade ground. On the left, in a grove of cedars, is the establishment of the sutler, our old friend Dodson, a few years since County Commissioner of Luzerne, more recently pursuing his fortune in the wilds of California and mazes of the British capital.
I am now the guest of his table, and take occasion to pay, at the same time, a well-merited compliment to his hospitality and the unusual excellence of his potatoes. His cook, a son of my old sweet client, Esquire Seely, of Fairmount, is a paragon in culinary acquirements, and a young man of very quiet and pleasing demeanor.
Contiguous to the sutler’s department are the booths for the officers’ chargers, and near these the baggage wagons, with the horses belonging to them feeding on both sides the tongue. Near to the sutler are the Quarter Master’s apartment, under the supervision of our townsman, Mr. Lane. It was certainly most agreeable to witness the Judge’s joyous and expressive face, though I regret to add, he has lost somewhat of his rotund figure. Doubtless one of the exigencies of war.
The camp of Col. Harvey is kept in fine order, and, if I should judge from what I saw of many others, unusually tidy. To this, in a measure, may be attributable the good health of his officers and men.
Now let me give you a sample of camp life.
At 9 P.M. the musicians, led by an Irishman upwards of seventy, who was a drummer at Waterloo, assemble in front of the Colonel’s quarters and beat the tattoo. This is the signal for the men to turn in and put out lights. Nothing is heard for an hour or more after this but the incessant talking of the soldiers from tent to tent. But this subsides in time, and silence, broken only by the loud snores of the sleepers, settles on the camp. A man certainly sleeps very soundly under canvas.
For myself, I laid down on my blanket, denuded of coat, shoes and stockings, and without any covering whatever enjoyed an unbroken sleep until daylight.
At 6 in the morning the old Hibernian has his musicians again before our tent, and strikes up the reveille. In an instant every tent pours forth its inmates, and all the blankets are brought out and hung up to air. Then follows breakfast, preceded by roll call—after that, company drill for an hour or two—and then exercise by the whole regiment. After dinner, company drill again, and at five dress parade by the regiment in line.
I heard no complaints of insufficient or unsuitable fare—no murmuring on any subject, or unwillingness to perform any duty required. I should judge a good feeling subsists between the commanding officer and his men. They have sufficient reason to be proud of their leader, whose status is very high in the service, as I learned from officers of other regiments.
This was very gratifying intelligence, as one appropriates very greedily the bestowal of commendation on a fellow countryman and townsman. And in the same degree it flattered my pride, when I heard, from various sources, encomiums passed on the soldierly bearing and good demeanor of the 7th Regiment. This I know to be merited, for I have passed some time with them and add here my own testimony to the high position they maintain in the service. I feel that in the hour of peril our old Commonwealth will hear good report of them. They have but to imitate the unconquerable pluck and bold front of their leader, and no wife or sweetheart at home will blush at the mention of their names.
I must also express the pleasure it occasioned me, to find Captain Speece in good condition and in good standing. His company is second on the right of the regiment, and not only his own men, but all others speak in commendatory terms of our fellow citizen. I am charged by him with a letter to his wife and a piece of gold coin to each of his boys, and I shall accompany their delivery on my return with the remark that the absent husband and father is doing credit to his county and his country. I found a son of John McCauley acting most efficiently in this Company as Orderly Sergeant; also, young Garretson, as Lieutenant.
At the door of his tent, sitting, like one of the patriarchs of old on the Judean pastures of Abraham, I encountered Father Hunt. Stepping within, I found his quarters encumbered with a strange mass of incongruous materials, yet probably suited to his vocation. Here were tracts and holsters, bibles and pistols, swords and hymn books, war saddles and sermons, in most amicable relation—doubly armed, he seemed to be, against both Satan and seceders.
With the regiment he is very popular, as I should suppose from the number that yesterday attended his preaching, morning and evening. From the top of a dry goods box, father Hunt addressed his audience in a terse, pithy and patriotic strain. The hymns he lined for the soldiers to sing, and it was very gratifying to hear more than a hundred voices mingling in the exercise. One hymn he merely announced by name, and directed it sung without reading or lining, supposing that all present knew it. And it seemed that almost everybody did know it. I was not a little surprised to find I knew it myself. It was that beginning: “When I can read my title clear.”
One of the persons of mark here, as such are always to be found, is Gimblet, a young gentleman, probably 14, in the musical department, with a freckled face and crooked eye. He wears a red cap with a pendant tassel. His shirt is rather of an unhealthy color, and the villainous tailor who cut his pants must have followed the wrong measure, since the legs are dolefully short and the seat hangs almost opposite the knee. But he is a good drummer, and it is said a prime card player.
He does wonders with the poorest hand, having a habit, when there is a large pool on the board, of dexterously putting out the light and grabbing the pile. Whatever charges or accusations follow the exploit, he loudly pleads ignorance of the matter, and swears in the most forcible of camp terms he will never play more with such a gang of infernal villains. Gimblet is metropolitan bred, and brings to the service of the United States an abundant stock of those brilliant accomplishments common to the youth of Gutsburg or Southwark.
In company with the Colonel and Mr. Dodson I have visited several of the forts. They are constructed and constructing on the hill tops surrounding Washington, in great numbers. Not merely temporary earthworks, but with ditch, glacis, escarpment, magazine, &c., of a scientific and permanent kind. They are so located as that the huge guns overpointing their summits command the great highways of approach to the federal capital. In our ride we descended a partly private road winding amongst the farms and woods to the Chain Bridge, some five or six miles above Washington.
Forts and camps, occupied and abandoned, everywhere. The famous Chain Bridge, spanning the Potomac (which, at the present stream, is but a small stream to the eye of a Susquehanna visitor), was in charge of some Green Mountain boys. They were sharp-visaged, clear-eyed and intelligent specimens of the human race, who appeared to comprehend what they were about—equal, beyond question, to any emergency, and capable of anything they might be called on to perform. We did not leave the Bridge, which, from its strategic importance, is guarded and protected by men in great numbers and guns of light and heavy calibre, until, obtaining a pass of the Vermonters, we crossed over and set foot on the soil of Virginia.
P. S.—I will add a little to this communication, on my return home. There is a certain ceremony, which, with certain visitors at camp, it seems must be gone through. “Suppose,” suggested one of the officers, “that before leaving, you give the men a rip.”
“At present I don’t know that I should object,” I replied, “if I knew precisely what your term means.” “O, a speech—a speech!” returned the officer.
“One of the Wilkes-Barre gentlemen, when here some time since, gave us a rip; and another from there gave us a long rip.” “You must excuse my imperfect education,” said I, “having never been in the service; but since the term is, as you understand, and being something in my line, you may count on me; I will, if you choose, rip your company in particular, or if thought best, rip the regiment.” The latter proposition was accepted; and when about to leave, Col. Harvey formed the men in hollow square, like Wellington at Waterloo, into which the officers, father Hunt and myself passed, and the ripping ceremony was performed.
In looking back on the events of my short visit, I have to regret that limited time permitted me no opportunity of forming a fuller acquaintance with some of the regiment, strangers to me, from Carlisle and Philadelphia. The Lieut. Colonel, Maj. Lyman, Adjutant Sharpe, Doct. Green, Captains Henderson, Chapman, &c., &c., I hope to meet them again.
Before stepping in the cars for Baltimore, I clambered, a second time, to the dome of the Capitol. From this elevated perch of observation, whence signals are flung over the surrounding country, you have the whole game of war under your eye. The scene is imposing.
You sweep, at a glance, the far hills of Maryland and Virginia. You see innumerable groups of white tents, in all directions, up and down the Potomac, illumined by the sun, covering the slopes and plains. Long lines of covered wagons thread the highways—troops of cavalry, moving columns of men, droves of horses, mounted messengers riding at full speed, encumber the roads and avenues. On the one side, the heights of Georgetown, on the other, those of Arlington, each dimly seen. On every pinnacle flutters the flag of the Union.
With the glass, you behold its proud folds on Munson’s Hill, so lately desecrated by the foot of treason. In this busy arena, the waters of the Potomac alone seem inactive. Her glossy surface, broadly winding and widening where the tide engulphs the stream, is marked by no signs of commerce. Far down, towards Mt. Vernon as vision can explore, only a few naval crafts, lying at anchor or slowly moving on its bosom, form the melancholy substitute of former commercial activity and enterprise.
But there arises in the mind of him who stands in the grand dome of his National Capitol, and looks out on the vast preparations the loyalty and resources of the North have made in so few months, a conviction that all is safe—that the constitution exists—that the government is yet the government of the whole Union—that people of loyal sentiments in the North and South may rest assured that treason can never overwhelm a compact so mighty in power and vast in resources—and that a time is not far distant when the majestic empire of the West, capable of vindicating itself against rebellion of such magnitude as that now in arms, will rise with renewed splendor out of the conflict to inspire the admiration and excite the awe of transatlantic nations.
Very truly yours,
C. E. WRIGHT.
Read the previous letter from the Letters from War: 1861 series.
Subscribe to the latest from Jake Wynn – Public Historian
Enter your email below to receive the newest stories.