My Life in the Irish Brigade

I, however, rigged myself up in my dress  uniform, brightened up all my buttons and brasses, and presented a pretty fair soldierly appearance. I was fit for inspection. I proceeded in accordance with orders to the tent of Colonel Heenan, whom I found all alone reading a Philadelphia newspaper. I saluted him and said, “Good morning, Colonel.”

“Good morning, my man,” he said, “what do you wish?”

“I have come here,” I said, “by your orders received early this morning.”

“Oh, yes,” he replied. “Sit down a moment and look over this paper from home.”

I sat down while he changed his camp dress for his full dress uniform. My feelings at this time I could not describe. Fear, courage, hope, dread, suspense and I know not what else took sole possession of me. I wondered what was coming.

After the colonel dressed, we got out of the tent. The colonel said, “We will now go over and see the general.”

Meagher’s tent or headquarters was not more than 100 yards distant. It was on the camp line of the 69th New York Infantry, one of the regiments of our Irish Brigade. On the way, the only remarks made by the colonel concerned the weather and healthy location of various camps scattered all over Bolivar Heights and Loudon Heights. There were some 25,000 troops stationed there. He never in the remotest manner made the slightest allusion to the nature and object of our mission to General Meagher.

We reached our destination, stopping at the fly door of the general’s tent. There stood one of his orderlies; Colonel Heenan inquired if the general was in. The orderly replied, “Yes.” “Can I see him?” returned the colonel.

“I will ask,” said the orderly turning around and going into the tent.

In a moment he returned and invited the colonel and myself to enter. We then did. Now comes the tug of war, I thought.

General Meagher was in fatigue dress, partly stretched out on a wooden bench covered with brown army blankets. His feet were propped up against an empty cracker (hardtack) box. Around him on the partly rough boarded floor of his tent were scattered newspapers. On a small, plain wooden table there were a few books, maps and a fieldglass. In another part of his tent stood a large empty box, covered with an India-rubber blanket. It held three canteens. Nearby was a bright tin bucket full of clear spring water with a tin cup attached by a string. Along one of the sides of the tent were placed three or four campstools and a writing desk, on which an inkstand and paper had been placed. These articles constituted the entire furniture of General Meagher’s tent on Bolivar Heights, Harper’s Ferry, Virginia.

On entering the tent, the usual military salute passed between the two commanders and me. The colonel then turned round to me standing close behind him and addressed Meagher, saying, “General, here is your man.”

“Ah,” said the general, “be seated.”

I fetched one of the campstools for Colonel Heenan who sat down on it near to General Meagher. I then took a seat myself on another one nearby, facing them. Silence reigned for about half a minute, until it was broken by the general. With that pleasing smile on his countenance which he always wore when addressing personally any of his soldiers, he asked, “Well, you are from the Old Sod, ain’t you?”

My reply was simply, “Yes, sir.”

Meagher then put his hand into his coat breastpocket and pulled out a lot of papers. After looking them all over but seeming not to have found what he wanted, he called his orderly standing outside of the tent. The soldier immediately entered. The general asked him if he knew what had become of the piece of poetry entitled “The Land of My Birth” with the name McCarter written on the back.

“Yes, sir,” said the orderly, “you bid me put it into your portfolio.”

Going over to the writing desk and opening a book thereon, the orderly took from one of its pockets the paper in question and handed it to General Meagher. He, in his habitual polite and gentlemanly manner, thanked the attendant. The man then retired. The general looked at the paper a moment. Then glancing at me, he held it out, asking, “Is that your handwriting?” “Yes sir,” I replied. I also stated, “Yes, sir, that is my handwriting.”[2]

Colonel Heenan interrupted our conversation by saying, “General, this is a man that I think we can trust. As my regiment requires a good man to distribute, collect and attend to its mail, I am thinking of giving him the position. My own staff recommend the appointment.”

Then and not until then did I discover and, so agreeably too, the nature of our visit to General Meagher. But this was not all.

“Well, really, Colonel,” said the general, “that is all very good. But he writes so well. I think with all respect to you and your regiment, I am in much need of a clerk for the brigade. He could make himself more useful and be of more service in that capacity than in the position you propose.” Turning to me, he asked, “What say you yourself, McCarter?”

‘”Fix it between yourselves, gentlemen,” said I. “I am satisfied.”

“Thank you,” responded the general.

“Now, Mac,” said General Meagher, “Colonel Heenan and I will arrange it. And, in the meantime, you can go to your quarters and the colonel will instruct you this afternoon what to do. Before you go, just help yourself from either of those canteens on that box,” pointing to it.

I did so and left, saluting both officers and returned to camp.

[1]The foregoing sketch of General Meagher is from my own personal knowledge of him for nearly two months prior to the Battle of Fredericksburg, Virginia, December 13, 1862, commencing at Harper’s Ferry.

[2] How this paper got into the hands of General Meagher, I never learned. I remember, however, writing it at home in Philadelphia in the year 1860. Upon leaving the city with my regiment on the 1st of September for the seat of war, I accidentally put it with several other private papers into my memorandum book. When in camp near Washington, I pulled it out one day. When I was reading it over again, one of our lieutenants (Montgomery, afterwards killed at Fredericksburg) sitting on the grass nearby, happened to see the heading. He asked me to let him read it. I did so, after which he took such a fancy to it and the style of the penmanship that he offered me a $10 greenback on the spot for it. I at once refused, saying, “No sir, but if you accept it as a gift, it is yours.” He very thankfully did so. Ever after, he was unremitting in his attention and kindness to me. Quite likely this was the channel through which General Meagher got possession of the paper, although I never knew for certain it was.