April 20, 1864---400 massacred and 800 dead

APRIL 20, 1864:        

The Union garrison at Plymouth, N.C. falls to the C.S.S. ALBEMARLE. The Confederate victors massacre as many as 400 U.S.C.T. troops stationed at Plymouth. It is the largest mass execution of black fighting men so far, except for Olustee. Following so soon after Fort Pillow and within two days of Poison Spring, the killing of “Colored” troops by Rebels has become a nightmarish norm. 

Men in the Civil War era were often sentimental to the point of being dewy-eyed and surprisingly naïve about the rules of war. Although most men lost their innocence about the nature of combat early on, the majority of them retained romantic notions about their units and their comrades-in-arms, and even at times the enemy, throughout their lives. 

Charles Graham Halpine, writing as Private Miles O'Reilly, refers in this poem, titled simply April 20, 1864, to his wartime experience as one of 37 officers in the original 69th New York State Infantry Regiment (“The Fighting 69^th”, the most famous of the all-Irish Brigades in the war) which he joined as a lieutenant on April 20, 1861. Three years later, 26 of those officers were dead; of the eleven who remain, four suffered permanently crippling injuries. Eight hundred of the original 1000 men who enlisted in the ranks had also perished:

Three years ago to-day

We raised our hands to heaven,

And on the rolls of muster

Our names were thirty-seven;

There were just a thousand bayonets,

And the swords were thirty-seven,

As we took the oath of service

With our right hands raised to heaven.

Oh 'twas a gallant day,

In memory still adored

That day of our sun-bright nuptials

With the musket and the sword.

Shrill rang the fifes, the bugles blared,

And beneath a cloudless heaven

Twinkled a thousand bayonets,

And the swords were thirty-seven.

Of the thousand stalwart bayonets

Two hundred march to-day;

Hundreds lie in Virginia swamps,

And hundreds in Maryland clay;

And other hundreds, less happy, drag

Their shattered limbs around,

And envy the deep, long, blessed sleep

Of the battle-field's holy ground.

For the swords--one night, a week ago,

The remnant, just eleven,

Gathered around a banqueting board

With seats for thirty-seven;

There were two limped in on crutches,

And two had each but a hand

To pour the wine and raise the cup

As we toasted "Our flag and land!"

And the room seemed filled with whispers

As we looked at the vacant seats,

And, with choking throats, we pushed aside

The rich but untasted meats;

Then in silence we brimmed our glasses,

As we rose up--just eleven,

And bowed as we drank to the loved and the dead

Who had made us thirty-seven!