April 24, 1864---Matzoh

APRIL 24, 1864:         

Confederate Private Isaac J. Levy writes home to assure his family he is observing a proper Passover. Levy served in a “Jewish” regiment of which his brother Ezekiel was Captain:

“No doubt you were much surprised on receiving a letter from me addressed to our dear parents dated on the 21st which was the first day of Pesach,” he wrote to his sister Leonora, with the word “Pesach” carefully printed in Hebrew letters. “We were all under the impression in camp that the first day of the festival was the 22nd,” and he had therefore unwittingly failed to observe the holiday’s start on the appropriate day.

But Levy went on to assure her that his brother had purchased matzoh “sufficient to last us for the week” in the city of Charleston at the cost of two dollars per pound, and that they were “observing the festival in a truly Orthodox style.” Sadly, just four months later, Isaac Levy was killed in the trenches during the Siege of Petersburg on August 21, 1864. He was 21 years old.

In the Civil War, 7,000 Jews fought for the Union, and 3,000 for the Confederacy. Nine Jews (of both sides) reached the rank of General and 21 attained Colonelcies.

April 23, 1864---The Battle of Monett's Ferry

APRIL 23, 1864:         

The Battle of Monett’s Ferry. Confederate forces attempt to wrest a victory from the Union in the stalled Federal Red River Campaign. As Union forces cross the Red River, Confederate forces attack. Although the Union is surprised, the Confederate attack is too small and too tentative to do more than disrupt the immediate river crossing. As the two sides battle, the majority of Union forces move downriver to an unguarded ford and cross there. Federal losses are 200, Confederate losses are 400.

April 22, 1864---Two Cents Plain

APRIL 22, 1864:         

The United States Congress outlaws all privately-minted coinage. Such “tokens” had been commonly used as money in more remote rural areas and the frontier. 

April 21, 1864---U.S.S. EUREKA

APRIL 21, 1864:          

The former commercial riverboat U.S.S. EUREKA engages in a pitched battle with Confederate land forces along the Rappahannock River near Urbana, Virginia. She holds the river passage.

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!