Reminiscences of Valley Muster by Rev. A. Poe Boude (Rockingham Co., VA) ************************************************************************ USGENWEB ARCHIVES NOTICE: These electronic pages may NOT be reproduced in any format for profit or presentation by any other organization or persons. Persons or organizations desiring to use this material, must obtain the written consent of the contributor, or the legal representative of the submitter, and contact the listed USGenWeb archivist with proof of this consent. ************************************************************************ The following article was written by the Veteran Valley Minister, Rev. A. Poe Boude and appeared in The Daily News-Record, Harrisonburg, Virginia in 1914. It describes Rev. Boude's boyhood memories of the militia musters which took place in the Shenandoah Valley in the mid-1850’s prior to the Civil War. It gives a small window into what life was like for a young boy during that period of history. SOURCE: The Daily News-Record, Harrisonburg, Virginia (Tuesday, January 13, 1914) HEADLINE: Sixty Years Ago in Virginia Valley. Militia of Olden Times—Veteran Minister Gives Some Striking Reminiscences ARTICLE: (By Rev. A. Poe Boude, in Page Valley Record.) Every able bodied man between the ages of 18 and 45 years, was enrolled in the militia, and was required to muster four times a year, or send a substitute to answer to his name at roll-call, or pay a fine of 50 cents. As 50 cents was the usual amount of a day’s wages, it made little difference whether a man hired a substitute or paid his fine, except that it looked a little more public spirited to have his name answered to and to be marked present at roll call. The militia of Shenandoah county, which was the scene of my boyhood, was divided into two regiments, one of which met at Woodstock and the other at Mount Jackson. They were assembled, annually, in May, to spend three hours in some near-by field learning the arts of war. A field where cattle had been wintered was preferred, as there would be plenty of corn stalks to provide all who didn’t carry canes, with the means of going through the "manual of arms." To this day, I can hear, in fancy, the loud, clear voice of Colonel R. M. Conn, who commanded the Mount Jackson regiment, as he would call out, "Shoulder your cornstalks, gentlemen !" "Big muster" was a great time. Everybody whose corn was not ready to plow, went. To the boys it was especially exciting. The glitter of the officers uniforms, the crops of drummers and fifers, and most of all, the tables of the old women, black and white, who sold cakes and beer, were visions and dreams in the brain of every boy for weeks before and after. To this day, I never see an old time copper cent, without thinking of old Aunt Ginny Mundel, a negro woman as thick as she was long, who lived at the half-way mile post between Winchester and Staunton, and made the best ginger cakes I ever tasted. After going through the various maneuvers executed on the field of Mars, not omitting "The Phalanx," and then "Hollow Square against the Cavalry," the regiment was marched back into town and after roll-call, was dismissed. There was very little drunkenness in those days, although a majority of the men drank liquor, more or less. They drank the mild, pure brandy made at the distilleries of the county, and only one drink of that, except at public or social gatherings. There was, here and there, an "old Soap Stick" as excessive drinkers were called, who drank all they could get at any time. Everybody regarded them as nuisances. They were always on hand at muster, in the hope of being treated to all they could drink; but for a young man to get drunk was to disgrace himself in the estimation of everybody. At big muster, however, the rules were relaxed a little, and the sociability of the crowd led many to the bar rooms where fiery drinks, such as the people were not used to, were dispensed. These soon aroused the fighting spirit, and a half drunken bully would challenge some foolish remark of another half drunken bully, and the matter would have to be settled by a fight. A ring was formed in the street around which the crowd gathered as the champions entered and the fight began. Cries of "Fair play" arose from around the ring they fought till "the best man whipped." Both parties were usually very badly used up, but the vanquished one was often beaten nearly to death. I remember seeing one carried out of the ring who for hours after did not show the least sign of life except a feeble breathing. Sometimes a friend would interfere in behalf of the one who first showed sign of weakening and the result would be a free fight in which there would be many a black-eye and bloody nose. The "Petty Muster," of the several companies composing the regiment, was held four times a year, at control points somewhat like our voting precincts. They were repetitions of the regimental muster on a smaller scale. I was frequently sent to muster for my brother-in-law with whom I lived several years when I was a boy, because I could answer "Here" when his name was called as well as he could, and he could do a better day’s work at home than I could. Two incidents of the militia muster have served to fix it indelibly in my memory. One was a big muster in Charlie Moore’s field opposite Mount Jackson. While the men were in line, smoke was seen coming through the roof of Mr. Moore’s house. The regiment marched to the house at double quick, and Colonel Conn, sitting on his horse in front of the house and Colonel Gilbert S. Meem on his horse in the back yard, gave orders as to the company officers who directed the movements of the men with such perfect order as that everything in the house was carried out and saved. The other incident was personal. The Swover Creek company mustered at Jacob’s church, where my father lived and taught the Parish School. There were four of us boys—Jo, Sam, Clint, and Ad. We were not allowed to go where the men were mustering, but we could lie on the grass under a walnut tree and see it all. Of course, boys like, we would have a muster of our own for a week afterward. Jo was the captain, with a sword made of a white pine shingle. Clint was drummer, with a broken pane of glass hung between his thumb and finger and beaten with a big spike. Sam was fifer, with a willow whistle, and Ad, (that’s me) was high private in the rear rank. One day we mustered till Clint got tired, and without saying a word, he struck the glass drum a hard lick and broke into small pieces which fell into the grass in front of me. I stepped on the pieces and a triangular piece an inch and three quarters long and three quarters of an inch wide, ran straight up in the center of my heel and out of sight. My father called Ephriam Rinker, a blacksmith near by, to help him get the glass out. Father laid me across his lap, face downward, grasped my ankle and held it as in a vise, while Rinker took a razor and cut the thick tough part of my heel away until he could catch the glass with a pair of pliers and pull it out. Mother poulticed the wound with bread and milk the rest of the day, and then tied a piece of fat, rancid bacon on it, which she renewed every day till it was well.