Into the Wilderness
The following creative interpretation, inspired by the letters of John Taylor Cuddy, is a creative interpretation of this young soldier's experiences during the Civil War, particularly in the months leading up to the Battle of the Wilderness. The purpose of this piece is to humanize Cuddy and remind the reader that he was more than the written words he left behind.
***
The South cannot bear their treasonous plight
Godless men fearing God tonight
Forever misguided and mangled by hate
For the good boys of the Northern states
Covered in blood of their countryman
It is our job to bring them back in
To the great Union, upon which we stand.
***
Godless men fearing God tonight
Forever misguided and mangled by hate
For the good boys of the Northern states
Covered in blood of their countryman
It is our job to bring them back in
To the great Union, upon which we stand.
***
March-December, 1862
In March, the seasons began to change. The snow turned to rain and the rain made stagnant pools of water in the trails and grassy fields. John Cuddy, dressed in blue, marched through the mess spring left; the mud so thick his boots sunk a half-foot into the ground. Boredom spread like a disease throughout the regiment, matched only by frustration. The boy grew restless knowing other men were out fighting the rebels while he spent his time on futile marches and picket duty. Ten months soldiering, ten months imagining, ten months hoping for something to do, and all he got was spring’s laughter in his boots.
The boy may have felt less wishful, less pining, had he experienced pressing his body against the ground, praying the brush would provide enough cover. He may have even felt the beginnings of fear—not frustration—had he seen a skirmish from afar. But John Cuddy did not have experience with any of these moments, and so each day brought more boredom, more homesickness, and more longing for the battles in his head.
The boy met with the war for the first time at Gaines’ Mill, Virginia. He played his part, the skirmisher, with luck, not expertise. He engaged in the battle wholeheartedly, as if the war itself were a person to please. He wanted war to take notice of him, but to his luck (of which he was not aware) war was not watching, nor did it care.
The second day of fighting was as relentless as the first. Bayonets cut throats and gouged ribs and vital organs. Men bled slowly, some died quickly, but their bodies were numerous enough to trip over. The boy survived, his quick feet and young body making him a tough target. He hid behind trees, caught rebels from behind, and pressed his body against the ground, under the thick brush, praying not to be seen. The boy John Cuddy was finally relieved of his naivety, but only at the horror of cold reality.
After the battle of Gaines’ Mill, John Cuddy fought at Mechanicsville and Fredericksburg. He was no longer enchanted by the war and wrote home often, conveying his ardent wishes to return. Between those lines he’d write other things: sad things and angry things. He’d say Dear mother, I believe this war is an awful thing, and press his pen into the paper till small ink splatters stained the pages. Cuddy’s words were many, even though he struggled to write them down. His persistence never wavered and he continued to write, even on the coldest days of January, 1863, when the Season of Emancipation changed everything.
January, 1863
Dear friends
this war is an awful thing fighting for negroes now is a bad thing but i hope that this ware will be over till spring Old abe done a bad thing when he freed all the slaves now the rebels is fighting for their rights dear friend i wish that this war was over and i was at home with you all again i think that i will not go a soldiering any more for i am tired of war now i hope to get through this war safe i am happy and send my love to you all
John T Cuddy
Emancipation incurred cries of frustration from many Union soldiers angered by its demand to fight for black folks, and John Cuddy was no exception. Cuddy felt the Union cause shift. Fear of its repercussions penetrated his body like a bullet from a musket. Old abe done a bad thing, he thought to himself as he marched across Virginia, imagining Lincoln’s dour face taunting him.
Sometimes John Cuddy would get so frustrated with the new Cause he would curse the people with darker skin than himself, people he’d never met and barely seen, and throw venomous words at their imaginary bodies. His anger resided in his fear. Unlike other unpleasantries of the war—grime, lice, and long marches—Cuddy didn’t see purpose in fighting for these people, only loss. The lice, dirt, and sore legs were all evidence the Union was moving forward and the regiment was beating the rebels. The problem Cuddy found with Lincoln’s proclamation was that it didn’t move himforward. The boy felt like fighting for negroes was akin to carrying someone else’s bricks up a steep hill with no top in sight. It was heavy, impossible, and without reward. No matter how many steps Cuddy took forward, it was like the negro was pulling him back, reminding him that because of what Old abe done, he, John Cuddy, wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. Cuddy felt cheated—swindled by his own leader. We ‘listed for a good Cause, he’d say in dismay, and that was to save our country, but what have we got now but our own destruction?
Cuddy’s own words haunted him. In hushed tones at night he’d chant stars and stripes, stars and stripes, trying to preserve his Union Cause, the one to keep the country together, not pull it apart. He’d repeat the words until they became all feeling; real devotion. Still the boy felt cheated by his own team. Fighting for negroes, he’d scoff. The boy felt no devotion to them. They made his war feel abstract and never-ending.
In March, the seasons began to change. The snow turned to rain and the rain made stagnant pools of water in the trails and grassy fields. John Cuddy, dressed in blue, marched through the mess spring left; the mud so thick his boots sunk a half-foot into the ground. Boredom spread like a disease throughout the regiment, matched only by frustration. The boy grew restless knowing other men were out fighting the rebels while he spent his time on futile marches and picket duty. Ten months soldiering, ten months imagining, ten months hoping for something to do, and all he got was spring’s laughter in his boots.
The boy may have felt less wishful, less pining, had he experienced pressing his body against the ground, praying the brush would provide enough cover. He may have even felt the beginnings of fear—not frustration—had he seen a skirmish from afar. But John Cuddy did not have experience with any of these moments, and so each day brought more boredom, more homesickness, and more longing for the battles in his head.
The boy met with the war for the first time at Gaines’ Mill, Virginia. He played his part, the skirmisher, with luck, not expertise. He engaged in the battle wholeheartedly, as if the war itself were a person to please. He wanted war to take notice of him, but to his luck (of which he was not aware) war was not watching, nor did it care.
The second day of fighting was as relentless as the first. Bayonets cut throats and gouged ribs and vital organs. Men bled slowly, some died quickly, but their bodies were numerous enough to trip over. The boy survived, his quick feet and young body making him a tough target. He hid behind trees, caught rebels from behind, and pressed his body against the ground, under the thick brush, praying not to be seen. The boy John Cuddy was finally relieved of his naivety, but only at the horror of cold reality.
After the battle of Gaines’ Mill, John Cuddy fought at Mechanicsville and Fredericksburg. He was no longer enchanted by the war and wrote home often, conveying his ardent wishes to return. Between those lines he’d write other things: sad things and angry things. He’d say Dear mother, I believe this war is an awful thing, and press his pen into the paper till small ink splatters stained the pages. Cuddy’s words were many, even though he struggled to write them down. His persistence never wavered and he continued to write, even on the coldest days of January, 1863, when the Season of Emancipation changed everything.
January, 1863
Dear friends
this war is an awful thing fighting for negroes now is a bad thing but i hope that this ware will be over till spring Old abe done a bad thing when he freed all the slaves now the rebels is fighting for their rights dear friend i wish that this war was over and i was at home with you all again i think that i will not go a soldiering any more for i am tired of war now i hope to get through this war safe i am happy and send my love to you all
John T Cuddy
Emancipation incurred cries of frustration from many Union soldiers angered by its demand to fight for black folks, and John Cuddy was no exception. Cuddy felt the Union cause shift. Fear of its repercussions penetrated his body like a bullet from a musket. Old abe done a bad thing, he thought to himself as he marched across Virginia, imagining Lincoln’s dour face taunting him.
Sometimes John Cuddy would get so frustrated with the new Cause he would curse the people with darker skin than himself, people he’d never met and barely seen, and throw venomous words at their imaginary bodies. His anger resided in his fear. Unlike other unpleasantries of the war—grime, lice, and long marches—Cuddy didn’t see purpose in fighting for these people, only loss. The lice, dirt, and sore legs were all evidence the Union was moving forward and the regiment was beating the rebels. The problem Cuddy found with Lincoln’s proclamation was that it didn’t move himforward. The boy felt like fighting for negroes was akin to carrying someone else’s bricks up a steep hill with no top in sight. It was heavy, impossible, and without reward. No matter how many steps Cuddy took forward, it was like the negro was pulling him back, reminding him that because of what Old abe done, he, John Cuddy, wouldn’t be going home anytime soon. Cuddy felt cheated—swindled by his own leader. We ‘listed for a good Cause, he’d say in dismay, and that was to save our country, but what have we got now but our own destruction?
Cuddy’s own words haunted him. In hushed tones at night he’d chant stars and stripes, stars and stripes, trying to preserve his Union Cause, the one to keep the country together, not pull it apart. He’d repeat the words until they became all feeling; real devotion. Still the boy felt cheated by his own team. Fighting for negroes, he’d scoff. The boy felt no devotion to them. They made his war feel abstract and never-ending.
April-September, 1864
One day in mid-April, John Cuddy’s regiment was ordered to join the main branch of the Union army in Manassas to participate in a major attack, led by General Ulysses S. Grant. The boy’s fear was stronger than ever, and his misgivings about the Union had taken a toll on his energy. Nevertheless, Cuddy followed his orders and went to Manassas immediately.
General Grant planned to destroy the right flank of General Lee’s army. The Union men were to cross the Rapidan river and, obscured by a dense secondary growth forest, attack the right flank unexpectedly. Cuddy had his instructions and thought about them carefully. Like many in his regiment, he was near the end of his term in the war; he’d be going home soon. The boy had weathered several major battles now and lived to tell the tale, but he couldn’t take for granted surviving the fear in his heart.
The boy woke early the following morning and marched silently with his fellow men. As dawn broke, they crossed the Rapidan, just downriver from Lee’s camp. The scraggly trees at the edge of the water formed the entrance to the dense wood known as the Wilderness. It felt eerie to John Cuddy to approach the wood so early in the morning. It was almost like the earth did not expect to be seen at this hour---like they had no right to be there. Cuddy focused his eyes on the Virginia landscape, illuminated by the rising sun. Eyes forward, Cuddy followed the men in front of him as they all entered the thick, brambly forest with difficulty. Quietly and delicately the men made their way through the circuitous wood, each crunch of decaying leaves and twigs evoking equal parts fear and acceptance of their fate.
In late morning the fighting began. The rebels anticipated the Union’s attack and had the advantage of knowing the Wilderness well. As the Union men lost themselves in the brambles of the wood, the sound of muskets and breechloaders, bayonets and knives echoed against the trees. The boy heard the deep, guttural cry of dying men—one after the other. He ran away from the cries only to find new ones. He switched directions, moving as fast as his legs would carry him, and pushed his way through prickly shrubs and poison oak, over gnarly stumps and moss-covered rocks. He dove behind the largest tree trunks and watched as blue and grey merged before him, ghostly and gruesome. At some point, he tripped over something, crashing into a thicket of berry bushes. Looking behind him, he saw a hand with no arm. He snapped his head forward, unwilling to look any further, and pulled his body close to the ground, eyes closed, praying.
Three days of battle in the Wilderness were three days to become lost in the maze of hemlock and beech trees. The forest rose above the Union soldiers like the walls of a prison. Rebel hands clawed at John Cuddy’s blue uniform, grabbing him and pushing him into the ground. Goddamnyankee, they’d spat, and clubbed his head with the back of a gun. By the end of the third day, all 272 officers and men in Cuddy’s regiment were captured or killed, their long-awaited return home an abstraction—only likely made real in Heaven.
After the battle of the Wilderness, the captured men were transported to Georgia and imprisoned at Camp Sumpter. There they sweated and starved, some dying from dehydration, others succumbing to disease. The prison was secured by sentries and a stockade of hewn pine logs. A simple fence marked a point about one-hundred feet from the walls of the prison. If a prisoner crossed the line he was shot dead on the spot. Cuddy couldn’t help but stare at the deadline, his eyes vacant of emotion as another prisoner—delirious with hunger—stumbled too close.
Bam!
It happened often—too often—but each time the shot rang in Cuddy’s ears so loudly he would look down at his chest to make sure it hadn’t been he who was shot and now he who was dead. Cuddy did not understand how he was still alive. It perplexed him, disturbed him. As the months passed by, the boy sat next to others like himself: Union men in tattered uniforms, thin as rails, and always coughing. Cuddy would sit next to these men and watch them pass on. When they did, he’d get up and move to sit next to someone else, and when that person died, he’d move again. Cuddy did this again and again, not understanding how he wasn’t the one sick or rotting.
September brought new challenges for John Cuddy and his fellow reservists, all of whom were relocated to a camp in Florence, South Carolina. Cuddy couldn’t have imagined conditions worse than in Andersonville Prison, but here food was even less available, lice even more abundant, and disease ubiquitous. Cuddy was weak, his body broken and mental acuity compromised. He had given up, wished for death, and with each breath felt his ribs press against his skin; his body was consuming itself. John Cuddy no longer longed for home, but for the beginning of the war, when he was bored and dismayed. He wished for the tense battles before the Wilderness, the ones where he remembered seeing so many dead boys and so many dead men and standing in awe of his live body in a field of corpses. John Cuddy imagined how much lighter the war would have been for him if he’d been killed at the outset, if war had paid him attention like it had other men. John Cuddy was angry now, but not at Lincoln or even the negroes; he was upset with God, distressed with his circumstances. In his own way, Cuddy finally understood war and the mess it had made. He swore at himself for being so naïve before. He was supposed to be home now. He would’ve been home four months ago, had the rebels not got him first.
Eighteen days before his twentieth birthday, John Cuddy breathed in and out deeply, smelling the beginnings of Fall, leaving the unforgiving summer behind. He imagined how the Wilderness, now vacant of the sound of war, stood exactly as it had that early May morning. It was eerie and beautiful to think of, so thick with brush and berries. Foxes hunted, rabbits rested in their dens, and birds made nests in the trees. Cuddy imagined the only evidence of Man was the death he left behind, rotting under the grasses and behind trees. Cuddy understood, even if he didn’t have the words to describe it then, that war had forced itself on nature, but nature had won, and would always win.
When John Cuddy died, his curls were flat against his head from the sweat and oil, his skin grey from dust and malnourishment, and his eyes were open and glassy. He looked like lots of the dead and dying men next to him, so there was nothing special about this death in particular. It happened quickly and quietly, all at once, and no one took notice for a good period of time.
If the boy had just hung on a few more months, he would’ve been released with the remaining Florence prisoners and sent back home. But maybe after all the war was for him, it was best he didn’t go back, best he let war take him. Many of the freed prisoners died when they returned home, and those who did not were dead inside. People aren’t like nature, they don’t recover before violence has even ended. Sometimes they don’t recover at all. As thousands of families like John Cuddy’s grieved the loss of their loved ones, nature continued to grow new flowers, fresh ferns, and long trails of Ivy up the trunks of hemlocks. As thousands of families like John Cuddy’s tried to heal, nature sighed deeply and breathed life into the Earth, the sun rising and setting against the horizon of the Wilderness.
Sources
I utilized The American Battlefield Trust to learn more about the Battle of the Wilderness. In an article called The Battle of the Wilderness: Then & Now, Dan Pfanz, a Civil War historian, outlined the progression of the Union attack and the Confederate response. I contrasted the information I learned here with a presentation called From Carlisle to Andersonville: the Story of John Taylor Cuddy, produced by John Osborne, and a paper about John Cuddy called "You have done your duty like a good boy..." John Taylor Cuddy and the End of Innocence by Michele Tourney. I used all three of these sources to understand the role of the Battle of the Wilderness in Cuddy’s Civil War experience and to see how the information agreed or differed across the sources.
The American Battlefield Trust had the most accurate information about the Battle of the Wilderness itself, so I used this as the platform of the Wilderness portion of the piece. However, the resource by John Osborne was helpful to identifying how Cuddy participated in the battle itself. This source is available at the Journal Divided, a production of the House Divided Project. Furthermore, the Michele Tourney article included a helpful bibliography which pointed me towards the best letters to use as inspiration for Cuddy’s voice. Michael Tourney’s piece was also very helpful in outlining Cuddy’s progression through the war, from the ten months of no action to the Battle of Gaines’ Mill and Mechanicsville, Fredericksburg, and then to the Battle of the Wilderness and Andersonville Prison. Tourney’s short piece gave me a timeline to use that was quite helpful. This paper is available on the Chronicles Project website, a production of Dickinson College.
Because Cuddy was nearly illiterate, his spelling is horrendous and sentence structure equally so. However, I did not want to re-create a letter or turn of phrase that appeared to frame Cuddy as ignorant or unintelligent. Therefore, I used letters he wrote himself. I edited for spelling but no punctuation. The letter Cuddy wrote home in January, for example, is taken word-for-word from the letter in the Cuddy Papers. To Cuddy, his words made sense; he knew what he was trying to say. Therefore, I wanted to respect and maintain that intent in my creative piece. Cuddy also wrote “we gained by fighting yet we lost more then we ganed,” a sentence I rewrote slightly as “We’ve gained from fighting but also lost many men.” A letter from April, 1862 informed me of his fatigue with Virginia: “i have seen a nuf of vergineya now.” Cuddy also mentioned how tired he was with the war itself, something I used in my piece. I found this information in letters from March, 1863 and January, 1863. I also used a letter from July, 1862 to understand more about the battle of Gaines’ Mill and the battles that soon followed. In writing about this battle, I wanted to know how violent it was and how difficult it was for Cuddy. In the letter form July, 1862, he wrote, “i think i will git through this ware for i was in three of the hardest fights that can be[.] the balls came as thick as hale all around me but none of them hit me...” This was important to my understanding of how this battle may have affected his disillusionment with war. The American Battlefield Trust was once again helpful in giving me a brief overview of the Gaines’ Mill battle as well. The article on the battle can be found on the American Battlefield Trust website. Two other lines in this work were taken from a Cuddy letter, this one dated 30 June, 1861. In this letter John Cuddy writes, “tell all my frendes that we listed for a good cause and that wase to save our contry and to kep the stares and stripes.” I used “stars and stripes” and “we ‘listed for a good cause” in this piece. All of the letters I used can be accessed through the John Taylor Cuddy Correspondence (1861-1864) located in the Dickinson College Archives.
I did my best to stay true to Cuddy’s language. However, I omitted any use of the n-word. Cuddy did use this word in a letter dated 3 March, 1863. I used the term “negro” instead because Cuddy used this word much more often. I believe this word has historical accuracy and the ability to capture the racial tension of the times.
One day in mid-April, John Cuddy’s regiment was ordered to join the main branch of the Union army in Manassas to participate in a major attack, led by General Ulysses S. Grant. The boy’s fear was stronger than ever, and his misgivings about the Union had taken a toll on his energy. Nevertheless, Cuddy followed his orders and went to Manassas immediately.
General Grant planned to destroy the right flank of General Lee’s army. The Union men were to cross the Rapidan river and, obscured by a dense secondary growth forest, attack the right flank unexpectedly. Cuddy had his instructions and thought about them carefully. Like many in his regiment, he was near the end of his term in the war; he’d be going home soon. The boy had weathered several major battles now and lived to tell the tale, but he couldn’t take for granted surviving the fear in his heart.
The boy woke early the following morning and marched silently with his fellow men. As dawn broke, they crossed the Rapidan, just downriver from Lee’s camp. The scraggly trees at the edge of the water formed the entrance to the dense wood known as the Wilderness. It felt eerie to John Cuddy to approach the wood so early in the morning. It was almost like the earth did not expect to be seen at this hour---like they had no right to be there. Cuddy focused his eyes on the Virginia landscape, illuminated by the rising sun. Eyes forward, Cuddy followed the men in front of him as they all entered the thick, brambly forest with difficulty. Quietly and delicately the men made their way through the circuitous wood, each crunch of decaying leaves and twigs evoking equal parts fear and acceptance of their fate.
In late morning the fighting began. The rebels anticipated the Union’s attack and had the advantage of knowing the Wilderness well. As the Union men lost themselves in the brambles of the wood, the sound of muskets and breechloaders, bayonets and knives echoed against the trees. The boy heard the deep, guttural cry of dying men—one after the other. He ran away from the cries only to find new ones. He switched directions, moving as fast as his legs would carry him, and pushed his way through prickly shrubs and poison oak, over gnarly stumps and moss-covered rocks. He dove behind the largest tree trunks and watched as blue and grey merged before him, ghostly and gruesome. At some point, he tripped over something, crashing into a thicket of berry bushes. Looking behind him, he saw a hand with no arm. He snapped his head forward, unwilling to look any further, and pulled his body close to the ground, eyes closed, praying.
Three days of battle in the Wilderness were three days to become lost in the maze of hemlock and beech trees. The forest rose above the Union soldiers like the walls of a prison. Rebel hands clawed at John Cuddy’s blue uniform, grabbing him and pushing him into the ground. Goddamnyankee, they’d spat, and clubbed his head with the back of a gun. By the end of the third day, all 272 officers and men in Cuddy’s regiment were captured or killed, their long-awaited return home an abstraction—only likely made real in Heaven.
After the battle of the Wilderness, the captured men were transported to Georgia and imprisoned at Camp Sumpter. There they sweated and starved, some dying from dehydration, others succumbing to disease. The prison was secured by sentries and a stockade of hewn pine logs. A simple fence marked a point about one-hundred feet from the walls of the prison. If a prisoner crossed the line he was shot dead on the spot. Cuddy couldn’t help but stare at the deadline, his eyes vacant of emotion as another prisoner—delirious with hunger—stumbled too close.
Bam!
It happened often—too often—but each time the shot rang in Cuddy’s ears so loudly he would look down at his chest to make sure it hadn’t been he who was shot and now he who was dead. Cuddy did not understand how he was still alive. It perplexed him, disturbed him. As the months passed by, the boy sat next to others like himself: Union men in tattered uniforms, thin as rails, and always coughing. Cuddy would sit next to these men and watch them pass on. When they did, he’d get up and move to sit next to someone else, and when that person died, he’d move again. Cuddy did this again and again, not understanding how he wasn’t the one sick or rotting.
September brought new challenges for John Cuddy and his fellow reservists, all of whom were relocated to a camp in Florence, South Carolina. Cuddy couldn’t have imagined conditions worse than in Andersonville Prison, but here food was even less available, lice even more abundant, and disease ubiquitous. Cuddy was weak, his body broken and mental acuity compromised. He had given up, wished for death, and with each breath felt his ribs press against his skin; his body was consuming itself. John Cuddy no longer longed for home, but for the beginning of the war, when he was bored and dismayed. He wished for the tense battles before the Wilderness, the ones where he remembered seeing so many dead boys and so many dead men and standing in awe of his live body in a field of corpses. John Cuddy imagined how much lighter the war would have been for him if he’d been killed at the outset, if war had paid him attention like it had other men. John Cuddy was angry now, but not at Lincoln or even the negroes; he was upset with God, distressed with his circumstances. In his own way, Cuddy finally understood war and the mess it had made. He swore at himself for being so naïve before. He was supposed to be home now. He would’ve been home four months ago, had the rebels not got him first.
Eighteen days before his twentieth birthday, John Cuddy breathed in and out deeply, smelling the beginnings of Fall, leaving the unforgiving summer behind. He imagined how the Wilderness, now vacant of the sound of war, stood exactly as it had that early May morning. It was eerie and beautiful to think of, so thick with brush and berries. Foxes hunted, rabbits rested in their dens, and birds made nests in the trees. Cuddy imagined the only evidence of Man was the death he left behind, rotting under the grasses and behind trees. Cuddy understood, even if he didn’t have the words to describe it then, that war had forced itself on nature, but nature had won, and would always win.
When John Cuddy died, his curls were flat against his head from the sweat and oil, his skin grey from dust and malnourishment, and his eyes were open and glassy. He looked like lots of the dead and dying men next to him, so there was nothing special about this death in particular. It happened quickly and quietly, all at once, and no one took notice for a good period of time.
If the boy had just hung on a few more months, he would’ve been released with the remaining Florence prisoners and sent back home. But maybe after all the war was for him, it was best he didn’t go back, best he let war take him. Many of the freed prisoners died when they returned home, and those who did not were dead inside. People aren’t like nature, they don’t recover before violence has even ended. Sometimes they don’t recover at all. As thousands of families like John Cuddy’s grieved the loss of their loved ones, nature continued to grow new flowers, fresh ferns, and long trails of Ivy up the trunks of hemlocks. As thousands of families like John Cuddy’s tried to heal, nature sighed deeply and breathed life into the Earth, the sun rising and setting against the horizon of the Wilderness.
Sources
I utilized The American Battlefield Trust to learn more about the Battle of the Wilderness. In an article called The Battle of the Wilderness: Then & Now, Dan Pfanz, a Civil War historian, outlined the progression of the Union attack and the Confederate response. I contrasted the information I learned here with a presentation called From Carlisle to Andersonville: the Story of John Taylor Cuddy, produced by John Osborne, and a paper about John Cuddy called "You have done your duty like a good boy..." John Taylor Cuddy and the End of Innocence by Michele Tourney. I used all three of these sources to understand the role of the Battle of the Wilderness in Cuddy’s Civil War experience and to see how the information agreed or differed across the sources.
The American Battlefield Trust had the most accurate information about the Battle of the Wilderness itself, so I used this as the platform of the Wilderness portion of the piece. However, the resource by John Osborne was helpful to identifying how Cuddy participated in the battle itself. This source is available at the Journal Divided, a production of the House Divided Project. Furthermore, the Michele Tourney article included a helpful bibliography which pointed me towards the best letters to use as inspiration for Cuddy’s voice. Michael Tourney’s piece was also very helpful in outlining Cuddy’s progression through the war, from the ten months of no action to the Battle of Gaines’ Mill and Mechanicsville, Fredericksburg, and then to the Battle of the Wilderness and Andersonville Prison. Tourney’s short piece gave me a timeline to use that was quite helpful. This paper is available on the Chronicles Project website, a production of Dickinson College.
Because Cuddy was nearly illiterate, his spelling is horrendous and sentence structure equally so. However, I did not want to re-create a letter or turn of phrase that appeared to frame Cuddy as ignorant or unintelligent. Therefore, I used letters he wrote himself. I edited for spelling but no punctuation. The letter Cuddy wrote home in January, for example, is taken word-for-word from the letter in the Cuddy Papers. To Cuddy, his words made sense; he knew what he was trying to say. Therefore, I wanted to respect and maintain that intent in my creative piece. Cuddy also wrote “we gained by fighting yet we lost more then we ganed,” a sentence I rewrote slightly as “We’ve gained from fighting but also lost many men.” A letter from April, 1862 informed me of his fatigue with Virginia: “i have seen a nuf of vergineya now.” Cuddy also mentioned how tired he was with the war itself, something I used in my piece. I found this information in letters from March, 1863 and January, 1863. I also used a letter from July, 1862 to understand more about the battle of Gaines’ Mill and the battles that soon followed. In writing about this battle, I wanted to know how violent it was and how difficult it was for Cuddy. In the letter form July, 1862, he wrote, “i think i will git through this ware for i was in three of the hardest fights that can be[.] the balls came as thick as hale all around me but none of them hit me...” This was important to my understanding of how this battle may have affected his disillusionment with war. The American Battlefield Trust was once again helpful in giving me a brief overview of the Gaines’ Mill battle as well. The article on the battle can be found on the American Battlefield Trust website. Two other lines in this work were taken from a Cuddy letter, this one dated 30 June, 1861. In this letter John Cuddy writes, “tell all my frendes that we listed for a good cause and that wase to save our contry and to kep the stares and stripes.” I used “stars and stripes” and “we ‘listed for a good cause” in this piece. All of the letters I used can be accessed through the John Taylor Cuddy Correspondence (1861-1864) located in the Dickinson College Archives.
I did my best to stay true to Cuddy’s language. However, I omitted any use of the n-word. Cuddy did use this word in a letter dated 3 March, 1863. I used the term “negro” instead because Cuddy used this word much more often. I believe this word has historical accuracy and the ability to capture the racial tension of the times.