Pie at Cumberland- 1862

MY FIRST ARMY PIE.

Yea, cousin, your apple-pie of exquisite flavor and finely baked. I think it must have been made in my mother’s old fashion- the nicely, sliced apples placed between two crusts that, in the oven, become reduced to state of tender and delicate crumpiness? no, there is no such word, well, crustiness- not of that flaky and oleaginous sort that one meet with at the high priced restaurant, which are half confectionery and half cook-shop. When the pie was done to perfection my mother drew it from the oven, insinuated a knife-blade between the edge of the upper and lower crusts all around, and lifted the top carefully off. Then, with her knife or a small spoon she manipulated the apple, now thoroughly cooked, to a fine pulp, adding to it just enough of sweet batter, white sugar, and the blessed spices of the East- of what sort beside nutmeg I hardly know, although I am inclined to the belief she used only nutmeg and cinnamon. In the city where lemons are always handy, I suppose you might add another treat with a little of the juice and some grated peel; but in the country we had to depend upon the apples, of which we had the plumpest, crisp it and juiciest. After the "Interior department" had been skillfully compounded and mixed, all smoking hot, the upper crust was carefully replaced and flattened upon the delicious pulp and a little sugar-dust sifted over it, you had an apple pie that would melt in your month and cause your palate to twist about and wriggle fondly after the last morsel as it descended the esophagus. Ah! I have fond recollections of my early pie-eating.

But an army pie! Did you ever see one, or attempt to masticate one? 

I trust you have not. 

I have eaten an army pie, and felt afterward very much like the old chap did  who had bragged about eating crow, and who, when put to the test, worried down a piece, and said, "Yes, I kin eat crow, but I swear I don't hanker arter it." 

It was in May, 1862, when MCCLELLAN’S grand army moved from Roper's Church to Cumberland Landing, one sunny day. It was a march of twelve or thirteen miles, and I was on foot and all unused to tramping. I will tell you some other time how I happened to be with the army. It was not as a fightist I went along. This was my first march, and when I arrived at the place called Cumberland Landing, on the Pamunkey river, I was very tired and in a famished condition. Along the route I had been animated by the novelty of everything around; the great army trains rolling along; the columns of troops marching and halting for rest, some strolling into the edges of the beautiful forest some stopping by the way at farmers' houses to buy milk or other refreshments- the ferocities of war had not been developed at this early stage of the struggle- and, roving where I listed, talking to the frightened secesh and noting the features of the landscape's view to my eyes I thought not of fatigue. One of the pleasures of the march was the recognition of many an old friend in the New England regiments, most of whom, alas have since been mustered out of this world's service, "Then they felt that the soldier's life is always gay." They had captured Yorktown, had given the enemy a thrashing at West Point, and were marching gaily "on to Richmond." 

Well, we arrived at Cumberland, and the army began to dispose of itself in that shape which, fortuitously, made on the hills and plains one of the most splendid military pictures ever seen. I did not pause to look at picturesque effects, but in obedience to the fierce demands of appetite which arose at soon as we had reached our destination for the day, I sought eagerly for sustenance. 

As the turkey bustard and the raven scenteth afar off the unsavory carcass, so doth the soldier scent an army sutler, and I found a blue-coated living stream setting toward the bank of the river, where some masts of schooners were risible above the high grounds adjacent to the stream. Pressing along with the straggling column I found several vessels lying In the crooked river or creek, and one of them, at least, was a craft belonging to that noble band of men who shared the fortunes of war with our brave soldiers; I mean, of course, the army sutlers. This craft was a small schooner, lying a little way from the shore, and from its deck were transferred, along a long-boat which lay, bows on to the bank, what seemed to be the object of the "sacred rags" of the soldiery, ARMY PIES! 

The steep, high bank was filled with soldiers slipping down to the water's edge, and soldiers scrambling up from the boat with the much-coveted pies. The longboat was filled constantly with hungry customers, and the eagerness, hurry, and confusion Increased the delay In serving them. I struggled along with the rest, with hunger gnawing inside my waistband, and at last became the possessor of a pie, for which I paid a silver quarter dollar- we had silver in those days. Afterwards the cloud of war, Instead of having a "sliver lining," as all clouds are supposed to have, became lined with greenbacks. I got ashore and mounted the bank with difficulty, receiving many offers of half a dollar for my price from the soldiers in the rear, who would be delayed an hour, as I had been, in making the achievement. 

Cousin, an army pie is an awful thing- like two discs of greasy leather with apple pumice baked between. I was faint with hunger, I devoured that pie, and have been an invalid ever since. At first the horrible stuff lay like lead in my stomach, and then it began to aggress, tumbling about and thumping my ribs in the most agonizing manner, my hunger was appeased with a vengeance! I managed to reach the tents of the officers of the 1st Massachusetts artillery, and Lieutenant McCartney applied such restoratives as he had at hand, but was long before I recovered from the immediate effects (I shall never be fully restored) of that ARMY PIE.      Pius 1st

-Daily National Republican.(Washington, D.C.), January 22, 1866