William Marvel [12/11/2006]

By William Marvel

The statue of Daniel Bean stands in Brownfield, Maine, where the roads to Hiram and Denmark diverge. Of all the Civil War memorials erected by Maine towns, this remarkable monument was the only one cast in the image of a real person. The absence of weapons distinguishes it even further: the boy stands as he would have on his last day at home, holding his cap in one hand and waving a timid goodbye with the other.I live just a few miles from the Bean statue, and from my boyhood it represented my most passionate interest. With my generation, I was taught that Americans had gone off to the Civil Warand all warssolely from sentiments of unadulterated patriotism. As I grew increasingly obsessed with the history of our most turbulent era, I came to picture the common Union soldier in the image of that innocent, dutiful boy in bronze.At first I devoured secondary histories of that period. Later I graduated to personal memoirs. Now I focus on original letters and diaries, and this last exercise has demonstrated how little all those books taught me about the real Civil War. The letters of Corporal James Brown, a neighbor of Daniel Bean, have recently brought my reconsideration full circle.Only lately has it become clear to me how significant a proportion of Union soldiers chose the army as an honorable escape from poverty or debt, even in that first nationalistic frenzy after Fort Sumter. More avaricious opportunists, in and out of uniform, found less noble avenues to profit. As the second year of the war drew to a close, the common soldier seemed convinced that the real purpose of the conflict was to line the pockets of officers and contractors, and that realization badly demoralized those who had to do the fighting.Late in 1861, 15-year-old Daniel Bean enlisted with his father, Sylvanus, who recruited a platoon of relatives and neighbors in order to obtain a commission. As a lieutenant Sylvanus earned $1250 a year, plus some generous allowances. That must have presented an alluring incentive to a man whose worldly wealth totaled only $2450, but the war that seemed so colorful and inviting in 1861 turned quite ugly in the spring of 1862, when the Beans of Brownfield, Maine, were caught in a surprise attack outside Richmond. Their division was driven from the field in the first major battle of the Peninsula campaign.That was evidently more than Lieutenant Bean had bargained for. Corporal Brown noted that Sylvanus was well acquainted with Chief Quartermaster Rufus Ingalls, who hailed from the adjoining town of Denmark. Through the influence of General Ingalls (Brown learned), Sylvanus secured a commission in the quartermaster department. Then he arranged a discharge for his brother, Charlie Bean, on the excuse of deafness, although as Charlies recruiter Sylvanus had overlooked that disability; afterward he installed Charlie as a well-paid wagonmaster in his quartermaster train. Finally Sylvanus had his son, Daniel, detailed as his quartermaster clerk.Thousands of dollars passed through the hands of army quartermasters, many of whomincluding the Beans, according to Corporal Brownmade some of it stick to their fingers. "They know where the money is to be made," he reported, "and they are bound to get rich out of this war." Brown snickered at how closely the Bean clan conspired in their enterprises, and sarcastically regretted that Sylvanuss 70-year-old father could not come out and "help the Boys to plunder uncle Sam," for Brown supposed that "he would be the bigest [sic] thief of them all."In the spring of 1864 Ulysses Grant forced thousands of detailed men out of their sinecures and back into the ranks, and Daniel Bean had to rejoin his regiment. On June 2, thirteen days after his eighteenth birthday, he was badly wounded and sent to an army hospital at Hampton, Virginia, where he died. Demobilization finally deprived Sylvanus of his profitable position in 1866, but he came home comfortably fixed and lived into his eightieth year.In the half-century since I first saw Daniel Beans statue, my impression of his war has changed dramatically. The air of tragedy lingers, but my childhood illusion of a simple struggle between unselfish patriotism and deluded principle has evaporated like morning mist, exposing a more complicated clash of less lofty motives. Thanks to Corporal Browns letters, though, the statue in the fork of the roads once again reflects my image of the entire epoch. William Marvel lives in South Conway.