July 13th, 1863, Monday

Manhattan, New York, U.S.

Draft Riots

It's been two years since the war started. The Union started drafting people, and the people hated it. Now they take to the streets to riot against it. The rioters were overwhelmingly white working-class men, mostly Irish or of Irish descent. And that's where I am now, standing in the crowd, protesting against drafting. We call it Draft Week, and it’s just begun.

Now, down on the street surrounded by others, I hold a sign that reads NO, DRAFT. I wore a long trench coat over my casual outfit and a hat covering my short brown hair. The building I stand in front of has smoke pouring out of every window. Some people go too far, I just want people to have a choice. In the distance I hear a loud scream, followed by several more. People started panicking, only a few looked unaffected, but we all reluctantly stood there waiting for what was to come.

Dozens of policemen came into view moments later, nightsticks in hand. People moved to avoid them, not wanting to be a target. The police attacked the crowd, people fell down and others screamed. People scattered, trying not to get hit. I dropped my sign and tried to get away, blending into the crowd. As I tried to hide in the crowd I tripped and fell to the ground. I tried to stand but was forced down by the crowd of people.

When I stood up something hard hit the back of my head and I fell once again, to the ground, and blacked out. When I came around my head was pounding and dots swam across my vision. When my vision cleared I sat in a large room with three walls made of stone with a barred window and one wall made of bars . All around the room people sat on benches, talking and waiting. A small group was huddled around the corner, looking over a guards shoulder outside the room to read the paper.

I walked over and read “119 or 120 people were killed out of the approximate 500 rioters. 3rd Avenue at 47th Street, the assistant 9th District provost Marshal's office was burned down, seeming to be the target of this riot. This was all the effect of a new federal draft law”

“Jacob Smith, front and center,” I moved to the cell door, and standing outside I saw a man in an Union officer outfit. “Yes sir,” I say. He hands me a piece of parchment. “For your crimes you are being drafted instead of going to jail, you will be my responsibility, don’t mess up,” I looked down at the parchment, confirming what this man told me about being drafted. Little did I know what was about to happen.

54th Massachusetts

30 days later

The Fifty-fourth Massachusetts was the first Northern black volunteer regiment enlisted to fight in the Civil War. Our army of 600 marched in the summer heat, clothes made of wool. Guns were shouldered on our backs, in one days time we would reach Massachusetts to storm Fort Wagner, which guarded the Port of Charleston. We came to a fork in the road and Commander Robert Gould Shaw shouted for us to stop. We came to a halt, awaiting our next command. We took a right and continued on. We marched for several more hours before we set up camp and ate. The night was quiet except for the soldiers whispering and the sound of forks hitting dinner plates.

I went to bed late that night, being on the first watch, but when I did go to sleep I had dreams of home, longing to return. But no matter how hard I wished, I was not going back home until the battle was over. I awoke the next morning to the smell of breakfast and the sounds of talking. I learned after the 30 days I spent that if I didn’t get up and eat soon I would go without food. I quickly got up and scrambled out to eat. After eating I took down my tent and got ready for the long days march to Fort Wagner

The Confederates looked up in surprise as we charged down the hill, at commander Shaw’s order the first row fired, leaving some Confederate soldiers dead. But the Confederates quickly came out of confusion and grabbed their guns, but the first row fired again. The many Confederates that remained fired at us, men fell left and right, the ones who stood behind them took their place.

Eventually I made it to the front, firing my rifle. We stopped running halfway down the hill, still shooting. The next group came down the hill, taking the places of the fallen. We later retreated to the top of the hill. The fighting went on, and exhaustion overtook us and after three days we retreated. The next day we returned and charged again. Men fell and supplies ran low, but we pushed forward, putting everything on the line.

Days later we finally won, after all that hard work, it finally paid off. When the men left were counted, we found that Two hundred and eighty of the 600 charging soldiers were killed, wounded or captured. That was later moved to two hundred and eighty one. We celebrated, but too soon. By the time I heard the final gunshot, it was too late. My back was turned but I knew what had happened, I was shot by a Confederate. Pain ripped through my body as I fell to the ground, I was the two hundred and eighty one casualty in the 54th Massachusetts.

White vs. Black Soldiers Comparison

I awoke later, still in pain, at the infirmary. As I sat there I thought of how unfair the war was. Just because people didn’t agree thousands of Americans died. People lost their family, children became orphans. And just because of the color of their skin, Native Americans and African Americans were treated poorly, not just in slavey but in the militia. They were supplied with weapons and uniforms that were inferior and of poor quality. While whites were provided with clean, new uniforms.