out by a private citizen. Go right up and tell my folks I am well. An
awful battle. Harder than Bull Run. MART.
[Written on an irregular scrap of brown paper.]
———————
_LIII_
NEAR WILLIAMSBURG, VA., _May 8, 1862_.
Have just come in from a trip over the battlefield, and was fortunate
enough to pick up the big sheet of paper on which I am writing this
letter. I will commence at the beginning and tell you all about it.
On Sunday morning, as soon as it was discovered that the rebels had
evacuated Yorktown, we were ordered to pack knapsacks and be ready to
march immediately. We had no time to cook rations, and went for two
days with only the fragments we happened to have in our haversacks. We
marched up over the rebel intrenchments and through Yorktown. The rebel
works were very strong and would have been a hard nut to crack. The
rebels had planted torpedoes along the road, but none of our regiment
were hurt by them. The road was in a horrible condition and badly
crowded, and we did not get along very fast. It was nine or ten o’clock
at night when we filed out into the woods by the side of the road and,
with all our harness on, laid down for such rest as one could get under
such conditions and in a drizzling rain. We were up at half-past four
the next morning and soon on the road again, up through the woods. We
had gone about a mile and a half when we came to a big slashing, where
the trees over an area about twice as large as Merrimack Common had
been felled, criss-cross, in every direction. Beyond this, a large open
plain, with a line of small forts, one of which was directly facing
the road up which we were advancing. Our regiment filed out and formed
line to the right of the road, and the Massachusetts First upon the
left. We threw out skirmishers and advanced up through the slashing. It
was rough navigating in that network of prostrate trees and interlaced
limbs and branches, as we had all our housekeeping outfits on our
backs. My haversack got caught and was torn to pieces, but I made that
good on the field the next day. We wormed our way ahead, up to the edge
of the open field, and there halted for our artillery and the rest of
the division to come up. We had a pretty lively time there, but nothing
very fierce. The rebels had four or five field pieces in the fort and
skirmishers scattered along the front in little pits. We distributed
ourselves behind stumps and logs, and quite a number had a genuine
earthwork, made by punching holes through a thick mass of dirt that
clung to the roots of an overturned tree. The cannon in the fort sent
a solid shot, every little while, smashing and crashing down through
the timber; but a number of our crack shots paid particular attention
to those guns, while others devoted their talents to educating the
rebels in those little picket holes. Perhaps half a dozen, selecting
some particular hole, would lay with their sights covering the little
mound of fresh dirt outside. The instant a head showed, there was
trouble in that pit. They soon got enough of it, and for a long time
the pits in front of the Second, for all we could see, might have been
so many graves. All this time the rain was pouring, and we were fairly
waterlogged. As business dragged, some of the men unfolded the little
sections of tent and spread them over branches for a shelter. Others
nursed up little fires and cooked a cup of coffee. Up to this time we
had not had many men hit. Lieut. Burnham, of Manchester, was shot in
the leg, and will, I am told, have to lose it. A man named Cole [Uriah
W., of Co. H] was killed by a cannon ball.
At length our artillery came up and went into position in front of us.
We lay supporting them an hour or two—and they were not having a very
hot time of it. Then in the woods to our left, beyond the slashing, a
tremendous fire of musketry broke loose. Volley followed volley, and
after a while it was evident the firing was coming nearer, which meant
that our troops in that part of the field were being driven back, and
the rebels were gaining ground towards us. They came upon us through
the slashing and along the edge of the field. I got in three or four
shots across the road—which was better than most of our fellows could
do—when the order was passed to fall back to the edge of the woods and
re-form. This was no boys’ play. Balancing on a log and looking for the
best path, my cap went flying and the bark from a limb I was holding
onto. I had no further doubts as to the proper course—a tunnel was
safer than an overhead bridge, just then, and the rest of the way I
kept as close to the ground as I could.
Once again out of the slashing and in line, we were ordered across the
road, where the entire regiment was deployed as skirmishers through
the woods some distance back from the slashing. Then we were ordered
to sail in, and moving forward we were soon in as lively a mix-up as
you could well imagine. The first squad of rebels I ran onto I mistook
for Eleventh Massachusetts men, there being a similarity of uniforms,
and I was going right up to them, when Al. Simmons shouted, “Look out,
Mart—those are rebels!” and fired. Quicker than you could say it,
I was behind a big tree, and the ball had opened. It was a regular
Indian fight, dodging through bushes and from tree to tree, sometimes
forward and sometimes back. There were no end of personal encounters,
and fights between squads and detachments, and all sorts of mixups,
some ludicrous and some tragic. “Heenan” had his usual luck, coming out
damaged but alive. He had a sudden and close collision with a rebel
who came up out of somewhere like a jumping-jack. Nich. grabbed the
reb’s bayonet and pushed it one side just as the fellow fired. He says
he intended to polish that fellow off with his fists, but two others
jumped in, and things were going hard with Nich., when some of us saw
his predicament and started for the rescue with a big whoop and empty
guns. They faded into the background, however, and we didn’t get one of
them. Nich. is now nourishing a somewhat lacerated powder-stained hand.
One of the funny incidents was when Dave Steele, a lieutenant in
Company G, made a dash into a squad of rebels, shouting, “Surrender,
you d— cusses, or I’ll blow you to Hell!” What he was going to do his
“blowing” with—as he had no arms but his sword—is still a question; but
the rebels took his word for it and dropped their guns.
Gardner [Orrin S.] of my company—said to be part Indian and who looks
it—was peekabooed and pestered by a couple of rebs in the cover of an
old rifle pit, until he got out of all patience, gave a wild Indian
war-whoop, and closed in like an express train and put a stop to any
further foolishness.
Toward the last of the fight, though, we had all we could do to keep
from being run over. From the way they swarmed in on our front it was
very evident the rebels were being heavily reinforced. We were in a
pretty solid line now, with stragglers from other regiments mixed in.
But we were getting short of cartridges. Hooker, plastered with mud
from head to foot, rode along the line and told us to hold that line
fifteen minutes longer. Back in the woods we heard a band strike up
and play “Yankee Doodle.” We were losing men rapidly. Captain Drown
was killed and others killed or wounded. Then our reserves came up,
paddling through the mud as fast as they possibly could, and we all
went in together and won out.
It was pretty near night when the fight was over and the regiment got
together, counted noses, and bivouacked a little ways back, in the
woods. We began to realize then that we were mighty hungry. But luck
came my way. Lym. Dickey brought in a prisoner that he got the drop on.
Lym. and I hitched up together that night, made the best shelter we
could with our pieces of tent, and took our rebel friend into the mess.
Lym. and I had oceans of sugar and coffee, and that was about all. Our
guest had a corn pone and a quantity of excellent bacon, but no coffee.
So we pooled our issues, had a most enjoyable supper, and snuggled in
together for a fairly comfortable night. In the morning we shook hands
with him, said good bye, and Dickey turned him over as a prisoner.
The day after the fight I went out over the whole battlefield, and a
dreadful sight it was. In an old Revolutionary rifle pit close to the
edge of the timber, where our last rush struck the main line, it was a
ghastly sight. In one spot seven bodies lay, literally, in a heap. They
were apparently cut off from rapid retreat by the barracade of felled
trees. Up half-way through the slashing I came into a path, hardly
wide enough to be called a roadway, which had been opened up for some
purpose. In this regiments of the Excelsior brigade had made their
fight and had suffered heavy losses. In some spots I could have walked
a considerable distance upon dead bodies. I followed this path out into
the woods at the left, where the Jerseys fought; and beyond them, dead
rebels scattered about. One of these had piled up a little cob-house
screen of rails, which was about as much protection as a pasteboard
box would have been. He was still there, prone on his breast, his gun
thrust through between two rails, a finger on the trigger, and a little
round hole in the top of his head.
The dead were lying in almost every conceivable position, sometimes
absolutely grotesque if it were not so pitiful. Some apparently never
changed the position of a muscle after they were struck—arms in
position as if loading; some still clutching their piece in one hand
and in the other the ramrod with the charge driven part way home. The
rebels had some Indians in this fight—I saw at least two lying among
the dead. The dead are not all buried yet, but are being covered up as
fast as the details can get to them. I have quite a number of bullets I
picked up, and buttons from the uniforms of dead rebels.
We will move on from here as soon as supplies come up, and will
probably have more fighting before we reach Richmond. It was awfully
rainy the day of the battle, but is sunny and beautiful now. I have
tried to give you some idea of what a time we had. I had just time to
write you the briefest sort of a note Wednesday morning. Did you get
it? I begin to feel now as though we should get through before many
months, for I know we are going to thrash them out before long.
———————
_LIV_
WILLIAMSBURG, VA., _May 11, 1862_.
We are now encamped on a large field just outside the city and close to
William and Mary College. I have had a chance to look the city over a
little, and find it a very homelike, cozy little burg. It is one of the
oldest towns in the United States, with many nice buildings and ancient
residences of the old Virginia gentry. The college is the oldest in
America. Washington, Scott and many other famous men were educated
here. On the college grounds is a rather badly-kept marble statue of
Lord Berkley, one of the old colonial Governors of Virginia.
The women here are the most rabid of all secessionists—fairly venomous.
Yesterday one of them, entirely unprovoked, hissed out to Gunnison,
“You vile wretch!” “Gunny” kept thinking it over, and getting madder
and madder, until today he stormed up to the house and demanded
satisfaction of the head of the household. The old man regretted the
unfortunate incident, and politely invited Gunnison to make the house
his home while in town; and Gunnison came back to camp not quite
determined whether he had won or lost.
Most of the public buildings here are being used as hospitals—full of
wounded rebels. I suppose they enjoyed the parade of Yankees when our
army passed through here—an almost uninterrupted stream of men for
three days. The gayest sight was when a regiment of 1600 lancers went
by. The rebs left a few cannon here, and in some places quantities of
shells which they evidently could not take along with them. They also
planted torpedoes in places, and a number of men were blown up. Some
were discovered before they were stepped on, and it is said General
McClellan has ordered that rebel prisoners be set to work digging them
up.
We are having glorious weather, clear and sunny, with the birds singing
merrily. And it seems rather nice to be in a city again, with signs
of civilization, albeit slightly ancient and mildewed. We are very
comfortably quartered now. The rebels left great numbers of big tents
[the old conical “Sibleys”] which we appropriated; and with only
three or four in a tent we are very far from being crowded. Yesterday
afternoon George Slade and I took a walk down to a little place about
two miles from here, called Cottage Creek. It is a delightful bit of
a place, where peace reigns in the midst of war. Three or four little
cottages, a picturesque old mill, with an ancient bridge over the
creek, make up as pretty a stage setting as one would see in many a day.
Beginning tomorrow, we will have to drill two hours a day as long as
we stay here. The general impression is that we will not be here many
days—not longer than until the prisoners are sent to some safer place.
The rebs left most of their wounded in our hands, and they have the
same care as our own. I had a talk with one of them who was at Bull
Run, and it was very interesting to hear him tell of the battle as he
saw it. He belongs to a Virginia regiment, and when the war broke out
was living near Alexandria. He says he has been at his home since the
war. It was lucky for him he was not caught, as his life might have
been the forfeit as a spy.
One of our “missing” men, of Co. G, was found in the brush yesterday,
where he had crawled out of the fight and died.
I hear that a lot of our men who were taken at Bull Run have been
exchanged and are at Fortress Monroe. Won’t we have a jubilee when they
get back! [As a matter of fact, one at least of these prisoners—George
C. Emerson of Company B—joined in season to take part in the fight, and
was killed.]
Gen. Grover, who has displaced Naglee as commander of this brigade, has
been appointed Military Governor of this district. I would like to look
this region over at my leisure, for a distance of a dozen miles or so,
it is so full of historic associations—Jamestown, Captain John Smith,
Pocahontas, Powhattan, and various other distinguished residents of the
long, long ago.
If it were not for home I think, on the whole, I should be quite well
contented with army life. But I guess this affair will be settled up
before long, and when sleighing-time comes in New Hampshire I will be
there to help you enjoy it.
———————
_LV_
CAMP NEAR CUMBERLAND, VA.,
_May 19, 1862_.
Just where we are camped now I cannot tell, except that it is in the
woods, within four miles of the enemy and nineteen from Richmond. We
left our camp at Williamsburg last Thursday morning and got in here
this afternoon. This is a heathenish country, swarming with unpleasant
neighbors other than rebels. Day before yesterday when I aroused from
a wayside nap, one of the little snakes—common here, but harmless—slid
out from under me. I gave a yelp and killed him as if he had been a
rattlesnake.
I thought I wrote you at the time about Solon Porter. He died at Camp
Beaufort, some time before we left there, of apoplexy. He was sitting
on his bunk, cracking a nut between his teeth, when he fell back,
unconscious, and lived but a short time. I was not tenting with him at
the time. He was the third of my Camp Sullivan tentmates to die.
This ink is simply awful, and Gunnison, who is writing out of the same
bottle, is expressing his opinion very freely. That sprig of geranium
you sent me was a fragrant reminder of home. I will inclose a sprig
of cedar from a tree just in front of my tent. When I can I gather a
quantity of these cedar branches for a bed.
A dear little baby rabbit just came running into this tent and we
caught him. The little rascal’s confidence—if that was what led him
here—was well placed. When I get through petting him I’ll take him out
into the woods and turn him loose in the safest place I can find.
———————
_LVI_
WHITE OAK SWAMP, VA., _May 26, 1862_.
We are camped now some ways beyond Bottom Bridge, across the
Chickahominy. We have had a pretty strenuous time of it for the past
week or two, a good part of the time wallowing through swamps, and our
grub supplies very irregular and uncertain. I have had very little
to eat besides hard crackers. My first move when I get “out of the
wilderness” will be to get a good square meal with all the fixings. In
getting to this point, we have, a good part of the time, been literally
ploughing through swamp mud. Sometimes, where the road ran through a
particularly bad morass, the road was built up and retained by logs
along the side, upon which we picked our way after a fashion. But when
one slipped or lost his balance it was a serious matter. And when we
marched in the night-time it was a double terror. The night we arrived
at Bottom Bridge, about midnight and dark as Egypt, I was absolutely
cased in mud, and my gun as well, and I had to lie down as I was and
wait for daylight to get down to the river for a cleanup.
We are now camped on a hill in the swamp [Poplar Hill,] in a nice clean
field of clover. It is going to rain right away, but we have pitched
our tent with extra care, have dug a good trench around it to carry the
water off unless we have a flood. It rains very often, and the other
day we had the fiercest hail storm I ever saw. The stones were very
large and came down like cannon balls. I was out of camp and got behind
a house, but was well pelted for all that.
When I read the new call for more troops I gave up all idea of a speedy
return home. We expect a battle here before Richmond any day, but
whether we will get into it or not depends on circumstances. Our camp
strategists have got it figured out that we will be used to cut off the
retreat of the rebel forces at Fort Darling.
———————
_LVII_
FAIR OAKS, NEAR RICHMOND, VA.,
_Sunday, June 15, 1562_.
It has been some time since I last wrote, and you are doubtless getting
anxious. We are now camped on the battlefield of Fair Oaks. We were
not in the battle, but were in line, with skirmishers thrown out and
batteries posted, waiting for the attack that never came and listening
to the rattle of musketry off to our right. We did not come here until
the second day after the fight. Before we started all our baggage was
sent to the rear, and with my knapsack went my writing materials. We
are having rough duty now. Every third day the entire regiment goes on
picket duty for twenty-four hours, which means, as a rule, not even
a cat-nap in that time. I was just settling myself for a good sleep
today, when the cry went up that our knapsacks had come; so I sorted
mine out from the heap and set to work to write some letters.
We arrived here about three o’clock in the afternoon and immediately
went on duty for twenty-four hours. It rained all night—a steady
downpour—and the whole country was flooded. Coming up, we waded for
considerable distances through ponds from ankle to knee deep. Here
it was just mud and water. The trenches we would have jumped into
in case of an attack were half filled with water. Even if it had
been permitted, there was no chance to lie down—no chance for much
of anything but to stand up and take it through the long hours of
the night. I did manage to get a few slicks of cordwood together and
cobbled up a roost that gave two or three of us a sort of perch out of
the mud. Directly in front of me lay a dead horse and a dead rebel.
Within a short distance were perhaps a hundred dead horses—all killed
when the rebels made their rush on our batteries on the first day.
These have about all been cleaned up now, by burning, wood being piled
upon them and great bonfires made.
The battlefield presented one of the most horrible sights imaginable.
Many bodies of men killed in the later stages of the battle were still
unburied. Some were in shallow graves, but as a rule burial consisted
merely in covering the bodies as they lay. The heavy rains, washing
away the covering, had left many gruesome sights. I was an advanced
picket the other night, my position being in the midst of several dirt
piles, with enough in sight to show that each covered a dead rebel.
That day Eugene Hazewell accidentally shot himself through the foot and
had to have a toe taken off. We were posted so near the rebels that
we could hear them talk. We had orders not to shoot wantonly at their
pickets, and we understood they had similar instructions; but if so
they disregarded them and took a shot at a Yankee whenever they could
draw a bead on one.
———————
_LVIII_
FAIR OAKS, NEAR RICHMOND, VA.,
_June 22, 1862_.
Have been out with a work party all the forenoon, and go on picket
at three in the afternoon, to remain twenty-four hours, and feel as
if I was earning my salary. There can be no question but what we are
putting in full time. We are virtually on duty every minute, for, even
in camp, we are on the alert ready to turn out for a fight at any
moment. Yesterday the rebels attempted to drive in our pickets, and
the result was a very lively little skirmish, as our boys had not got
quite ready to come in. A few days ago the Sixteenth Massachusetts
made a reconnoissance, attacking the rebel pickets for the purpose of
ascertaining their position and strength. It cost the Sixteenth four
or five men killed and eighteen or twenty wounded. The Sixteenth has
recently been attached to our brigade.
I am as well contented in the army as I could expect to be, but still
look forward with pleasant anticipations to the time when I will be
home again. I was talking with Frank Robinson today about the good
times we would have in Manchester. [He was killed, two months later, at
Bull Run.] I had a letter from a friend in Great Falls—one of my old
school chums—and he had so much to say of the happy times in the old
Manchester High School that I had to pinch myself to keep from getting
homesick.
We are camped in a swamp, and yet water is one of the scarce articles.
We have had no rain for several days, and the sun has dried up most of
the surface water, so it is no easy matter to even fill our canteens.
———————
_LIX_
FAIR OAKS, NEAR RICHMOND, VA.,
_June 26, 1862_.
Since I last wrote you I have been in two lively fights—one last Monday
and the other yesterday. Monday afternoon our pickets were ordered
to advance and drive the rebel pickets as far as they could. Company
I happened to be one of the companies on the advanced line, so in we
went. It was a sneak-up, crawling through the thick swamp brush till we
struck the rebel pickets. Jesse Dewey and I, crawling along together,
had the luck to open the ball, and in one minute there was lively
popping along a half mile front. The rebels had no call to make a very
stiff fight—and they didn’t. Gen. Grover, mounted, with his upper works
all that was visible above the bushes, directed the movements, and we
rushed them back a long distance. Then their reserves came swarming
in—and we got back. Our loss was very light. In Company I only one man
wounded.
Yesterday the entire Division advanced over the same ground, and we
had a mighty stiff fight [battle of Oak Grove.] We found the rebels in
heavy force this time, and it was only after a hard and bloody fight
that we drove them back over practically the same ground we had covered
on Monday. Only one man was killed in my company—John Brown, a fat,
hearty, round-faced, good-natured boy as ever lived. Company B had over
twenty men killed or wounded out of forty-six that went into the fight.
Gen. McClellan arrived on the field in the afternoon and complimented
us very highly for our work during the day.
ON JAMES RIVER,
_Wednesday, July 2, 1861_.