are not enough to keep me from feeling right chilly some nights. And I
will have to draw an overcoat before long—something I have not felt the
need of for some time. We went up to the fort today to report to the
engineer for fatigue duty, but he was not at home and we didn’t feel we
had any call to hang around waiting for him.
———————
_LXXII_
CAMP NEAR ALEXANDRIA, VA.,
_October 28, 1862_.
My company went on picket last Saturday. It was a most disagreeable
outing. A miserable rain storm came on in the night, and when the
boys, after a very tardy relief, dragged themselves back to camp, they
were cold, wet, bedraggled and discouraged. The rain held up yesterday
forenoon, but the wind kept up in a wild gale. I hardly ever saw such
a blow. Some of our tents were blown over. The tent-pins of my tent
pulled out and I thought at one time the whole outfit was going sure
enough. But we managed to anchor it, and today is one of the most
delightful imaginable.
An order was recently issued by the War Department designed to fill
up the regular cavalry regiments at the expense of the volunteers.
It permits the transfer of ten men from each volunteer company, by
re-enlistment for three or five years, or to serve out the unexpired
part of their present enlistment. Lots of our boys have been getting
sour over some of the conditions here and were more than anxious to
try a change. So yesterday ten from this company marched down to the
recruiting station at Alexandria and joined the cavalry. When Col.
Marston heard of this he was mad as a hornet, and when they shouldered
their knapsacks this morning and marched away to their new command,
he sent a guard down to arrest and bring them back. But Col. Starr
ordered the guard away, telling them they had no business there, and
that the men now belonged to the Second U. S. Cavalry. It is really a
pretty hard blow to the old company, and makes me feel a little blue
and lonesome. The lost men are among the cream of the old company—such
men as “Heenan” and Perk. Lane and ’Gene Hazewell and my bunkie Rod.
Manning.
We have not a quarter of a regiment to do duty now, and yet we are
doing the work of a full regiment. And the people in New Hampshire
think we are resting up! Why, I am now, and for some time have been,
doing heavy guard duty every other day. There are lots of mighty cross
men here, just now, who blame some of the officers for everything that
goes wrong, and the dearest wish of many is to get out of the regiment
as soon as possible.
I am sure the report that Charlie Smiley is in a hospital near
Washington is incorrect. We have heard nothing of it here, and I fear
we will never hear him sing those songs of his any more.
I began this letter this morning, and now it is evening. I have written
little snatches as I had opportunity through the day. ’Gene Hazewell
and one or two more of the “cavalry boys” have just come up visiting.
They go over to Washington tomorrow. Col. Marston managed to get some
sort of a veto put on any more cavalry enlistment down where our boys
went, but some thirty or forty from other companies went off today
and found another place where they could enlist, so they beat the old
Colonel after all. Everything I can hear the boys talk about now is
“_Cavalry_.” Rod. Manning has just come in to bid me good bye. Good old
Rod!—I almost wish I was going with him.
There is any quantity of noise about camp, and the new band of the
Eleventh Massachusetts is contributing to the general hilarity by
putting in some of its loudest work. It is getting awfully cold
now—frost last night—and I can hardly hold my pen in my fingers.
———————
_LXXIII_
CAMP NEAR ALEXANDRIA, VA.,
_October 30, 1862_.
Five minutes ago I received a letter addressed in your familiar hand.
Four minutes and fifty-nine seconds ago I tore open the envelope.
I extracted, first, a note, which I supposed you had inclosed from
Mary. I opened it. “_Dear Brother_” stared me full in the face.
The note surely was not for me, but for brother James—just your
carelessness, sending it with the wrong letter. I unfolded your letter,
and—what!—“_Dear Brother!_”—there it was again. The whole huge joke was
clear. I hope James was not as grievously disappointed when he got my
letter as I was when I got his. I return it, unread if not unopened.
———————
_LXXIV_
MANASSAS, VA., _November 4, 1862_.
We are once more out here at famous old Manassas. We left Alexandria
Saturday afternoon, marching eight or nine miles in the direction of
Fairfax Court House. Sunday we got in seventeen miles and camped by the
side of Bull Run creek. Yesterday forenoon we marched up here—about
three miles—and by night had our canvas city of little shelter tents
set up and in good running order. Bill Ramsdell and I hitched up
together, and we have got as cozy and comfortable a mansion as one
could desire. There is any quantity of stuff lying around loose, and we
had no difficulty in finding canvas to close up one end of the tent and
boards enough to floor it. Then we got a quantity of hay for bedding,
and what more could we wish for? We expect our big Sibley tents along
soon, but Bill and I are well enough off as we are.
You know the rebel army occupied this place last winter and strongly
fortified it. Their fortifications are on every side, very rough, but
very strong, and now covered with weeds. But a little ways from our
camp, littering the railroad tracks and the ground on either side, is
the wreckage of the railroad trains destroyed by Jackson in the raid
that culminated in the last Bull Run battle. In some places are great
piles of shovel blades, in others carbines—in fact, almost everything
in the shape of army supplies and equipments—nothing left but the
irons. Near by are the rebel log barracks, which we are tearing down
for firewood. We have the entire division, now commanded by Sickles,
here at Manassas, with about thirty pieces of artillery. I presume we
will stay here some time, although it will depend in a great measure
upon the movements of the main army. I see the mail bag has just gone
out, so there is no chance for this to go today. I hear, also, that
there are lots of apples outside our picket line, and I am going out to
see about it.
———————
_LXXV_
CAMP ON CENTREVILLE HEIGHTS, VA.,
_Sunday, November 9, 1862_.
You will see we have moved again. We remained at Manassas only two
nights, when the Second Regiment was sent over here. Centreville
Heights are four or five miles from Manassas, and, like that place,
strongly fortified. There are redoubts and rifle pits almost without
end, and the rebel barracks form a veritable log city. We relieved the
120th New York, which we found here, and now have the whole thing to
ourselves. It has been a busy camp since we arrived, as the approaching
winter warns us to prepare for storms. The abandoned rebel camps are a
rich quarry of building materials—boards, nails, bricks, &c.—with which
we have built a veritable shanty city on the ridge. Bill Ramsdell and
I have put together one of the cutest little mansions that ever was.
The ground dimensions are about seven feet by six, six feet high at the
eaves. The fireplace and door take up the entire front, and the house
is tight, snug and warm. The fireplace works to a charm, and there
is a delicious sensation of coziness in sitting by your own cheerful
fireside. We have an unlimited supply of wood, and tonight will sit
and bask and chat and dream. We have a long shelf across the rear end,
a mantle-shelf over the fireplace, and tomorrow will put in a bunk, a
little table and some stools. Our fireplace is built up of flat rocks,
the chimney of bricks, and topped out with a big iron kettle minus a
bottom. And our cabin has a good board floor. Now if they will only
let us stay here a while and enjoy the fruits of our labors we will be
a thousand times repaid. The winter season has fairly set in. Friday
we had the first snow of the season and it was bitter cold. I happened
to be on guard that day, and I had a pretty bleak time of it. My post
was in a redoubt, from which I had the whole country clear to the Blue
Ridge spread out before me like a map. The wind whistled and the snow
blew, and, crouching under the protecting walls of the work, I tried
to extract some comfort from the situation. When I went on at night I
decided to have a fire, and I gathered up wood and built a good one in
one of the angles of the fort. It was a little irregular for a sentry
on post, and still was the right thing under the circumstances, and I
got lots of comfort out of it. From my post I could trace the routes I
followed on my two pilgrimages to Bull Run.
A long wagon train has come up, going out to McClellan, and six
companies are going along with it as a guard. I am glad our company is
not in the detail. They are to take four days’ rations. The village
of Centreville is close by our camp—a typical southern, village of
twenty-five or thirty houses, mostly deserted and all very dilapidated.
It is now evening, and I have been writing in the glow of a good fire.
Just a few minutes ago Bill got up and went out of doors. In a few
minutes the smoke was pouring into the room like a coalpit. I stood it
till I was in danger of choking, then plunged outside just in season
to see Bill dodge out of sight up the street, and to find a big pan
covering the top of the chimney. When Bill came in I laid it to him
and he owned up. He said he tried to peek into the tent, but the smoke
was so thick he couldn’t see anything, and he waited until he thought
I never would be driven out. Bill is a good deal of a character. He is
smart, fine-looking, well-educated, and an adventurer, having spent
many years in California. His home is in Milford, and he went to
Portsmouth as a lieutenant in the Milford company—and he was the best
posted one in the line. When his company was broken up, he was too
patriotic to back out, and after looking the ground over, he enlisted
as a private in this company.
This very day terminates one-half of my enlistment—have turned the
corner and am now headed for home.
Bill wants to go to bed, so good night.
———————
_LXXVI_
CENTREVILLE HEIGHTS, VA.,
_November 16, 1862_.
Have had delightful weather the past week, but today it has come off
colder and looks as if it was going to snow. I do not care if it
does, having a snug, warm house and plenty of firewood. During the
week a great many of the boys have visited the Bull Run battlefield.
Some Company C boys who went over the first of the week found Frank
Robinson’s skeleton. It was fully identified by a peculiar filling of
the teeth.
“Curley” [Granville S.] Converse and I took a day off and went over
together. That field, where the battle-lines locked horns, was a field
of horrors. The hasty and incomplete burials—in many instances no
burial at all—with the work of the elements for months, had made a
ghastly mess of things. Human skulls rolling about, with fragments of
disjointed skeletons here and there. We found the body of one man lying
all alone far out in the open field, which had lain undiscovered and
undisturbed right where the poor fellow fell and died. There was one of
the “missing,” whose friends only know that he was lost in that fight.
I could have gathered wagon loads of bullets, shell fragments and other
debris. I send one bullet, with fragment of blue cloth attached, that
tells its own story. It struck some poor fellow, going right through
him, flattening on a bone as it passed and making a hook which tore
off a fragment of blouse as it came out. But enough of horrors for one
letter.
On our way back to camp “Curley” and I struck it rich. As we crossed
Bull Run creek at the stone bridge we noticed, on the flats below, an
old sow with a litter of pigs. And as we were studying the situation
reinforcements came up—a fellow from some New York regiment. He had his
old Belgian rifle with him, I had my six-shooter, and “Curley” had his
jackknife. We held a council of war, decided on a plan of operations,
and when we got through we had three of those pigs. They were neatly
and expeditiously dressed and “Curley” and I headed for camp with a
fine supply of pig pork swinging from a pole between us. Bill and I
have been living on fresh pork ever since—pork steak, pork chops, pork
cutlets, pork chitterlings. And Bill rigged up a wire contraption and
roasted one choice cut by hanging before the fire.
Friday night we had quite a flutter in camp in anticipation of an
attack. As near as I can find out, some place fifteen or twenty miles
from here was threatened by some rebel cavalry sometime or other, and
our super-alert officers determined not to be caught napping. So along
in the night the men were routed up and ordered to pack up ready to
march at a moment’s notice, and to sleep with all their equipments on.
Bill and I packed our blankets, but were not foolish enough to get into
our harness—time enough for that after there was an alarm. And after
a while, having discussed the situation and the probabilities, and
feeling the need of our blankets, we pulled them out, made ourselves
comfortable, and are still alive to tell the tale.
We have a battery of artillery here with us, two pieces in each of
three redoubts. They are now surrounding the redoubts with an abattis
of felled trees, the limbs and branches sharpened and pointed outward.
It makes a very troublesome thing to climb over, particularly of a dark
night.
Bill and I are seriously considering the advisability of enlarging our
house. I think it probable we will tackle the job within a few days.
We are also planning to take a little trip for a winter supply of
walnuts and pork, both of which grow wild and are quite abundant out
in the country. If we had a shot gun we could get any quantity of gray
squirrels. If we get into any place this winter where we are reasonably
sure of stopping, about the first thing I will do will be to send home
for a box of good things to eat.
There is a little girl here in Centreville that I have taken quite a
fancy to, she looks so much like you. She is about eight years old, and
I saw her while on guard duty. She has features like you, hair like
yours, and when she smiles her cheeks dimple up just as yours do. Yet
she is a little slave girl, just for that drop of negro blood that I
would never suspect.
* * * It is evening now, and I have seated myself on the edge of our
bunk to finish my letter. Bill is sprawled out beside me, reciting
poetry by the yard. We had a dress parade at sunset, Major Bailey in
command. He has got a monstrous big overcoat, to match his gloves, hat,
and shoulder-straps, and when I first saw him coming I thought it was a
woman. I expect to be on guard tomorrow. Our detail for guard duty now
is two men a day from each company. As Company I now has only fifteen
for duty, this brings us on guard about once a week. I heard somebody
in the street say, just now, that Hooker has ordered us to report to
him at the front. I am not over-anxious to get out of my comfortable
little nest here, but if we are to go we will be delighted to serve
again under glorious old Joe Hooker.
———————
_LXXVII_
CAMP AT WOLF RUN SHOALS, ON OCCOQUAN CREEK, VA.,
_November 23, 1862_.
I have just finished reading letters from you and Addie that came in
this morning. My fingers are so cold I can hardly clutch the pen, and
the wind fairly howls as it comes tearing up the gorge. We left our
Centreville camp Tuesday and arrived here the next day. Up to yesterday
noon it rained without cessation, and as we trudged along through the
mud and rain, or shivered in our wet beds with no protection but our
little pieces of shelter-tent, you may be sure we thought of the happy
homes we had left at Centreville. This is one of the wildest places I
have seen in Virginia, the Occoquan rushing down through gloomy gorges
clothed in a dense vegetation. The river here is about as wide as Elm
street, and only to be crossed at fords, and at this season of the year
wading rivers has its disagreeable features. On the crest commanding
this ford the rebels had two forts, and along the hillside, between the
forts and river, a line of rifle pits. Our regiment is camped on the
hillside, between the forts and pits, and the declivity above us is so
steep as to be almost a precipice.
Our entire division is now assembled in this immediate vicinity. The
wind blows bitter cold today, and there is a good fire going in front
of every tent. Bill is sitting on a half-barrel, outside the tent,
writing letters, and I am on my blankets at the portal. Every few
minutes we have to stop and thaw out at the fire.
Bill and I have really been living pretty high on this expedition. We
lugged soft bread enough in our haversacks and knapsacks so that we
still have a good supply left. The day we got here I waded back across
the creek and went on an exploring expedition. Away back in the woods
I came upon a little clearing. In it was an abandoned cabin, and it
was a picture of desolation. I imagine there was a tragedy here. There
were the ruins of a garden patch which evidently had been raided and
plundered by vagabonds like myself. But they had not made a clean
harvesting, and ploughing around with a sharp stick I managed to turn
up quite a quantity of excellent potatoes. I also found some turnips
and onions, and some fairly good apples, and came back to camp loaded
with truck. We had fried chicken yesterday morning. Bill borrowed my
revolver, went off on a scout, and came back with the bird. I asked him
if he shot it or bought it; I suspect the latter. There are quantities
of walnuts, butternuts and persimmons about here. These last are a
wild plum, growing on a tree looking much like an apple tree. They are
awfully puckery when green, and sickish sweet when dead ripe.
Two days before we left Centreville Johnny Ogden’s wife came out to see
him. It is no place for a woman, and my opinion is she had better have
stayed at home. She has had a chance to see some of the rough side of
campaigning. All that could be done has been done for her convenience
and comfort. She has a fully inclosed tent here, thickly bedded with
hay—the best quarters in camp.
I have some hopes now that this awful war will be over before many
months. We all have confidence in Burnside and are hoping he will lead
us to victory. “Officers’ Call” has just sounded, and I am afraid it
means orders to march.
P. S.—It was an inspection, and we are now ordered to carry an extra
pair of shoes in our knapsacks. That looks like some traveling. One
pair of my size will be about all I will care to tote.
———————
_LXXVIII_
CAMP OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, VA.,
_Sunday, November 30, 1862_.
This is the last day of Fall. Tomorrow commences the Winter campaign,
which, if carried on, will necessarily be one of privations and
hardships. We arrived in our present position day before yesterday, and
are encamped, with the rest of the Army of the Potomac, opposite the
ancient city of Fredericksburg, which, with the rest of the territory
on that side of the Rappahannock, is held by the rebel army. I can
distinctly see their camps and camp fires from where I am sitting. All
the New Hampshire troops now in Virginia are camped right here within
a distance of a mile or two and I have met hundreds of old friends and
acquaintances. I have seen James several times, and we had a hearty
laugh over that mix up you made in our letters.
I am going over to the cavalry, right away, to get something to
eat. The lean years follow the fat years and the famine follows the
feast—and I am almost starved. Have been on short allowance for
three days. Sutlers are simply giving their goods away—butter, 50
cents; cheese, 45 cents; tobacco, $2.00 a pound—and everything else
in proportion. We have not had a mail for several days, but Bill
Pendleton, our mail agent, tells me there will be one tonight.
Just this moment I have heard something that encourages me to have
hopes that I may see you before long. Johnny Ogden told Bill Ramsdell
that Colonel Marston told his (Johnny’s) wife that the time was
approaching when the question of this regiment going home would be
presented in such a manner that it could not be refused. He thought,
though, we would stay and see the Fredericksburg affair through.
We have just got an order for inspection this afternoon, and the men
are sitting around on the ground taking their guns to pieces to clean
them. I might as well get busy with the rest.
———————
_LXXIX_
CAMP IN THE MUD,
OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, VA.,
_December 5, 1862_.
I intend only to _begin_ this letter today, as I cannot hold on long
in my present position—the ground for a seat, my knees for a writing
desk, and my fingers blue with cold. A cold, drizzling rain set in
today, which drove me under my shelter tent. Every little while a
drop will splash down over my paper, and I cannot straighten up
without hitting my head and shoulders on the canvas. Sally Shepherd’s
brother—“Doctor”—was over here yesterday from the Ninth Regiment.
_Saturday, December 6._
You see I didn’t get a great ways on your letter yesterday. The rain
changed to snow and beat in at the open end of the tent, so I had to
leave off writing and get boughs to close it up. This done, Bill and I
rolled ourselves up in our blankets and did not rout out until supper
time. As soon as supper was swallowed we denned in again and did not
dig out until morning. It snowed considerable during the night and our
light tent sagged with the weight of the snow, but, curled up like two
bears in winter quarters, we were very snug and warm.
We have just drawn new clothing, and I was getting in need of it. Bill
and I have also come into possession of two extra pieces of shelter
tent, so we can now close our house in on all sides; and when we get
the rubber blankets we are expecting we will be pretty well heeled for
winter.
_Sunday, December 7._
We are expecting to march soon with eight or ten days’ rations in our
haversacks and on the wagons. We are expecting orders to cook extra
rations right away. A good many troops are embarking at Belle Plain,
eight or ten miles below here, but for what destination I do not know.
All the line officers are confident we are going home before long. I
understand the Adjutant told some of the boys who were transferred to
the Regulars that the regiment was going home soon; but that may have
been simply to make them regret their desertion of the Second.
It looks like winter now—as it is. The ground is covered with snow
and the wind blows cold. Woe be to him who has no overcoat. We are
beginning to realize the beauties of a winter campaign. But the
poorly-clad rebels must suffer much more than we do. Deserters tell us
a great many are barefoot, and that General Lee has issued instructions
for them to make moccasins of the raw hides of their cattle.
I am on police duty today, so between lugging water for the cooks,
wood for my fire, and writing letters, I will manage to make a fairly
busy day. Johnny Ogden’s wife has gone home. There is a story that
two men were found dead in their tents last night in the camp of the
Seventeenth Maine—probably frozen to death, as it was bitter cold.
As for myself, I am equipped now so I sleep as well as if I was on a
feather bed. There are more than twenty stories afloat about our going
home.
———————
_LXXX_
IN CAMP OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, VA.,
_Tuesday Evening, Dec. 16, 1862_.
There has been a terrible battle, in which New Hampshire has borne her
full share and lost many a loyal son. Thursday we began to lay pontoon
bridges at points about two miles apart, on which to cross over and
attack the rebels on the heights around Fredericksburg. The rebels
vigorously opposed this work, especially at the upper bridge, crossing
into the city, and there was heavy skirmishing and a tremendous
artillery fire before the bridges were laid and the army commenced
crossing. Our regiment crossed Friday night, at the lower pontoons,
which we were at once stationed to guard. The great fight took place on
Saturday, when thousands of men were killed or wounded. Our regiment
was not engaged that day, and by climbing a little elevation near the
bridges I could see the fringe of the fight, at long range, over the
trees and houses of Fredericksburg. Our men advanced with the utmost
bravery, but the rebels had an enormous advantage in position, upon the
hills and behind breastworks, and our men charged across the open plain
only to be slaughtered by thousands.