In compliance with your orders I left the bivouac of the regiment
on the Hagerstown road beyond Lietersburg last evening, and
reported to General Knipe for picket duty. Upon filing into the
road we found a company of the Seventy-First, N.Y., and a squad of
the Third Pennsylvania Cavalry awaiting us. Reporting to the
General we took the right of the Seventy-First, and with the
cavalry in advance moved out on the Hagerstown road across a stone
bridge to a point designated on the diagram by a haystack, at which
point, by direction of the General, the reserve was stationed.
After giving me instructions as to the direction in which he wished
the line of pickets extended, and orders to hold the point to the
latest possible moment, and under no circumstances to lose the
bridge in our rear, the General returned to the brigade, and I
proceeded to post the picket line.
The cavalry in the mean time had pushed forward on the road to hill
(No. 1 on the diagram) when they encountered a vidette of the
enemy's cavalry, which they drove from the position.
The hill being an excellent point for observation, a vidette of our
cavalry was posted at that point. A chain of infantry pickets was
thrown out on either flank towards the woods on our right and left,
the sentinels for which were furnished in due proportion from my
own and the company of the Seventy-First. The cavalry vidette
reported that the rebels could be heard moving about all night.
At daylight we stood to arms, and the cavalry were sent out as far
as the second hill, but found no enemy in sight.
I learned from a man living just beyond our line that the rebels in
force, of all arms, had passed, the afternoon before (the 11th), in
two columns, one keeping the road, and the other following the
fields in a line parallel with the road. From this and other
information obtained, I have no doubt that the main body of the
rebels were last night in and around Hagerstown, which is about
four miles from where our pickets were posted. At six o'clock this
morning I was ordered to draw in the pickets and return to the
column, which we found lying in the road where we rejoined it.
In closing this brief report, Colonel, I beg leave to say that
while I never had a doubt as to the behavior of the Twenty-Third as
a regiment, I was unprepared to meet with the cheerful obedience to
orders which sent individuals into almost isolated positions where
they had every reason to suppose that the enemy was within a few
rods of them, and where the darkness was so intense as to limit the
vision to a space of a few feet.
Very respectfully,
C. E. GOLDTHWAIT,
Capt. Co. "B", 23d Reg. N.G.S.N.Y.,
Com'g Pickets.
Recalling to mind all the circumstances of the case, there is something
in the thought of that night's bivouac which is awe-inspiring;--three
or four thousand men massed in a field sleeping; their stacked arms
standing over them like sentinels; a thick fog encompassing them, and
affording cover to an enemy to approach unseen; that enemy within easy
striking distance, at bay, and watching doubtless for an opportunity to
strike a sudden blow. The night passed quietly however, nothing being
heard of the enemy, and we slept pretty well with the ghostly fog for
our coverlet.
_Sunday, 12th._--About six o'clock, after breakfasting very soberly
and contentedly on hard tack and water, we got in motion again. A
countermarch of a mile brought us to Lettersburg, a poor village of a
dozen indifferent houses, through which we passed the evening before
almost without noticing it. Here we turned off to the right, taking
the Cavetown road. We crept along, continually halting, and reached
Cavetown at noon, some seven miles south-east of Lettersburg, our path
for the last mile being across fields and up hill to an extended
plateau overlooking the village. Here, while resting, we were overtaken
by a fierce thunder-storm. Six or eight miles in front of us to the
eastward, South Mountain stood out in bold relief; and the peals of
thunder reverberating against its sides made the valley ring again. The
place takes its name from a natural cave near the spot where we were
halted, and which afforded shelter to some of us from the shower. Here
a cow, as wise as ourselves in this particular, had taken refuge, and
kindly supplied us a few drops of milk. The art of extracting this
nutritious liquid we learned at the outset of our campaign, and found
the knowledge useful not unfrequently as we went along. Hard tack was
no such delicious viand as made us despise the free gift of the cow. We
found in the cave also what refreshed us almost as much--pure cold
water. It was held in honey-comb cells or cups formed in the rock,
twenty or more in number, holding three to six gallons each, the whole
together forming an irregular shelf along one side of the cavern. There
were dark passages and mysterious inner chambers, vaguely reported
to be half a mile in extent, but we had no time to make further
explorations. Before the shower ceased we were ordered to move, and
proceeded down the face of the hill to the selected halting ground on
the Hagerstown pike, a little out of the village. Here the column made
bivouac, and guns were planted commanding the road to the front.
The rain continued to fall, and in such torrents as to inundate the
camping ground. The air was filled with electricity, the crashing
thunder reverberating almost incessantly for half an hour through the
valley; and mournful to relate, some poor fellows of the Fifty-Sixth
Regiment, N.Y., who had imprudently taken refuge under a tree, were
struck by the electric fluid, and one of them killed.
The state of the ground compelled us to improvise dry beds, which we
did by taking fence rails and laying them side by side on the ground.
The idea of lying down to sleep on such a style of mattress was
preposterous to most of us; still we could not deny that it had the
first requisite of a bed, viz., dryness. Any one who has slept directly
upon ploughed, stony ground, as was often our lot, knows how difficult
it is to adjust the weary body to the crags and canyons of the
surface--for the irregularities grow to be such before morning--and how
the rest continues to be broken, night after night, until the flesh has
become ferruginous, and the nerves indifferent to the welfare of the
body, which no longer demands a nice adjustment of particulars, but
finds sound sleep on a pile of big stones with the head resting on a
stump. As we were most of us yet in our infancy as campaigners, we had
not reached this perfection of indifference; and accordingly were
delighted to find how nicely we could fit ourselves in among the rails.
Our sole reliance for rations appearing now to be upon the hard tack in
our haversacks, eked out by an occasional loaf of bread, a jar of
butter, apple sauce, or plum sauce which the company foragers were
lucky enough to pick up, there was great temptation whenever we came to
a halt to indulge in a little desultory foraging on private account;
and as we were now in a farming country there was considerable of this
done. But if the sight of a distant farm house, with the hope of
chickens and cherry trees swimming before the mind, tempted any of us
to indulge without leave in this agreeable recreation so long as to
miss a roll-call, we had a vivid consciousness of sundry extra detail
duties of police or guard awaiting us on our return. This gave a zest
to the enjoyment of the stolen furlough, though it was not apt to be
considered a severely "healthy" termination of an hour off duty. These
penalties were a wiser disciplinary regimen than a rigid system of
provost guards would have been, since it saved the strength of the
regiment for the next day's march, and put the drudgeries of camp duty
upon those who had fairly earned the right, and were also best able to
perform them.
Before the afternoon had passed, however, our commissariat was amply
provided for. Several fat steers were driven into camp, slaughtered and
divided up among the hungry regiments; while the company cooks were not
slow in doing their parts. Some of us had got by hook or by crook a
cake of chocolate, and some a little coffee or tea, which gave rise to
a good deal of lively cup and kettle boiling on private account, which
kept the fires going briskly till dark.
The principal ingredient of some of the beverages which tasted so
deliciously on that occasion, as well as some of the soups, etc., it
may not be amiss to reveal, now that it is all past; though at the time
it was judiciously kept a secret, doubtless. In a field near by there
was a pretty brook half hidden among grass and bushes. The men of
various regiments soon spied it out, and straight-way it was lined with
bipeds, of whom it is enough to say that they were travel-stained, who
stood washing in it their persons and their clothes. Its course lay
across the field to the road, where it was caught in a horse-trough. To
this trough came file after file of men with great black kettles to be
filled. The color of the water was such as to excite the indignant
protest of every one who came there to draw, against the scores of
animals in United States uniform who went above the trough to wash,
instead of below. But it was of no avail; the fringe of washers was
constantly replenished by fresh comers, and the water was constantly
drawn below; and there was made of it, no doubt, excellent soup,
coffee, tea, chocolate, and whatever other delicious thing the
regimental or private commissariat afforded. But lest some reader
should be offended by this peep behind the scenes, it may be stated
that there was another fountain whence some of the regiments drew,--a
well at a neighboring farm-house which gave pure water, until it was
pumped dry!
By this time General Meade with the bulk of his army was confronting
the enemy, who had taken up "a strong position on the heights near the
marsh which runs in advance of Williamsport". Lee had been busily
engaged securing his retreat by rebuilding the pontoon bridge at
Falling Waters which General French had partially destroyed, and was,
no doubt, anxiously awaiting the subsidence of the Potomac to enable
him to use the fords so as to escape suddenly under cover of the
darkness.
_Monday, 13th._--We were up bright and early, none the worse it is
believed for the rough accommodations of the night; some of the most
ailing, indeed, having had furloughs granted them till early morning,
and having succeeded in finding more comfortable quarters in barns, or
in the houses of the village. The rain having ceased we got our things
well dried before the fires, and broke camp at 6-1/2 o'clock, setting
out in the direction of Boonesboro'. The morning was comfortable, the
sun was obscured, and a cool breeze was blowing. Before noon we came to
a halt in a wood, having made some six miles. Here a pleasant sight
greeted Company A, of the Twenty-Third. Foragers had been sent out in
advance when we broke camp, one or two for each company it was said.
One of these now made his appearance, having in company a poor farmer
whom he had found up in the mountains. He was dressed in jean blouse
and overalls, wore a slouched hat, and sat astride a small imitation of
a horse, which bore also two well-filled bags slung across his back,
before and behind the rider. These bags disgorged lima beans, onions,
radishes, a pile of fresh bread and a crock of butter; none of which,
it may well be believed, were wasted. On this halt we were treated to
our usual daily ration of shower--the only ration we received
regularly. It rained for several hours, wetting us enough to make us
miserable. Early in the afternoon we got started again, much to our
relief.
As we were now entered upon the last week of our term of service, and
as there did not appear to us to be any immediate prospect of further
fighting--at least of fighting in which we should be engaged--we had
been thinking all day that our faces were at length set toward home,
and that Boonesboro' was to be the next stage of our journey; then some
point between Boonesboro' and Frederick; then Frederick, where we
should find railroad transportation direct for Baltimore, Philadelphia
and New York. This was a pretty fancy, and we discussed it with great
vivacity. It beguiled the march and helped us amazingly over the
abominable roads and through the more abominable rain. There was but
little singing, however, "Homeward Bound" being as yet far from _fait
accompli_. Besides, we had not been in singing mood, as a general
thing, these many days--marching along usually with a quiet, dogged,
philosophic endurance of discomfort.
But these visions of home with which we had filled one another's hearts
we knew hardly deserved any better name than day-dreams; for though we
were marching toward home, we were also marching toward the enemy,
General Meade being at that very moment, though happily for our dreams
we knew it not, feeling the enemy and preparing for a vigorous attack
upon him on the morrow; in which prospective event we were doubtless
looked to as a portion of the reserve force. This tended to sober the
exuberance of our hopes. It was interesting to watch in the spirit of
the men the play of this struggle between hope and fear. We had marched
but a mile or two from the wood when we made another halt in a field by
the road. In a certain part of the line a little company fell together
worthy of brief mention. One, a singer, had spread out his rubber cloth
upon the wet ground, and was reclining upon it. Eight others had joined
him, also singers, sitting down on the edges of the cloth; and they
were singing together. A row of listeners sat perched on a rail fence
five or six feet in front of them, and others were ranged around in
various picturesque situations and attitudes. These swelled the
choruses and joined in the melody according to their skill and
knowledge. And what did they sing? "Gideon's Band"? "Hail Columbia"?
"Kingdom Coming"? or any of those songs with which we were wont days
before to greet the larks and the freshly risen sun when resuming the
march after an uncomfortable bivouac? No, nothing of the sort. But in
soft low tones they warbled the most plaintive songs. Because of our
hope, we counted over and over again the remaining days of wandering
allotted to us by the terms of our enlistment, and beguiled one another
with scenes of home revisited. But because there was fear and
uncertainty mingled with our hope, we thought of that home tenderly,
and were in no mood of exultation in our singing. Those who remember
that little chance way-side festival will have no difficulty of
recognising the spirit which animated it in the following melodies,
which were always great favorites with us when we were in a plaintive
mood:--
Why am I so weak and weary?
See how faint my heated breath!
All around to me seems darkness;
Tell me, comrades, is this death?
Ah! how well I know your answer;
To my fate I'll meekly bow,
If you'll only tell me truly,
Who will care for mother now?
CHORUS: Soon with angels I'll be marching,
With bright laurels on my brow;
I have for my Country fallen,
Who will care for mother now?
Who will comfort her in sorrow?
Who will dry the falling tear?
Gently smooth her wrinkled forehead?
Who will whisper words of cheer?
Even now I think I see her
Kneeling, praying for me! How
Can I leave her in her anguish?
Who will care for mother now?
Let this knapsack be my pillow,
And my mantle be the sky;
Hasten, comrades, to the battle!
I will like a soldier die.
Soon with angels I'll be marching,
With bright laurels on my brow;
I have for my Country fallen.
Who will care for mother now?
The following is inserted, like the rest not on account of any
intrinsic merit it may be thought to have, nor indeed on account of
any sympathy for the slave which it might have been employed to
express--though there was probably no lack of that--but because it
illustrates, in words and music, a certain sentimental vein of feeling
which found frequent utterance, not very soldier-like it must be
confessed, nor indulged when serious work was before us to do, but
quite natural to us now that we had caught half-visions of home, albeit
in the intervening sky there were omens of doubtful import.
There's a low green valley on the old Kentucky shore;
There I've whiled many happy hours away,
A sitting and a singing by the little cottage door
Where lived my darling Nelly Gray.