Chapter II: Part 2

Our entire company was out yesterday cutting down woods that interfered with the range of the guns on the forts we have been building. My mother, having in recollection her experiences with the family wood box when I was a boy, would probably have advised against taking me out. But I am inclined to think that, as a wood chopper I achieved some reputation this time, as after I had gnawed down a tree of considerable size some of the boys called the others to come and admire “Mart’s stump.”

Well, I have strung out a long letter, and some of it you can credit to the delightful surroundings and conditions under which I am working. Here is the picture: A big tent—the Quartermaster’s—overlooking from its back a railroad cut twenty-five or thirty feet deep; an enormous oak tree deeply shading a large space, with a delicious breeze rustling its branches; several of the boys sitting around reading the newspapers, chatting, and looking down upon the numerous trains that pass below; and your own correspondent, with a big pile of army overcoats for a backrest.

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_XXVI_

CAMP UNION,
BLADENSBURG, MD., _Oct. 21, 1861_.

We are having some of the worst weather the almanac can dish out to us, and the hospital is full of sick men, some seriously ill. I have, myself, been off duty for several days, but am now on deck again all right. It is surprisingly cold, and tents are not the warmest sleeping apartments in the world. I hope they will take us off down south before long or give us good barracks.

I had a letter from my uncle Nathaniel the other day. [Nathaniel Columbus Knowlton of New London.] He wrote that after he went back from Boston, where he went to see me off, a girl came to my father’s house, whom they introduced as Miss Lane, and who seemed to be very well acquainted. About a month after, Addie told him who you was. He approves.

The two aunts you met at my house are all right. Aunt Polly is the wife of my father’s eldest brother, Joshua. Aunt Olivia was reared down south, in a Catholic seminary at Charleston, South Carolina. Her father, Captain Bailey, was an old time sea captain. Until recently she has been very decided in her southern predilections. But a summer spent in Charleston two years ago changed her sentiment very radically. Her husband—my uncle William—is in the Massachusetts Eighteenth, which is now at Baltimore.

There is quite a little force of cavalry here with us now. They make a brave show in their drilling. Gen. Hooker, who commanded this brigade, now has a division, and Col. Cowdin, of the First Massachusetts, commands the brigade. I believe we shall move from here before long. The boys are getting impatient, and will be very discontented if they hold us here much longer.

You write me of your fingers being cold. If you could only know how cold I am this very minute, you would realize the pleasures of letter-writing in camp. It is a cold day, and I am writing in a wide open tent, which is just the same as out of doors. But we have lots of good times, notwithstanding the cold; and when we get around the campfires at night, we talk of home and the jolly times we will have when we get back to Manchester.

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_XXVII_

HILL TOP, ST. CHARLES COUNTY, MD.,
_October 28, 1861_.

You will take note that we have changed our location at last. We are now forty or fifty miles below Washington, on the Potomac river, below Budd’s Point. The other side of the river is lined with rebel batteries for a distance of ten miles, up and down, and we are here with ten or twelve thousand men to watch them. We have cavalry and artillery with us. With our regiment is Doubleday’s battery of 12- and 32-pounders. Most of the Fort Sumter men are in this battery. We left Bladensburg Thursday and got here last night—a march of four days. As we were in heavy marching order, all our earthly possessions strapped or hung to us in some way, you can be sure it was a pretty tired crowd that landed in here.

_Tuesday Morning._—I tried to write last night, but it was so cold I had to give up. We are camped down in a deep hollow, where the sun doesn’t get in till pretty late. Every morning the ground is white with frost. It takes all our dry goods to keep us anywhere near comfortable, day or night. Our grub is neither rich nor varied, but it appears to agree with me—with what I have been able to pick up on the side. A man who is enterprising can occasionally get hold of a piece of fresh meat. Until last night, since leaving Bladensburg, every man has been his own cook. Our tin plates served very well as stew- or fry-pans, and coffee drank out of the tin dipper in which it was boiled on the coals of the campfire, has a flavor all its own. But last night the company cooks got into action again and served out boiled corned beef, hardbread, and coffee. As it never rains but it pours, our sutler also got along and opened up shop.

Guard duty in this place is not what it was at Bladensburg. Our company goes on picket today down by the mouth of the creek we are camped on [Nanjamoy,] to watch the rebels over across the river. Mail will leave here three times a week.

Yesterday the rebel batteries were busy throwing shells over to this side of the river, but our regiment was far out of range of fire. Before we came down here the rebels used to come over and visit and forage and gather recruits and scout around with impunity.

The infantry of this division consists of our own brigade—the First and Eleventh Massachusetts, Twenty-sixth Pennsylvania, and the Second—and General Sickles’ “Excelsior Brigade” of five New York regiments. The regiments are strung along for a distance of probably seven or eight miles, we being the farthest south.

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_XXVIII_

CAMP SECOND N. H. REGIMENT,
NEAR BUDD’S FERRY, MD., _Nov. 10, 1861_.

When I wrote you last we were camped in a hollow by Nanjamoy Creek. Well, we got driven out. It was so infernally uncomfortable that Col. Marston moved the camp up onto the hill. It is not probable that we shall stay in this camp a very great while, but when or where we will move is a riddle. For all that, we are doing a good deal of fixing up that belongs to a permanent camp. Have built log huts for the company cooks, which will probably be labor thrown away. But we are having a good time. The woods are full of small game, although we do practically no hunting. But the darkies bring in coons, possums, gray squirrels, rabbits and chickens, all cooked, and well cooked. We have not seen any soft bread since we left Washington. Our _hard_ bread certainly does not belie its name. But given a good soaking in coffee, and well lubricated with butter, I manage to dispose of my share.

Our mail is regular in nothing but its irregularity. A three days’ mail for this regiment got as far as the Massachusetts First, and then, in some fool freak, was shipped back to Washington. Everybody is swearing—except, possibly, the chaplain.

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_XXIX_

CAMP BAKER,
NEAR BUDD’S FERRY, MD., _Nov. 16, 1861_.

Since my last letter we have moved up several miles and are now encamped with the rest of our brigade, near General Hooker’s headquarters. Our location here is a most attractive one, the camp being in the edge of woods thick enough to afford a perfect wind-break. This insures us against such a calamity as we were up against at wind-swept Hill Top, when several tents were overturned.

Yesterday I had a reserved seat at a first-class show. I heard the rebel batteries on the other side of the Potomac banging away at something, so I went down to the river—not a very great distance—to find out what the trouble was. It was a saucy little schooner skimming down the river, and the rebels trying to hit her. They fired about sixty shots and never made a score. But it was an inspiring sight all the same, the big guns flashing from battery after battery as the vessel came in range, and puffs of smoke in the air or a big splash on the water marking the grand finish.

It looks very much as though we were going into winter quarters here. Logs of suitable size and length are being hauled in, to be used as an underpinning for our canvas houses, and the boys, in squads of five or six, are already at work on their quarters. My crew is already made up, a picked squad of congenial souls, and we will get at our building operations next week.

We had a thunder shower night before last, and it has cleared off very cold. But there is an abundance of fuel, and half a dozen campfires agoing in each company street.

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_XXX_

CAMP SECOND N. H. REGIMENT,
CHICKAMOXEN, MD., _Nov. 27, 1861_.

For amateurs, the association of house builders I joined has done a good job. It is on the same general plan as most of the others. First, you start in to build a log cabin. When the walls are four or five feet high, you stop, fasten your tent on top—and there you are. It is astonishing, the room you gain over a plain tent. On the right-hand corner fronting the street is a fireplace—a big one—built, with its chimney, of small logs laid cob-house fashion and thickly plastered with Maryland mud. The bottom is sunk a foot or more, and around the front is a one-log pen or barrier, which serves a double purpose. It is just right for a seat before the fire, and it keeps our thick carpet of straw out of mischief. When we are all fixed up we’ll have bunks and a table and shelves and pegs and a gun rack and everything required in a well-regulated family. I am writing by the light of a candle. Roberts [Orsino,] one of the tent’s crew, is warming himself at the fire and going over all the songs he has in stock, and the rest of the gang seem to have no higher ambition, just at present, than to “break up” both me and him.

Sunday our company went up to “the landing” to help unload two or three small steamers that bring our supplies down from Washington. The landing is at Rum Point, over three miles from here, but as near as boats can get to us, on account of the rebel batteries. As we did not start to return until after dark, we had a sweet time of it. The roads here are now nothing but a ditch through woods and fields, filled with mud of terrible adhesive qualities and of fabulous depth. I thought, for the life of me, I should never get home. If I tried to follow the road, I wallowed up to my knees in mud. If I switched off to one side or the other, I had, in addition to the mud, a butting match with every tree in the county. It was pitch dark when I landed in camp just ahead of a smart shower.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving Day in New Hampshire, and we New Hampshire boys out here on the Potomac will observe it in a befitting manner. In our tent we have a big fat goose up on the shelf, with a rabbit- or chicken-pie or two and a few other fixings. Beat that if you can.

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_XXXI_

CAMP BAKER,
CHICKAMOXEN, MD., _Dec. 1, 1861_.

I am just in from our standard show—a little schooner running up the river and thumbing her nose at the rebel batteries. In all, they fired seventy shots at her, with the usual result—no damage done. There was much noise and smoke, a great splashing of the water, and lots of fun for the boys in the gallery. As every shot they fire costs them from ten to fifteen dollars, each schooner trip up or down the river must be an expensive job for them. They must burn up about a thousand good dollars every time, mainly to amuse a lot of Yankee soldiers over on the Maryland shore.

Next Tuesday there is to be a grand review of this division, together with an inspection. These functions are doubtless a military necessity, but not very popular with the men—especially the inspections. You are toled out with your entire outfit, and everything is hauled over, peeked into and examined. They say Gen. McDowell, the old fellow who led us to Bull Run (and back,) is down at headquarters. The last time I saw him he was riding down the front of Burnsides’ brigade, in the corn field at Bull Run, and telling us we had won a victory.

There are a thousand-and-one rumors afloat as to our leaving here, but I am not expecting to move in any other direction than straight across the river. Any man with a vivid imagination can make a guess, whisper it to one or two, and before night it is all over camp as an authentic tip from headquarters, Gen. Heintzelman’s division is advanced on the other side almost down to the rebel position, and my guess is that he will come down on them before long, while we will cross here and give them Jessie, with the aid of the gunboats. They are getting ready for us. We can see them digging and throwing up intrenchments on the opposite hills.

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_XXXII_

CAMP BAKER,
CHICKAMOXEN, MD., _Dec. 8, 1861_.

Tomorrow rounds out just seven months of my three years’ term. The other night, at the meeting of a literary society some of the First Massachusetts boys have started, the Lieutenant-Colonel of the regiment said he thought the regiment would be home by March. There’s the cheerful optimist for you! Our regiment has been in the service just about the same length of time as the First, and the two will probably be sent home about the same time. Presumably the regiments first in the field will go out first, and so we may get home many months before the later regiments from New Hampshire. They will have to keep them as a sort of police for a while after the war is really over.

For a day or two we have been having splendid weather. But under foot it is simply awful. The “Maryland salve” is everywhere. The roads are a terror now, and in a short time will be absolutely impassible except where corduroyed with logs laid crossways to make some sort of a platform for teams.

We were reinforced last week by a brigade of New Jersey troops. Just below the blockade is a large fleet of gunboats, ready to co-operate in any move we may make. Last night a big steamer ran the blockade in the darkness and there was a terrific hullaballoo.

Joe Hubbard has got back from New Hampshire, but the boxes confided to him have not yet arrived. He says there is one for me, and I am, of course, very anxious to get it.

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_XXXIII_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
NEAR BUDD’S FERRY, MD., _Dec. 15, 1861_.

I wish you could take a peek-in on my luxurious surroundings. I have a barber’s chair to sit in. It has a canvas back and seat, and was built by Damon [George B.,] the Jack-at-all-trades of my tent’s party. There is a good fire, plenty of apples at my elbow, and, all in all, I am a pampered child of luxury. There are only two besides myself occupying the castle just at present—George Slade and George Damon—very companionable fellows, and who have seen a great deal of the world. Two—George Cilley and Bill Wilber—are in the hospital, and E. Norman Gunnison (a fellow with a decided talent for writing poetry) is in the guard house for some infraction of camp discipline. So we three that are left have plenty of room and get along mighty comfortably. Slade and Damon are good cooks. We buy flour, butter, sugar, &c., and cook a big slack of fritters whenever the spirit moves us. And we have rabbits, chickens, wheat biscuits, and various other camp luxuries. And occasionally we make molasses candy of an evening. All this, you will understand, is outside of and in addition to our regular army rations.

Here is our schedule of duty: Reveille beats at sunrise, when we turn out and answer to roll call. Then comes the breakfast call. At 9 o’clock is guard mount—that is, the company which has been on guard duty is relieved by another. The remaining companies drill from 9 to 11 and 3 to 5—but now only occasionally, owing to weather conditions. Dinner call at 12. Dress parade at sunset. Tattoo is beat at 8, when the roll is called and the men can go to bed. The Colonel says we will not have much drilling for the rest of the winter.

The boys find plenty to amuse themselves with, and things are by no means dull here in camp. Quite a number of musical instruments have found their way in, and there are men here who know how to play them too—fiddles and banjos and such.

We had a large party of New Hampshire people in camp today—E. H. Rollins, John P. Hale, Daniel Clark, Waterman Smith, E. A. Straw and others. There were also four good-looking New Hampshire women, and they got three rousing cheers at dress parade.

The old rumor factory now has it that the Second is going to Washington within a few days, to act as provost guard. Joe Hubbard’s boxes have not yet arrived, and may not for some time yet. The railroads leading into Washington are buried in freight and express matter, but I suppose our stuff will get through in due time.

You inquire what sort of a place this is. Well, it comes about as near to being no place at all as it could and still be on the map. There are but few houses hereabouts, and a good part of these are just negro cabins. There is a store a little ways from here, but I have yet to discover where enough local trade can come from to keep it going. The Potomac is only about an eighth of a mile from our camp. From the western edge of the strip of woods in which we are camped one can see the river for a long distance, with the rebel batteries, and the upper works of their gunboat “George Paige,” which sticks close up in Quantico Creek, out of reach of our gunboats. The river here is less than two miles wide and the deep-water channel runs very near the other side, so a large vessel has to run close in to the rebel batteries to get through at all.

We witnessed a lively little brush the other day. The rebels started to throw up some works on Shipping Point, and the “Harriet Lane” and five other gunboats dropped down and told them to stop it. The way they pitched shells onto that point was a caution. And a few nights ago—just for fun, as near as I could figure it out—one of our gunboats dropped down to the upper battery and had some sport for a while. I always did like fireworks, so I got the countersign and went out to take in the display. It was worth the money.

You have thought to inquire for “Heenan.” Alas! Poor Heenan! It grieves me to inform you that the other night he got into an argument with a Company D boy. Just what condition the other fellow was left in—if still alive—I don’t know. But when Heenan returned to the bosom of his family he was a sight. His face was badly bruised, both eyes in mourning, and one thumb chewed to a jelly. He says he wanted his thumbs to be mates, and the other was crushed out of shape before he left Portsmouth.

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_XXXIV_

CAMP BEAUFORT, _Dec. 22, 1861_.

Our friends over the river have got another battery in good working order. It mounts a 64-pounder rifled gun, and the other night they dropped two shells within the camp limits of the New Jersey brigade, forty or fifty rods from our camp.

The boxes sent on by Joe Hubbard have at last arrived, and you may be sure we were glad to see them. I presume you know what was in mine as well as I do myself. The pies went into the common stock and disappeared as though they had legs. The various articles of clothing filled my knapsack as full as it would hold. And I must say to you that the little knitted smoking-cap or skating-cap or sleeping cap, or whatever you call it, is the gayest fez in camp. There are quite a number in the company, built on the same general lines, but no two alike, and mine takes first premium. I wish I could see you long enough to thank you for it.

I took one of the big boxes and made a cupboard to keep my things in. I have my eating utensils on one shelf, writing materials, bundles of letters, &c., on another, papers, magazines and books on the third.

Col. Marston was wounded last Sunday by the accidental discharge of a pistol, so Lieut.-Col. Fiske is in command. He is a great fellow for drilling the men, and we are not having as easy a time as we did with Marston.

One of the boys has just come in, bringing a fragment of a shell fired by the rebels at our battery down near the river. All the mementos I have picked up so far are a sand-bag from the rebel works at Fairfax Court House and a few insignificant trifles.

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_XXXV_

CAMP BEAUFORT, _Dec. 29, 1861_.

I am feeling pretty ragged just now, but I see a glimmer of comfort ahead in the shape of a big lot of biscuits Damon is making for supper. We have not had any rations of soft bread since we left Bladensburg, but better days are coming. They are putting in a bakery for the Second Regiment, and when it is done I expect the boys will feel like getting up a celebration. Really, though, it won’t make so much difference in this tent, where we have had a very efficient private bakery in operation for some time. Even I, as a lover of toast, have developed some skill in making good buttered toast out of our hardbread. I soak and boil it a long, long time, then stack the crackers up, buttering each, and it is a pretty palatable dish, if I do say it as shouldn’t.

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_XXXVI_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES COUNTY, MD., _Jan. 5, 1862_.

Night before last we had a regular old-fashioned hail-storm. I lay on the ground in my tent, rolled up in my blankets and overcoat, cozy, snug and warm in spite of the hail that was hammering my canvas roof, and pitied the poor people who didn’t have a fireplace, a snug nest, and a roof. But last night the boot was on the other leg. I was on guard, and it was miserably cold, with ice a quarter of inch thick over everything. When I came off, along in the night, I headed for my tent and comfort for a while. Had just got comfortably settled when some one stuck his head in and hollered, “_Your chimney’s on fire!_” I rolled out, broke through the ice in a water-hole, mixed some mud, and plastered it into the crevices. In about an hour, another good angel sang the same song, and I went through the same performance. Another hour, and the third alarm came. I was now thoroughly mad and utterly demoralized, and I howled back, “Well, let her burn if she wants to.” It smouldered until morning, when we doctored it so we hope it will behave for a few days at least.

The rebels have not been very demonstrative lately. I hear that Gen. Hooker has orders not to grant any more furloughs, as Heintzelman is advancing on the other side and is liable to have a fight any day, in which event we will be called upon to support him. And besides this, Gunnison has had a dream. He believes in all sorts of uncanny manifestations, and the other night he dreamed that the regiment was in a battle, and in an awful hot place too. I am not very anxious to get out of my present comfortable quarters, unless it might be to go home or farther south where it is warmer. If it were not for that glorious old fireplace of ours we should not be as comfortable or as cheerful as we are.

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_XXXVII_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHICKAMOXEN, MD., _Jan. 12, 1862_.

I have been working like a beaver all day and am awfully tired. It was that infernal chimney. Last night it got afire again and was roaring gloriously before we found it out. So today the whole crew put in their time reconstructing it. It is a pretty substantial piece of work, and it ought to stand the wear and tear for a long time. This is one of the most enjoyable days of the season—warm and with a refreshing breeze. But O, the mud! And not a bit of snow on the ground.

Last night the rebels fired a great many random shots across the river, hit or miss, here and there, and have been keeping at it, intermittently, today. They know, of course, the location of our camps, and it is really surprising that not a speck of damage has been done. A number of the shells struck quite near to our camp. Today one shell struck square in the New Jersey camp, but did not explode. And this afternoon, while I was sitting in my tent half asleep, there was a wild screech a few feet overhead, and a shell landed on the parade ground a few rods beyond the camp, but did not explode. A crowd ran out from the camp, but Damon captured the prize and brought it into our tent. A little while after, he sold it for ten dollars. [Major Stevens was the purchaser. For several years, properly labeled, it was one of the exhibits in the Adjutant-General’s office at Concord.]

You inquire of me why we don’t fight. I don’t know. Suppose the time hasn’t come yet. I have no doubt it will before long, however, and there will be a lively time.

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_XXXVIII_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _Jan. 19, 1862_.

Horrible weather! It is almost inconceivably muddy, and today it is raining. I went out to watch the batteries work, today, and it was a question sometimes whether I wouldn’t have to leave my boots in the mud. We have spells of cold weather, with a little snow, but it soon gets warm and rains.

Jim Carr, of our company, cut his foot terribly with an axe, yesterday. The blade went right through the bones, and he will be crippled for a long time.

I have studied it out that we will not trouble the rebels on the other side for some time yet. We are building big mortar rafts up at Baltimore, to be used in shelling out the rebel batteries. It will take some time to get them ready, of course; but when the time does come there will be music in the air.

Last week I helped dig out a rebel shell. It was buried seven feet in the solid earth and must have traveled over four miles.

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_XXXIX_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _Jan. 26, 1862_.

You never saw a lovelier day than this—clear as a whistle, with breeze enough to set the whitecaps running on the river. In the forenoon I went down to our battery, near the river, just for the walk. One of the lookout pickets I passed on the bluff had a powerful spy-glass, through which I got a good view of the rebel fort on Shipping Point. Down by the battery I picked up an Indian arrow head. Some contrast between this stone weapon of a dead and gone race and those long 32-pounders close by.

I see a good many old Manchester acquaintances here who drop down sight-seeing. Kimball the shoe man, John B. Chase the tanner, and Cy. Mason, Washington agent for the Associated Press, were here day before yesterday; and yesterday Dr. Hawkes came down.

Would you like a picture of myself and my surroundings right at this moment? Well, here it is. See me sitting in front of a cheerful wood fire, my boots off, and your gorgeous smoking cap on my head. By my side, a cup of steaming hot cocoa, a cookie and a quarter of mince pie. Slade is at my right, writing, and similarly provided for in the eatable line. Just at this moment he is digging down into his box hunting for a big lump of candy that came to him from home.

We had chickens, from New Hampshire, for supper. I am getting to be an expert, myself, in certain branches of cookery. I can toss and turn fritters now, without dropping them in the ashes. Can you? Our “oven” is very simple, but it does its work to perfection. We set a deep iron pan on a bed of coals. In this, four or five little rocks as supports for the plate carrying the dough. The whole covered with another iron pan filled with coals. The biscuits and plum cake we turn out cannot be beat anywhere by anybody.

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_XL_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _Feb. 1, 1862_.

Every night, almost, I dream that I am home again, and those dreams are perhaps a forerunner or premonition of something that is going to happen. The signs are decidedly more promising for an early termination of the war. We have worsted the rebels in every fight we have had for some time, and the tone of the Southern press indicates that the Southern people begin to appreciate what a scrape they have gotten themselves into. I expect we will move from here before long. The Quartermaster says he does not expect to stay in this place much longer, and has especially charged his teamsters to keep their equipments in condition for a quick movement. Besides, a road is now being built down to Liverpool Point, about twelve miles below here on the Potomac. This indicates that when we go we will _embark_ for somewhere—perhaps only to be ferried across the river.

In all your life, travels and experience you never ran across such a mud hole as this is at this season. I heard, this afternoon, that we would have to back our supplies up from the landing, as it is pretty near impossible for teams to get through. The landing is two miles and a half from here, and we would have a fine time toting up boxes of hardbread, beef, and other fixings. I saw one of our boys coming up from the landing last night who had evidently misjudged the depth of the mud in some place, for clear to his waist he was cased in Maryland salve. A man is fortunate if he can find a place to cross the road without going in to his knees.

My tentmate Damon is on furlough. He was not in condition for duty, having strained his back, so they gave him a furlough of thirty days. His time is about half up, and we do miss the boy. Frank Robinson has got back, looking pleasant and happy, as a newly-married man should.

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_XLI_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _Feb. 9, 1862_.

For a day or two I have been laid up with a bad cut on my foot, which I got chopping wood for my tent. I can not get a boot or a shoe on, but hope it won’t bother me a great while. I guess—in fact almost know—that we are to leave here soon. Gen. Hooker has been to Washington to confer with the commanding General. Rahn, our Commissary Sergeant, thinks we are going on an expedition to Galveston, Texas. Wouldn’t we have a time down there among those Spaniards, Greasers, Negroes, and those perfectly _awful_ Texas Rangers!

Damon has not got back yet. We have a letter from him saying he was at Lunenburg, Vt., laid up with a lame leg.

We have been rigged out with new uniforms. Dark blue dress coats with light blue cord trimmings, and light blue pants.

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_XLII_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _Feb. 16, 1862_.

Of course you have rejoiced over Burnsides’ victory at Roanoke Island and the success of the Kentucky army at Fort Henry. If we can keep on with the good work, this rebellion will be crushed and we home again before long. We are under orders to be ready to march at short notice and will soon be doing our share of the business. A Vermont brigade is expected here, any day, to reinforce us; and some big guns are being brought down from Washington, probably to be used in shelling the rebel batteries. The gunboats have not had their full armament until lately.

That foot of mine, that I was fool enough to cut over a week ago, is a beauty now. I got cold in it, or something, and it now looks more like a parboiled pig than a foot. If we get orders to march right now, I shall have the foot swathed up in some way and go with the regiment.

Slade is sorting over his stuff, to see what he shall send home. He actually has more than he can lift.

A few days ago there came an order to find out how many men in this division wanted to go on the Mississippi river gunboat flotilla. They proposed to transfer forty out of each regiment, and I suppose the idea was that they would find lots of sailors in the regiments from the coast. The order was quickly rescinded, however.

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_XLIII_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHICKAMOXEN, MD., _Feb. 23, 1862_.

My foot is most well now, much to my gratification. I would not like a furlough just now. There will be some fighting before long and I want to be in it. The rebels over the way have not fired a gun for a week, and it is surmised that they have evacuated. Everything indicates that we will move soon—very soon. A Brigadier General has been assigned to command of this brigade, Col. Marston is coming back from Washington, and the officers on recruiting service in New Hampshire have been ordered back to the regiment. The Quartermaster assures me we will be off within a few days.

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_XLIV_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES COUNTY, MD., _March 2, 1862_.

Very cold just now, and the mud is drying up fast, so it is getting to be very good traveling. You know we are going to move when the roads are in condition. McClellan says so, and he ought to know. All the signs point to a movement before long. We have shipped the company property to Washington, and also our dress coats. We will not take any tents, and only two wagons, for ammunition. We drill now about six hours a day. The musicians have an “ambulance drill”—learning to get men into and out of ambulances, to staunch wounds, and to generally care for wounded men. Senator Hale told one of our boys, a while ago, that he thought we would be home by July.

Damon got back today, and we celebrated his return by cooking and eating two or three pounds of molasses candy. I got one valentine, and I know who _backed_ it. Perhaps Sally [Shepherd] does too. It’s nearly midnight, and I’m off to bed.

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_XLV_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _March 7, 1862_.

A “Signal Corps” of some one hundred men is now attached to this division. The signaling is done by means of flags. Yesterday a balloon went up over here, the observers signaling with one over Heintzelman’s division, miles away on the other side of the river. The rebel batteries have opened up on something in the most furious manner. Every gun appears to be working full blast, and the heavy explosions fairly shake the canvas of the tent. [This was one of the preliminaries of the evacuation, which was completed on the 9th.]

Our new Brigadier General [Henry M. Naglee] has got himself universally hated, right off quick. All sorts of stories are going. Here is one, for what it is worth: He had an altercation with Gen. Sickles and pulled his revolver, with a threat to shoot. But when Sickles coolly pulled out his gun and reminded Naglee that he had shot his man before, the latter subsided. I guess there is no question but that he especially and particularly dislikes the Second New Hampshire and First Massachusetts. It is stated that he tried to get them transferred from his brigade, but Hooker wouldn’t allow it.

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_XLVI_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _March 16, 1862_.

Got your letter, with picture, on Friday morning. I placed the picture on one of my shelves, and when Gunnison came in Damon picked it up and asked him if he had ever seen the picture of his youngest sister. “Gunny” told him no, and when he looked at the picture said, “O, well, you can’t fool me; that’s the girl Mart Haynes travels with when he’s home.” But Damon actually made him believe it was his sister. “Well,” said Norman as he held your two pictures up for comparison, “they look enough alike to be twins. If Mart should see the two together he wouldn’t know which one to hitch onto.”

You have, of course, heard that the rebels evacuated their positions last Sunday. They burned everything they could not take away—camps and houses, their gunboat “George Page” and various smaller craft that had taken refuge with her up Quantico Creek. It was a wild scene as viewed from this side. For miles it was an ocean of smoke and flame. They left eighteen or twenty big guns, with other property that could not be burned.

How this will affect our movements is the problem now. The old rumor factory is working overtime, and one man’s guess is as good as another’s. The story that appears to find most favor is that we are going to New Mexico, where troops are much needed just now. Another wise man has it that we are going down to reinforce Burnside. Sickles’ brigade is actually on board steamers now, ready to be transported somewhere.

The frogs are “peeping” now in every brook and mudhole. Damon shakes his head wisely, and says if we could only stay here till they get a little bigger and fatter, we’d live on frogs’ legs. For dinner today Slade, Damon, Haynes & Gunnison had a great pile of fried oysters.

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_XLVII_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES COUNTY, MD., _March 23, 1862_.

Not a mail has reached us since last Monday. The Government has chartered all the boats within reach for troop transports, and none can be spared for side shows. Two expeditions have passed here this week. Yesterday about thirty large steamers went down the river. These fleets carried parts of Heintzelman’s corps, and have probably gone down below Acquia Creek and landed. We are now a part of this corps, and will probably be the next to move—as soon as the steamers can go back to Washington and coal up.

We will have to make pack-horses of ourselves when we do go. Are to carry sixty extra rounds of ammunition in our knapsacks, and will be equipped with some new-fangled French tent. This tent is in four pieces, each man to carry a piece, and when put up it only makes a screen from the dew and the sun, being open at both ends.

I talked yesterday with a contraband who ran away from the rebels over in Virginia. He says they are fortifying at Fredericksburg, a place about twenty miles from Acquia and about thirty from here. Very likely that is where we will first run into them; and it will probably be a hard place to take, as they have a great many guns in position there and a large force of soldiers.

James O. Adams was here a few days ago. We had a good time together that evening.

Now comes the best joke of the season. Gen. Naglee is very unpopular—thoroughly hated by everybody from highest to lowest. I said so frankly in a letter which Farnsworth published. Then Halifax broke loose. I don’t know how the matter ever got before the War Department at Washington—but it did. And the first thing Farnsworth knew he got a communication from Washington that scared him stiff. He showed it to my folks, and I guess they went wild—expected me to be taken out at sunrise and shot for high treason. The first intimation I got was in a hysterical letter from my mother, that I could hardly understand. Then in a day or two John Kenney came down from the hospital and said Harriet Dame wanted to shake hands with the private soldier that the War Department had to sit up and take notice of. Showing that headquarters here had some orders in relation to me. I don’t know what was in either of the communications, but the folks at home need have no fear of anybody in Hooker’s division being very severely disciplined for voicing the universal sentiment in regard to General Naglee.

_9 o’clock in the Evening._—You will not hear from me again for some time, probably, as it is given out that the advancing troops shall not write home. The Chaplain says the 9 o’clock mail tomorrow will be the last one out of here. I have eight letters to write to night, closing up my correspondence for the present.

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_XLVIII_

CAMP BEAUFORT,
CHARLES CO., MD., _April 3, 1862_.

I have just learned, late at night, that a mail is going out tomorrow morning. It is getting to be very exasperating—these orders to leave, and then having them countermanded. We expected to get off today, and now the announcement is that we are certainly going tomorrow. The transports have been ordered, and temporary piers built to load us from. Captain Bailey has just got along with a batch of recruits. Don’t know yet how many acquaintances I have in the lot.

One of Company E’s men [Luther W. Fassett] was shot by rebel scouts yesterday, on the other side of the river. The company was over there digging up a big gun which the rebels had buried. He was sent back for some shovels, when three rebels stepped into the road and shot him. He had a brother in the same company and a wife and child in New Hampshire.

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_XLIX_

IN CAMP BEFORE YORKTOWN, VA.,
_Monday, April 14, 1862_.

A mail is going out, I am told, at three o’clock, and it is nearly that time now. We left our old camp, with all its really delightful associations, the day after I last wrote you, and were on the steamer two days and two nights before she cast off from the pier. When we got to Point Lookout, at the mouth of the river, a wild gale was blowing, and it was not considered prudent to proceed down Chesapeake Bay, the “South America” being a crazy old river boat, and overloaded. So we ran in and tied up at the wharf, and almost everybody went ashore. It was a seaside summer resort, out of season, and we took possession. We made ourselves very comfortable in the cottages. There were good fireplaces and plenty of wood, and though it rained great guns, and the gale howled most of the time, we were dry and warm, and made ourselves very comfortable there for three days. But we came pretty near starving before a boat got down from Washington bringing us something to eat. The boys gave it a very appropriate name—“Camp Starvation.”

When we got away we went straight to Fortress Monroe. We got there in the morning, just as the rebel ironclad “Merrimack” came out from Norfolk. The harbor was cleared of shipping in double-quick time, the “Monitor” and other war vessels moved up, and we thought there was going to be another big naval battle. But there wasn’t; and the old “South America” pulled out and ran up to the York river.

There is now a tremendous army before Yorktown, as well as in it, and there will be a great battle. _We_ have got the largest train of siege artillery ever brought together, and _they_ have got some very strong forts and batteries. Our guns will be in position and open on the rebels before this letter reaches you. There is skirmishing every day. Berdan’s sharpshooters are making themselves the terror of the rebels. They have some wonderful marksmen, and firing from little pits dug well out towards the rebel works, they make it mighty interesting for the rebel gunners. In some of the rebel batteries it is as much as a man’s life is worth to attempt to load the guns. The instant he shows himself near the muzzle one of Berdan’s men gets him. Some of them use telescope rifles. At some points the rebels put up planks to screen themselves while working the guns. I was a little acquainted with one of the Sharpshooters who was killed a few days ago—John Ide of Company E—a New Hampshire man from Claremont.

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_L_

CAMP WINFIELD SCOTT,
NEAR YORKTOWN, VA., _April 20, 1862_.

Today we received our first mail since leaving Camp Beaufort. We have moved up three miles nearer the rebel lines and are now doing our full share in the siege operations. We are working hard, building forts and trenches and roads, and should soon be able to qualify as experts with the pick and shovel. While our camp is probably a mile and a half from the rebel lines, our work is being done very much nearer, you can be sure. Yesterday and today we were out building roads. From where we were working we had a better view of the rebels than they did of us, and they didn’t pay much attention to us until we were on our way back. We got a little careless then, I suppose, and the first thing we knew one big shell burst directly overhead, while another tore up the landscape not very far away.

Day before yesterday a lieutenant of the Engineer Corps was brought on a stretcher back by our camp, one arm torn off and otherwise mutilated. He was sitting on the ground, making a sketch, when a rebel shell burst almost in his lap.

We are having, really, a pretty hard time of it. We are turned out almost every night and held in line to repel anticipated attacks. [This was one of Gen. Naglee’s fool stunts, that Hooker soon put a veto on.]

Our camp is on a big plain, gullied here and there by creeks. Near to us are the spots pointed out as the headquarters of Washington and Lafayette during the Revolutionary siege. I saw a little earthwork yesterday which was thrown up at that time, and a rusty iron cannon ball was dug up by the working party.

Our new four-piece [“shelter” or “dog”] tents have one great advantage—perfect ventilation. The tent’s crew of four button their sections together, and have a roof to crawl under; but the house is wide open at both ends.

It was just one year ago tomorrow that our company was first sworn into the service. We hardly thought then that one year from that date would still find us ’way down South. So far as I am concerned, I am enjoying myself immensely. Was never in better spirits or in better health.

_Wednesday, April 23._—At last I have another chance to write on my letter. I have been on duty every day for six days. Today I am on camp guard. Our siege guns are now almost all in position, and they will doubtless get to work pretty soon. Thousands of men are working day and night on the siege works and the roads. On this wing of the army we are building a road along the side of a creek leading up to the rear of our batteries. The roadbed is twenty-four feet wide, made by tumbling in one bank of the creek. As this is mostly on the side toward the rebel works, leaving the road under embankments from ten to twenty feet high, troops and supplies going up to the front will have almost perfect cover and protection.

There is a continual skirmish all along the line, and men are killed or wounded every day. The other night a large force of rebels made a sally upon six companies of the Third Vermont, but the Sixth regiment, with a section of artillery, came to their support, and the rebels were sent back home in a hurry. We lost about 45 men, including two captains; the rebels about the same number, including a colonel.

Day before yesterday I managed to work about as much discomfort into twenty-four hours as ever fell to my lot. We were working on the road. It rained all day, and I was, of course, thoroughly soaked. And when we got back to camp there was no warm, dry nest to crawl into. Instead, the rain poured through the tent in streams, and there was no way to get away from it. It has taken me till now to get back to anything like normal conditions.

I saw two deserters from the rebels, who came in this morning. One of them was from Pennsylvania. He was pressed into the rebel service and took the first opportunity to desert.

My old tent-crew of Camp Beaufort is broken. It is no longer a matter of choice and selection. We are counted off in fours and tent in the same order we stand in the ranks. My present mates are Bill Ramsdell, Lyn Woods and Joe Gleason—all royal good fellows.

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_LI_

CAMP WINFIELD SCOTT,
BEFORE YORKTOWN, VA., _May 1, 1862_.

Physically I am pretty near used up. Night and day we are on duty in the trenches or on fatigue work, supporting batteries, throwing up earthworks, building roads, regardless of weather conditions. Last night we were digging on a parallel, or trench for infantry, the end of which was at the edge of the bluff overlooking the York river. It was all open ground between us and the rebel works, and, though very dark, the rebels kept the scene fairly well lighted up. Every two or three minutes there would be a flash way up there to the front, then a roar, another flash in the air down our way, and pieces of iron flying. The big guns, though, did not worry us much. It was practically impossible to land a shell in the trench from one of these guns. But they had one big mortar working that was quite another matter. Every time this was fired the burning fuse marked its course. Up, up, up it would climb, then hang for an instant and come sweeping down, down, down. It did not land one shell in our trench, although it put some uncomfortably close.

I managed to steal one little nap, but it didn’t last long. I got quite a comfortable seat at the end of the trench, overlooking the river. I have a recollection of watching the lights on vessels far down the river and in distant camps, and of listening to the lap of the waves on the beach below me. And I went to sleep. And I woke up—quick. I was trying to decide whether the rebels had sprung a mine or landed a shell in the trench, when it happened again, and I saw what the trouble was. Only a short distance below was the black mass of one of our gunboats, which had crawled up unusually close, and was firing her big shells right over our heads into the rebel works.

The rebels made an effort to drive in our pickets on a part of the line, this morning, but got rather more than they were looking for. A burial party has just gone by, to give a soldier’s burial to a New Jersey boy killed in the affair. The cemetery, near our camp, is rapidly filling with the bodies of men who have been killed or have died of disease. Each grave is marked by a neatly-lettered headboard.