Chapter IV: Part 4

What company is your brother in? I will hunt him up if I can get to his regiment after it arrives. [James K. Lane, Company G, Eleventh N. H.]

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_LXVIII_

CAMP NEAR ALEXANDRIA, VA.,
_Sunday Evening, September 21, 1862_.

I have been down to the Eleventh Regiment to see James [K. Lane, “the girl’s” brother] and other boys there. I went into the camp, stopped a while at one of the Manchester companies, where I found lots of fellows that I knew, and then started for Co. G to find James, when he bore down on me with all sail spread. I knew him, and he knew me, at sight, and we were just as well acquainted after we had shaken hands as though we had known each other for years.

We are doing a little digging now—just enough to keep our hand in—on rifle pits between Forts Worth and Ward. Our knapsacks, which were loaded onto barges when we left Harrison’s Landing, got here only two days ago. I had begun to think they were gone for good, and was ready to bewail the loss of all my valuables, when they turned up safe and sound.

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_LXIX_

CAMP NEAR ALEXANDRIA, VA.,
_September 29, 1862_.

It is now almost nine o’clock in the evening, and I have had a pretty busy day. And tomorrow I go on picket, which will spoil two days more. So I guess I had better write tonight. This morning, as soon as I had eaten my breakfast, I started off for the Tenth Regiment. Met lots of old Manchester acquaintances, and Billy Cochrane, Ichabod, Sargent Bartlett and I got together and had a real Excelsior Literary Society reunion. On my way back I called in at the Eleventh Regiment camp, and James walked a part of the way home with me.

Tonight “Bobby” [Albert B.] Robinson, who was taken prisoner at the first Bull Run, got back to the company and the reception he got from those of us who are still left baffles all description. A camp story is going the rounds that Gov. Berry is trying to have this regiment sent to New Hampshire to recruit.

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_LXX_

CAMP NEAR ALEXANDRIA, VA.,
_Sunday, October 12, 1862_.

Have just got back from the Thirteenth Regiment, where I found not a single man I knew, so I got a good long tramp for nothing. Got a mosaic letter from sister Addie Friday, made up of contributions from half a dozen of her friends. Have just had a pocket tourniquet given me, a little instrument to stop the flow of blood from a wounded arm or leg. I don’t see how it could be of much use in stopping a bloody nose. Charlie Smiley has never been heard from and doubtless never will.

So far as quarters are concerned, we are mighty comfortably situated just now. We have folded up our pieces of shelter tent and in their place pitched a camp of old-fashioned army “Sibleys.” My tent-crew comprises seven good fellows. Each man has built himself a bunk, and still there is room to spare. The heavy tent-cloth keeps out the rain, so we have a perfectly dry nest. But there are persistent rumors that we will not remain here much longer.

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_LXXI_

CAMP NEAR ALEXANDRIA, VA.,
_October 19, 1862_.

The Eleventh Regiment is now in the vicinity of Harper’s Ferry. Simons, who used to keep the bookstore, was down here yesterday, hunting up stragglers from the division. He thought that by this time the regiment might be over in Virginia.

The nights are getting to be uncomfortably cool. My two heavy blankets 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.

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_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.

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_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.

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_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.

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_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.

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_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.

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_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.

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_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.

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_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.

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_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.

Saturday night two regiments relieved us at the bridges and we rejoined our brigade at the front. Early Sunday morning an audacious rebel battery took position in a field on our front and opened on us. The Pennsylvania boys on the picket line couldn’t do a thing with them; but we sent out our Company B, and when their Sharp’s rifles began to bark the rebels couldn’t get away from those guns fast enough. And they made no further attempt to work them that day. We kept out one company at a time, relieving as fast as ammunition was used up. I fired fifty rounds. A dozen of us lay in a ditch by the side of the road, and kept up a brisk fire on a couple of houses used by the rebels as a cover. We fired over each other’s heads sometimes and had a merry time. Some of our boys got cover behind a big pile of loose lumber, and we kept two men behind an old chimney.

After this work had been going on nearly all day, there was a truce for some purpose or other, on that part of the line, the firing ceased, and the two skirmish lines mingled together like the best of friends, comparing notes and joking and chaffing each other. One rebel colonel, for some reason or other, was especially interested in the man behind the chimney and wanted to meet him. After a time the men leisurely meandered back to their hiding places, but there was very little shooting after that exchange of courtesies.

We recrossed the river last night, and got back into our old camp late this afternoon. I saw James this afternoon. He was unhurt and was writing letters. His regiment suffered severely, losing over two hundred. Jason Barker was killed. In the Manchester Battery two of my old acquaintances—John Fish and Tom Morrill—were killed, and Bill Fish was wounded in the foot. Charlie Vickery, of my company, was wounded in the neck. The regiment lost only twelve men wounded [two mortally.]

I will write home tomorrow, and meantime you must slip up and let the folks know I am unhurt. I am glad I am to name my little sister. Shall send some short, pretty name. For the past week my rations have consisted solely of salt pork and crackers, and I am so hungry I think I shall send for a box.

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_LXXXI_

CAMP OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, VA.,
_December 23, 1862_.

Received a letter from Addie last night and she said they had thought of naming the little sister _Flora_. I had written a day or two before and suggested the name _Cora_. Now, isn’t it a queer coincidence that we should think of names so near alike? Either is pretty enough, and I do not care a snap which they adopt. Addie wrote she imagined I would send _Nealie_ for a name—and I did think some of doing so.

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_LXXXII_

CAMP OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, VA.,
_January 1, 1863_.

Happy new year! and a great many of them! The new year presents itself to us in very pleasant fashion—clear and bright, but cold enough to suit a Laplander. James was over here and stayed with me Monday night, and we had a gay time. We sat before the fire and chatted and laughed and planned good times for the future. Then we rolled up in our blankets and slept. Jim was the first awake and kicked me out of bed, whereupon I arose in my wrath and drove him out of camp.

I went over to the Ninth Regiment to inquire concerning Sally Shepherd’s brother [Enoch O., familiarly known as “Doctor.”] I could learn nothing further than that he was missing and had not been heard from since the battle. No one knew when he fell. I pity Sally and her mother, as there can now be no doubt that he is another victim of this accursed rebellion. The note written to Sally was doubtless from some one of the burial party who went over, under a flag of truce, to bury our dead, and who, finding the envelope on a body, was thoughtful enough to write to the address. It must remove from her mind all doubts as to his fate.

For days the boys have been kept in a constant stew with stories of marching, but I am not losing any sleep over any of them. My main effort now is to get all the bodily comfort I can out of the situation. Well well, of all the sights! A load of soft bread has just come in. The most popular camp story just now is that Marston is to be appointed Military Governor of Washington and the Second Regiment is going there as provost guard and is to be armed with Allen & Wheelock breechloading rifles.

Bill Ramsdell, who disappeared some little time ago, has been heard from. As near as I can make out he thought that while furloughs were being passed out to the favored few he was entitled to one himself, and applied for it. He got turned down, and now he turns up at his home in Milford and writes that he is recruiting his strength and is coming back “when his furlough expires.”

I have got my tent raised up on logs, with a good bunk of poles and a turf fireplace. Have a big pile of wood to burn tonight, and will have a good fire to drive away Jack Frost.

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_LXXXIII_

CAMP OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, VA.,
_January 9, 1863_.

Charlie Vickery is going home on furlough tomorrow. So am I—in about sixteen months. We have moved camp about a mile and a half, and already have very comfortable winter quarters fixed up. Yesterday I wrote home for a box. The chances are good for our staying here long enough for me to get it. I am tenting now with George Lawrence, who was one of my tent’s crew at Camp Sullivan. Of my six tentmates there, two have been killed, one died of disease, and one joined the cavalry. Ed. Bailey [Major commanding the regiment] is under arrest on charges of disobeying orders of General Carr. I don’t imagine it is anything very serious.

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_LXXXIV_

CAMP OPPOSITE FREDERICKSBURG, VA.,
_January 16, 1863_.

Everything seems to be going wrong today. The wind has been blowing a perfect hurricane; last night it rained hard; just now there is a good prospect of our having to leave the snug huts we have built and go somewhere—the Lord only knows where. Marston has been appointed Brigadier-General, and the story persists that he has had this regiment detached for special duty at Washington and that the order is now at headquarters.

Bill Ramsdell’s “furlough” appears to be still in good working order. There are doubtless some details under the surface that we don’t know, but I’ll bet on Bill. So will all the old boys. He was not the type of patriot who couldn’t serve his country unless he was ornamented with shoulder straps, and there is a quite general sentiment that smaller men than he is have refused him a square deal.

There was a terrible catastrophy in my tent last night. Over our bunk was a shelf loaded with a miscellaneous assortment of a little of everything—letters, papers, portfolio, a dish of cooked rice and a can of molasses. All of a sudden, Lawrence, in performing some of his antics, sent the shelf flying, and such a mess! The molasses seemed to have a chemical affinity for everything there was in that tent, and it is unnecessary to say it was a total loss.

Perk. Lane, Rod. Manning and the other boys who went into the cavalry are visiting in camp. Their regiment is near here. Hen. Pillsbury and Joe Hubbard are here and well. Joe is captain of Company B. He is one of the best fellows and most popular officers in the regiment.

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_LXXXV_

CAMP NEAR FALMOUTH, VA.,
_January 24, 1863_.

Since last Tuesday we have been paddling around in the rain and mud to our heart’s content—and a good deal more. The short of the story is that Gen. Burnside intended to cross the Rappahannock a few miles above here and attack the enemy, but owing to continuous rains the roads became impassable and the army was obliged to wallow back to its old position and wait for better conditions. Our division left camp Tuesday noon, in a pouring rain, and accomplished about a mile and a half, under difficulties. Then we waited until about nine o’clock at night, when we were ordered back to our camps. Wednesday we tried it again and managed to get about six miles. The mud was simply awful, and it was almost an utter impossibility to move the wagons and artillery at all. The Manchester battery was striddled along the road, a gun here and a caisson there, over a stretch of three miles. And that was the way everything on wheels was hung up. General Burnside had issued an address to the army, saying they were soon to meet the enemy and enjoining them to display their old-time bravery. But God willed that the battle should not take place just at present, and with the elements at command He prevented it. Yesterday the division made its way back to the old camps. Lawrence and I rehabilitated our old shanty and are now as comfortable and cozy as you please.

I saw George Dakin day before yesterday—the first time since he went into the army. I got a letter from Addie and expect my box is on the way. I am actually suffering for something good to eat. Have you seen the picture I sent Addie? Did you ever see a more disreputable-looking outlaw?

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_LXXXVI_

HEADQUARTERS SICKLES’ DIVISION,
NEAR FALMOUTH, VA.,
_Sunday, February 8, 1863_.

Have you begun to wonder why I have not written for a fortnight? Well, I have made another lightning change and am now on the provost guard at division headquarters. I am not prepared to say that I exactly relish the change. I was denned in for a comfortable, easy-going winter, without much work, when I was pitchpoled into this place, where it is nothing but hard work. Lawrence and I were notified by the Orderly Sergeant that we were detailed for special duty, that we were to take our entire outfit with us, and report to the Adjutant. We dismantled our shack, packed up, and reported. We found nine more victims, from other companies. I was placed in charge of the squad and ordered to report to the Provost Marshal at Sickles’ headquarters. It snowed and was awful cold. Along with detachments from other regiments of the division we were quartered two nights in a barn, which was dry enough, but we came near freezing. Then we pitched our tents and began to hustle to make ourselves comfortable. In company with four from my own squad and two from the First Massachusetts, I am now comfortably housed in a log and canvas palace, 17x7 feet, inside measurement, with a big fireplace and good bunks.

I have been promoted, “for gallant and meritorious”—_cheek_. When I reported my squad, I gave in, of course, the names and rank of all as privates. My first detail was for guard duty. I stood a post for two hours, and I did a lot of thinking. I had been taking things in, and had discovered that a private soldier on provost guard had about the worst job in the army. It was not only guard duty, but police duty of all kinds, and they were hewers of wood and luggers of water for everybody. I wasn’t brought up that way. And at last I made a guess, and I guess that I made a pretty good guess. When I came off post I marched up to the Marshal’s tent, saluted, and delivered the following oration: “Captain, I am Private Haynes of the Second New Hampshire. The order for detail from my regiment called for ten privates and a corporal. We are very short of non-commissioned officers, so I was placed in charge as an acting corporal. It was my oversight in not so stating when I reported my detachment. So I was given a post as sentry today and have stood it, but I thought it best to call your attention to the matter.” When the next relief was called Sergeant-Major Featherstone announced: “Corporal Haynes takes charge of this relief.” Relieved from a common laborer’s drudgery and from the heavier part of guard duty, I will get along, probably, as comfortably as I would with the regiment. And I am in position to make it easier for my boys from the Second. Featherstone seems to have a pretty high idea of the average capacity of my New Hampshire Yankees. The other day he called on me for a skilled wood worker, who could do repair work mainly. I recommended my bunkmate Lawrence, and now George has the softest job of any man on the Guard—nothing to do but whittle. And the axe-helves and tool handles he turns out to replace the broken ones are really a credit to his skill.

My box has not come yet. The express matter is at Belle Plain, but it is hard to get anything but army supplies up over the railroad. I have not seen James for some time. His camp is a mile and a half from here, and I have to stick pretty close to these headquarters, just now. I have heard that the Ninth Army Corps, to which his regiment belongs, is on the way to North Carolina. If so, I shall not see him again. He was over here a few days ago, but I was off in the woods with a squad of men. [I never saw him again. He was killed, the following year, at Spottsylvania.]

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_LXXXVII_

HEADQUARTERS BERRY’S DIVISION,
NEAR FALMOUTH, VA.,
_February 15, 1863_.

Out I go again into the cold—the same old story. Somebody else is enjoying the cozy quarters I helped build over at the Fitzhugh house, while I am sitting in my little shelter tent, hardly big enough for two, with the rain pouring and all my surroundings wet and uncomfortable. It all comes from the fact that Sickles, having been put in command of the corps, retains his old quarters as corps headquarters, while Berry, put in command of the division, has to set up housekeeping somewhere else, taking the division provost guard along with him, of course. We are now about two miles from the camp of the Second, and fully a mile from any of the division, and it is said we are to move again in a day or two. The entire brigade is out on picket now. Went out three days ago, and rations have been sent out for three days more. They are out six or seven miles, above Falmouth. My box has not reached me yet, and I am getting a little mad about it. Many of the boys have got theirs, which started at the same time; but there is still a great pile at the landing and mine is probably among them.

Charlie Vickery has got back looking like a new man. I was glad to see him, for he brought me a half-dollar’s worth of postage stamps just as I was all out and wondering where I would get more.

The furlough excitement might as well be set down as a delusion, except for the favored few. Only one man in my company—Dave Perkins, the orderly sergeant—has got one yet. One a week—or every ten days! You see, by the time the last man gets his furlough it will be time for his discharge. It will not be many weeks before Uncle Joe Hooker will be making a forward movement and the furloughs will be shut off with a snap. As a matter of form, and just to see what he would say, I asked Lieutenant Gordon, commanding the company, to send my name in among the first. He said he should give the married men the preference. When I asked him if the men who were engaged had any special standing, he looked as if he thought I was trifling.

Major Bailey was before a court martial a few days ago. Ed must be getting used to it. The charge was, I believe, disrespect of superior officers. I have not heard the result.

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_LXXXVIII_

HEADQUARTERS BERRY’S DIVISION,
NEAR FALMOUTH, VA.,
_February 23, 1863_.

A week ago or so, the story was afloat that the regiment was going home right away, “and no mistake.” Col. Marston had been down here, and had the consent of the President, the Secretary of War, and General Hooker, and we were sure to go. All the officers took stock in the story, and I did really hope that by next Saturday we might be in Manchester. But even now the hopes of going have died out and the excitement subsided. Such stories have been let loose every two or three weeks as regular as clockwork.

You would have screamed if you could have seen the ridiculous sleighride I did today. It was a lark of the General’s staff officers. They had a set of sleigh-runners made and a wagon body mounted on them. The sleighing would not have been called sleighing at all up in New Hampshire. But they started out, with one lady in the party, tipped over twice, and then went to smash entirely.

Ed. Bailey’s commission as Lieutenant-Colonel has come. His court martial is ended, and whatever the findings he is returned to duty. Frank Wasley is now Sergeant-Major. One of the boys saw my box at the landing yesterday. There are several inches of snow on the ground, which fell yesterday; but it is warm today and the snow will not last long.

_Wednesday._—I have been busy the past two days. Yesterday my patience about gave out. We had two choppers out in the woods, and along in the afternoon I was sent out with teams and a squad of men to gather up and bring in the wood they had down. Before we got to the woods we met one of the choppers, who told me there was no need to go any farther, as there was no wood cut; that they would not allow him to chop anywhere, as the trees were wanted to build corduroy roads with. Of course I turned around and went back—a distance of two miles. We had not been in camp fifteen minutes before the other chopper came in and said he had been chopping all day and had lots of wood down. The first chopper had not been out at all, but had been having a glorious drunk, and told me the story he did to get himself out of a scrape. Of course we had to go out again—and of all the times! It looked sometimes as if we never would get out of the woods. The teams got stuck, and chains broke. There was an apology for a road, but its main features were stumps, roots and bog holes. Nothing but an army wagon could ever have stood the strain, and nothing but a team of army mules, guided by army mule drivers, would ever have attempted to get in and out of that place. But we got our wood, and were back at headquarters, tired but triumphant, about eight o’clock in the evening.

Captain Gordon told me, yesterday, that Colonel Marston had declined his Brigadiership and was coming back to take command of the regiment, much to Bailey’s disappointment.

George Lawrence is expecting a furlough to come along tomorrow, and he says: “Finish a long letter and I will carry it as far as Lawrence for you.” But I guess it will go as quickly by mail.

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_NOTE_

_The interval of time between the preceding and the following
letters is explained by the fact that the stories and rumors
of “going home” actually materialized at this time. The regiment
left the Army of the Potomac February 26 and arrived in New
Hampshire March 3. It left the state for the front again May 25,
arriving in Washington May 27. The “Soldier Boy” and “The Girl
I left behind me” were married March 9._

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_LXXXIX_

WASHINGTON, D. C., _May 27, 1863_.

Got into Washington this morning at half-past six—less than forty-eight hours on the route from New Hampshire. George Slade lost his knapsack somewhere on the way. Mrs. Wasley was at Concord and rode down on the train. The last I saw of her she was standing on the plank walk, her eyes full of tears. I was glad you did not come to the depot when the regiment passed through. George Slade’s wife was at Concord, almost heart-broken. [It was their last farewell—George never came back.]

We are stopping now at the “Soldier’s Rest.” Captain Gordon tells me we are ordered to report to General Casey, in command of the defenses of Washington, and will probably stay about here some time. The Fourteenth New Hampshire are here, camped on the hill not far away.

We rode from Norwich, Conn., to Jersey City on an old freight boat. There were no bunks, and I found the deck planks of about the usual quality and finish. The good grub the family so liberally stocked me up with at Manchester is not all gone yet, notwithstanding I have shared it freely with the poor and needy. I saw Norm. Gunnison at Philadelphia. He was discharged for disability, not long ago, and is now working on some newspaper.

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_XC_

CAMP MARSTON, WASHINGTON, D. C.,
_May 30, 1863_.

We are now fairly settled down in camp on what is known as East Capitol Hill, with nothing to do but eat, sleep, and drill, and make ourselves as comfortable as we can. The camp is right out in the open, with not as much as a huckleberry bush for shade. But we have A-tents to sleep in, which are roomy and comfortable—much more so than our “shelters.” There are only three in my tent—Herm. Sleeper, “Curley” Converse, and yours truly. George Slade did come in, but he was detailed as company cook and now has a tent of his own.