The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Minor War History Compiled from A Soldier Boy's Letters to "The Girl I Left Behind Me, by Martin A. Haynes This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license Title: A Minor War History Compiled from A Soldier Boy's Letters to "The Girl I Left Behind Me" 1861-1864 Author: Martin A. Haynes Release Date: August 25, 2020 [EBook #63040] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MINOR WAR HISTORY COMPILED *** Produced by Quentin Campbell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) cover page Transcriber’s Note The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain. See the end of this document for details of corrections and changes. A MINOR WAR HISTORY COMPILED FROM A SOLDIER BOY’S LETTERS TO “THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME” I 1861–1864 * * * DRAMATIS PERSONÆ The Soldier Boy Martin A. Haynes Company I, Second New Hampshire Volunteer Infantry “The Girl I Left Behind Me” Cornelia T. Lane Now and for more than Fifty Years the Wife of the Soldier Boy * * * LAKEPORT, N. H. PRIVATE PRINT OF MARTIN A. HAYNES 1916 ************************ EDITION SIXTY COPIES THIS IS NO. AND IS PRESENTED TO WITH COMPLIMENTS OF MARTIN A. HAYNES ************************ PREAMBLE N gathering material for a history of the Second Regiment, one of my sources of information was a big bundle of letters, even then yellowing with age—my letters, covering a period of over three years, written to “The girl I left behind me.” These—with the elimination of such strictly personal matters as concerned only the two of us—were carefully copied, and the letters then given to the flames. Thirty years later, breaking the seals of that bundle of manuscript, I read with indescribable interest my own story of more than half a century ago. And the whim came upon me to put those scraps of war history into type and print a few copies, especially for members of the family. I can see an opening for only one regret. It will probably destroy an illusion of those four grandchildren—Marjorie and Warren, Martin and Eugene—as to their grandfather’s relative importance in the war, and while Grant and Sherman will be moved up one notch on the roll of those who put down the Great Rebellion, I will, very likely, have to be content with third place. There is lots of history here—minor history, to be sure—and while there is a sequence of events, it is not a connected story, nor even complete. A series of letters rarely is. They do not deal, like Sherman’s letters, in the grand strategy of campaigns, but they do give an idea of what the men in the ranks were talking and thinking and doing. Their interest lies almost entirely in the fact that they deal with the trivialities of army life. Here is recorded the small talk of the camp, and many incidents that are too trivial for big history, but are really interesting and worth saving. I have preserved the personality of some of those royal old comrades of mine, who but for these letters would be remembered only through the cold lines of the official record. In these sketches—“right off the bat,” as it were—they seem to live again, and one can get a very fair idea of what manner of men they were. It is sometimes with moistened eyes that I catch the step with them again in these pages and in memory live over those stirring days when comradeship was so close and meant so much. I feel lonesome when I realize that I am almost the last survivor of those who live and move in the following pages. Not one member of the old “Abbott Guard”—a Manchester company and largely composed of Manchester men—now remains as a living resident of that city, and the survivors, scattered far and wide, can be counted upon the fingers of one hand. As often happened in the old army days, I am once more a straggler, dusty, footsore and weary. But I know that before long I will swing around the bend in the road and come upon I the whole precious bunch in bivouac. There will be Rod. Manning and George Slade, Hen. Everett and Bill Ramsdell, “Heenan” and “Gunny,” old Dan. Desmond—a hundred of the rarest aggregation that ever touched elbows in a common cause. And with the old familiar whoop they will greet the belated straggler and give him a place at their campfire. M. A. H. Lakeport, New Hampshire, October, 1916. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * LETTERS I Camp Union, Concord, April 28, 1861. F you could look in on this scene you would rate it as about as good a comedy as we ever took in at Bidwell and Marston’s. I am writing on a rough board table, and right opposite me the fellow who has set up as company barber is skinning a poor victim alive. I don’t think he is much of a barber, and from the spasmodic and at times profane remarks of the patriot he is practicing on, I gather that I am not alone in that opinion. I have been very busy this week and have hardly had time to write the letters I promised Farnsworth for the American. But I am going to give you a little idea of the routine of camp life. We are in camp on the Merrimack County fair grounds, across the river from the city. Our barracks are rough board buildings with ample ventilation through a thousand cracks. One continuous bunk, bedded with straw, extends along one side. Into this we tumble at night, wrapped in our thick army blankets, warm and cozy, and go to sleep after about so much laughing and joking and blackguarding. The drum beats to marshal us to our meals, and each company falls into line, single file. At the command we march around by the commissary’s stand, each man, as he passes, helping himself to plate and dipper with rations upon them. I have seen richer food and a more comprehensive bill of fare, but it is all right and there is plenty of it: fish hash (and I always did like fish hash,) bread (white and brown,) pickles, coffee. No butter, no condiments. But the whole outfit seems to agree with me, and I never was in better health and spirits in my life. There are now about 550 men here in camp—over 240 from Manchester. It is a rattling jolly crowd, and there is something doing about all the time. At night we gather around the campfires and amuse ourselves with songs and stories and badinage until nine o’clock, when “Tattoo” sounds and we tumble into our bunk. As many as are needed are detailed each night to stand guard. I have had one round at it—routed out of my warm nest at one o’clock in the morning and posted at the main gate of the camp. It was very cold, and every star was out with a broad grin on as I paraded up and down with a ten-pound musket on my shoulder. I shall try to get leave to run down to Manchester Saturday and stop over Sunday. I want to “see my sister.” We have not got our uniforms yet. We all expected to have them by the last of the week, so hardly anybody brought any change of clothing. I borrowed a collar of Cochrane [W. H. D.] until I could send home for wardrobe supplies. We have got to go to church at Concord this afternoon, in a body. There are lots of Manchester folks here today, and I have to stop every minute and shake hands with some friend who comes along. Kelley’s [Capt. John L.] recruits came up yesterday. I met them as I was going to the city. Jim Atherton was among them. He brought me lots of things from my friends—pastry from mother, a mince pie from Mrs. Currier, a pin cushion from Augusta Currier, and a great big sugar heart from Mrs. Logue, bless her dear old Irish soul. Address, Camp Union, Company A, Concord, N. H. [1] [2] A R H II Camp Union, May 1, 1861. M writing in great haste to let you know that the Guard are going to Portsmouth this afternoon, to join the Second Regiment, under Tom Pierce. We get away in a hurry, in order to get position on the right of the regiment —if we can. I will write to you in a day or two—by Sunday, sure. Shall run back to Manchester before we go to the war. Direct letters to Abbott Guard, Portsmouth. III Camp Constitution, Portsmouth, May 5, 1861. ECEIVED a letter from you a few moments before the company left Concord, enclosing a note from Sally [Shepherd] and a fine picture of yourself. I don’t think, however, it is quite as good as the one I have with me in a little round velvet case. The Second Regiment are quartered in an old ropewalk, four or five hundred feet long and about eighteen feet wide. Our bunks extend along each side, with a walk through the center and a rack over our heads to place our muskets in. Our quarters and food are much better than they were at Concord. There are now five companies here, all of us raw recruits fast enough, but the Guard are just conceited enough to imagine their military education is a little more advanced than that of the other fellows. You know, we’ve been sworn in almost three weeks, and naturally know it all. There was a little friction night before last. A guard from the Great Falls company was posted around the quarters, and word got around that they were acting mighty “cocky.” They would not let our men even pass around in the yard, where they had a perfect right to go. I had had no intention of leaving the quarters that night, but was determined not to be cooped up that way. So I recruited two desperate outlaws, and we ran the guard and went over to the city. There we ran across our Orderly Sergeant [George W. Gordon] and he was as mad as we were. At a late hour we marched back to camp. When the guard at the outer gate hollered “Whoa, there!” and tried to block our way, we upset him and went right along. We didn’t get a proper challenge down the whole line, but there was a succession of wild calls for the Officer of the Guard. The last I heard as I passed into the barracks was the assurance of the officer, to a sentry who had narrated his tale of woe, that the “Manchester boys” were right—that a proper challenge would doubtless have been heeded and saved all trouble. Our boys are all pleased with Portsmouth, but are afraid we shall not be ordered away as soon as if we had stayed in Concord. There are many points of interest here—the navy yard, where 1100 men are employed fitting out three large war vessels, and the forts down the harbor, where they are putting in garrisons and mounting heavy guns. Nich. Biglin, alias “Heenan,” one of our boys, had a thumb badly crushed in showing how strong he was. Up at the arsenal there are rows of big iron cannon, relics of the war of 1812, resting at each end on blocks. “Heenan” lifted an end of one of these, which was quite a feat, but his grin of triumph faded out when he let the gun back smash onto one thumb. I received today a very welcome present from the Manchester High School—a splendid waterproof blanket. John Johnson is the committee to distribute similar favors among the M. H. S. boys in camp here. I am detailed for guard and my round commences soon. You need have no fear that I shall not run up to Manchester before leaving here. IV Camp Constitution, Portsmouth, May 11, 1861. AVE been expecting all this week that I would have an opportunity to run up home today, but have just learned that Gen. Stark has issued orders that no man is to leave camp till the regiment is uniformed, which he expects will be next Monday or Tuesday. There is a rumor circulating that this regiment will not be ordered into active service unless we enlist for three years or until the war is ended; but Fred. Smith told me, yesterday, he would warrant we should be ordered off within ten days. If we are not, I think nearly all the boys will enlist for the war. We started out to see the rebels put down, and we are not willing to go home without seeing it done and having a hand in it. I do not think the war will last more than a few months. Since our little affair with the Commissary we have had first rate grub. [This refers to the “rag hash war,” when the Abbott Guard rebelled against the rations and marched over to the city, in a body, for something to eat.] We were placed under arrest when we got back and kept under guard twenty-four hours. I gave a pretty plain statement of the affair in my letter to the American, and yesterday down came Fred. Smith to see about it. With one of the Governor’s Aides he went around and investigated pretty thoroughly, and there are already signs of a decided improvement. V [3] [4] [5] Y T D E Camp Constitution, Portsmouth, May 16, 1861. OU have, doubtless, been expecting me every day for a week. I wrote Tuesday throwing out a hint that I might be up Wednesday; but when Wednesday came there was no move to uniform us, and I had to wait. But today something definite has transpired. We are officially informed that an opportunity will be given us to re-enlist for three years or the war, or to be discharged. We can take it or leave it. The Abbott Guard had a meeting this afternoon, and a majority voted to offer the services of the company to the President, for the war. Several of them will not go, but I, of course, could not be dogged back to Manchester while the company is headed for the South. A possible three years from home is a long stretch, but you can be pretty sure the war will not last many months. At any rate, my fortunes are cast with the Abbott Guard, and its fortunes I am bound to follow, wherever they lead. General Abbott told us, this afternoon, that we should all have a chance to go home and put our affairs in order. VI Camp Constitution, Portsmouth, May 19, 1861. HE regiment is now uniformed—the queerest-looking uniform in the world. You have probable seen some like them in the streets of Manchester, on the First Regiment boys. The suit is gray throughout, with a light trimming of red cord. The coat is a “swallow-tail,” with brass buttons bearing the New Hampshire coat-of-arms; a French army cap to top off with. We have the Manchester Cornet Band here with us now—they came yesterday. They played in front of the barracks last evening—lots of the good old tunes that you and I have enjoyed together, many a time. VII Camp Constitution, Portsmouth, June 2, 1861. O not know how much longer we will be here, but not more than a few days—perhaps not over a week. Yesterday the First Maine Regiment passed through here. I wish this regiment had been in their place. VIII Camp Constitution, Portsmouth, June 7, 1861. XPECTED I would have a chance to write a long letter today. I was on guard last night, and in the natural course should have had the day to myself. But our company was mustered this forenoon—sworn in for three years’ service—and the regiment has been marching and parading all the afternoon. I was never more tired in all my life. We shall be off in a day or two. Next Tuesday is the time set, but we may not get away until a day or two later. We are very busy getting ready to leave. A number of the boys have taken a notion to get married before leaving for the front, among the number being Eugene Hazewell, E. Norman (nicknamed “Enormous”) Gunnison, and Johnny Ogden, the round-faced Englishman I pointed out to you down by the cemetery, one day. We have lots of fun with the fellows who come creeping into the barracks late at night or early in the morning. All sorts of traps are set, and some one of them generally gets the bird. Sometimes it is the old trick of tinware over the door, which is bound to rouse the whole camp, no matter how carefully the door is opened; or a gun box set on end in the aisle; or a rope stretched across it. Just to bring myself to a realization of how long the three years ahead ought to seem, I have been measuring back to events that transpired three years ago. Three years seems a long time looking into the future, and yet many things that took place three years ago do not seem so very far away. In the depot at Manchester I met Ike Sawyer, who has just got back from sea. I asked him how long he had been gone this time, and he said, “Over three years.” I was surprised that it was so long, and hope the coming three will sort of shorten up in the same way. Our company is now stocking up on mascots. The latest additions are a splendid Newfoundland dog and a pretty maltese cat. Nich. Biglin is going up tomorrow to bid good bye to a large and enthusiastic circle of female admirers. Just now he and Dan Mix are engaged in an animated dispute as to whether a man will get tight on gin sweetened with sugar sooner than if sweetened with molasses, and “Heenan” proposes that they go out and experiment. IX Camp Constitution, Portsmouth, June 12, 1861. [6] [7] S W O H TILL in Portsmouth, in spite of all prophecies, augurs and omens. The excuse now is that the baggage wagons and some other camp equipage are not ready. The time now set is next Monday, but I am not counting on going before Wednesday, as a precaution against being disappointed. All our baggage wagons, harnesses, horses, and other field stuff are in Concord, and it is more than probable that we shall go there to get it, and thence to New York through Manchester. I hope so, as it will give me a chance to see you once more just for a moment. I was somewhat surprised to hear that Frank had gone to Washington. I wish he was going with this regiment; but I shall have as good care as I could wish for if I am sick, as my uncle, Dr. John, is going out with us in the hospital department. My aunt wrote me that if the doctor went she should put on the breeches and go too. And, by the way, I am not sure that you would recognize me now that I have followed the prevailing fashion and had my flowing locks shaved off close to my scalp. Yesterday morning, before breakfast, a party of us boys went down to the beach and had a glorious frolic, swimming, digging clams, and catching crabs. In the regimental organization we are designated as Company I. It is explained to us that this gives us a post of honor, as the color company, in the center of the regiment; but I am a little skeptical. The boys have been singing sentimental songs, but just now have switched off onto cheers over the taking of Big Bethel, in Virginia, by Gen. Butler. “Hooray!” The way they are tearing it off is a caution. All are at fever heat to be off and helping in the war. X Headquarters Second Regt. N. H. V., Portsmouth, June 16, 1861. E know, at last, just when we are going away—“sure.” Next Thursday, at 7 o’clock in the morning, we are off. As we go direct to Boston, and not through Manchester, it is good bye until I come home from the war. Si. Swain is under guard today. He refused to do duty and invited Rod. Manning, one of the sergeants, to go to H ——ot place. My ribs are sore from laughing over the regatta we had today out on the mill pond. Some of the boys gathered together from somewhere a number of hogsheads, halved by being sawed in two, and went voyaging in them. They were not a very manageable craft. They rolled around every-which-way, capsized, collided, and went through all sorts of ridiculous stunts. We have had issued to us blue flannel blouses, thin, loose, and far more comfortable than our uniform dress coats. Some of the boys have been fishing down at the fort today. They brought home a lobster they caught, and while a kettle of water is heating to boil him in, are teasing the poor fellow with sticks. “Heenan” is taking an active part in the persecution. He holds up long enough to say to me, “Tell her I want to keep the first two months’ pay to buy my liquor with; but after that I will remit enough so that, with her own efforts, the family will be insured from want.” XI Headquarters Second Regt. N. H. Vols., Portsmouth, June 19, 1861. FF we go at 7 o’clock tomorrow morning, and everything is bustle and excitement. Have seen lots of Manchester folks here within a day or two. Mary Rice was on the parade ground yesterday. Dr. Nelson, Henry A. Gage, A. C. Wallace, policeman Bennett, Parker Hunt and his mother, and many more of my friends and acquaintances. We have been drilling today with knapsacks and equipments on, and my shoulders are as lame as if I had been beaten with a club. Twenty rounds of cartridges have been issued to us. You will direct letters to Company I, 2d Regt. N. H. Vols., Washington, D. C. We may not be at Washington, but there is no mail south of there, and it will be distributed from that point. There was quite an excitement here last night, resulting from a fire on the frigate “Santee.” It was set near the magazine, in which was forty tons of powder. XII Washington, D. C., June 25, 1861. ERE we are at last, in Washington, safe and sound, but stewed with the heat. We left Portsmouth on schedule time, Thursday morning. At Boston, we met with a grand reception. The boys will never forget the superb collation that was served us there—not merely the toothsome meats and substantials, but all the little niceties, such as strawberries and cream, &c. From Boston we went to Fall River, where we took the steamer “Bay State” for New York. I roosted on the hurricane deck and never had a better night’s sleep in my life. At New York the Sons of New [8] [9] S Y Hampshire gave us a flag and a feast, after which we were ferried to Amboy, 16 miles, and took cars for Baltimore. I got in a good night’s sleep between Harrisburg and Baltimore, and Sunday noon we arrived in Washington. Our camp reminds me of the old-fashioned tin oven my grandmother used to set before the fireplace to bake biscuits in. On the sunny slope of a ridge, with not a tree for shade and shelter. Hot! And the flies! I know now how to pity those poor old Egyptians. We have plenty of unusual happenings now. I am not sure but that some of the boys are seeing spooks. Sunday night several of the sentinels reported exchanging shots with prowlers about the camp. I was on guard that night, where there were plenty of bushes, but the best I could do I couldn’t find anything to get excited over. Dan Mix, one of the teamsters, says he was fired at four times while coming into camp with his team last night. And it is currently reported that the Zouaves, camped next to us, captured a spy a day or two ago, and he will be hanged today or tomorrow. I can understand how some secessionists around here might be tempted to take a pot shot at a Yankee sentinel out of pure cussedness; but I haven’t got it through my head yet what a spy could find to spy out that isn’t perfectly open to anybody who cares to look about in broad daylight, unmolested. Just before I left Portsmouth I had a letter from my mother that touched a sensitive nerve. My dear old Grandmother Knowlton came down from New London to see me, but I had just gone back to Portsmouth. As the first and favorite grandchild I always filled a big space in her little world. She mourned over her disappointment, and grieved that she should never see me again. My mother could not even conceal her own blue streak. She and father were in Boston when we went through, and I had a chance just to shake hands and say good bye to them. I have seen Dave Perkins here two or three times. [David L., of Manchester, then connected with one of the Departments.] He asked me if I wanted to send any word to that little girl away up in New Hampshire, for he was going back in a few weeks. I gave him lots of messages, and have no doubt he will forget every one of them before he sees you. Our grub, since we got here, has not been quite up to the Astor House standard, but the army stores will be here today, which will improve the bill of fare. So far it has consisted of hard bread bearing the stamp “1810”—whatever that may signify—ham or salt pork and coffee. XIII Camp Sullivan, Washington, July 2, 1861. ATURDAY was quite an eventful day with me. I went over to the city on a sight-seeing trip with Hen. Morse, one of my tentmates [killed, three weeks later, at Bull Run.] Went first to the Capitol, and viewed the paintings and statuary. Thence to the Smithsonian Institute and spent several hours in its wonderful museum, where I could have interested myself for days. From there to the Washington monument. Among the stone blocks there, contributed from various sources and to be built into the walls, was one inscribed: “From the Home of Stark. From the Ladies of Manchester, N. H.” We wound up our sight-seeing in the parks around the President’s house; and when we got back to camp I was tired enough to pile onto my blankets and go to sleep. Not much sleep, though. I had hardly lost myself when somebody shook me and said the Captain wanted me up at his tent. I went up, in no very amiable mood. Found Commissary Goodrich there, who said he wanted me to be his clerk. I chewed the matter over and decided I’d take the assignment. It relieves me from guard duty and drill, and gives me very nice quarters with the Commissary. I jumped into my work the next day—Sunday. Issued three days’ rations to the regiment, and had a pretty busy time keeping track of the provisions. Monday and Tuesday I had my hands full straightening up accounts and opening a set of books; and not until today have I had any chance to write letters and attend to private affairs. Last night we had a rain—and such a rain! The board floor in my tent kept me high and dry above the flood, but the fellows down in camp came pretty near being carried out to sea. I am not starving now. I don’t think anybody does in the commissary department. Yesterday I had all the cherries I could eat, and some day, when I have a little leisure, I think I’ll go blackberrying. XIV Camp Sullivan, Washington, July 7, 1861. ESTERDAY I received orders to deliver four days’ rations of beef, bread and coffee, and the cooks were ordered to cook the meat, ready for a march. We are now expecting marching orders at any moment. I have an idea that they will come about night, so as to avoid marching in the heat of the day. I am going, you bet. Captain Goodrich told me this camp is not to be broken up at present. The commissary stores are to be left here, the tents to remain standing, with the surplus baggage, all under guard of the cripples and invalids. When it came to details, I found the plan was for the Captain to go with the expedition, while I remained behind to look after things in camp. That didn’t suit me; so I asked him to hunt up another clerk, and notified the Captain that I wanted my gun again and to go with the company. Where we are going we do not know, but inasmuch as twelve regiments are going with us, and we are to take no [10] [11] [12] W I knapsacks, but four days’ rations and a large supply of ammunition, it is fair to presume we will be looking for trouble. I hope we are going down to Manassas to drive the secessionists out of that stronghold. Very likely some of the boys have not many days to live, but they are jolly eager to be off, and will give a good account of themselves. I went to a ride into the country yesterday to find a boarding place for Captain Goodrich’s wife. XV Camp Sullivan, Washington, D. C., Sunday, July 14, 1861. E are still here in Camp Sullivan, our marching orders having been countermanded at the last moment; but are sure to be off before many days. We have been expecting to march today, but probably will not. A day or two ago there was a dreadful accident in our brigade. The Rhode Island battery were drilling upon the parade ground in front of our camp, when the ammunition in one of the limbers exploded and the three men seated on the box were hurled high in the air, two being killed instantly—literally blown all to pieces. I was on the spot almost instantly, and with the single exception of the Pemberton Mills horror, which I viewed as a newspaper reporter, it was the most sickening sight I ever saw. We certainly do have gay times here in camp. The days are frightfully hot, but the evenings are cool and nice, and somehow or other the camp scenes then remind me—and I can’t tell just how—of an old-fashioned country fair. I suppose it’s the canvas, the lighted tents like open booths, the men swarming hither and thither, the bustle and frolic and singing—and we have some very fine singers in our company. P. S.—Monday Morning.—We have received orders to march tomorrow at two o’clock, with three days’ rations and without camp equipage. The orders are imperative and we are sure of going. We shall probably see some of the business we came for before long. I will write at the first opportunity and let you know what happens. XVI Washington, D. C., July 24, 1861. INTENDED to write to you yesterday, but after what I have been through in the past week I simply couldn’t get up steam. Last Tuesday—a week ago yesterday—this regiment crossed the Potomac at Long Bridge, with the other regiments and batteries of Burnsides’ brigade, and advanced into Virginia. Saturday night we were encamped about a mile from Centreville. At two o’clock Sunday morning we were up and on the march, and at ten o’clock we came upon the secessionists at Bull Run and engaged them. The battle lasted several hours, when we were obliged to withdraw. It was a very disorderly retreat. We expected to be followed sharply, of course, and there was no halt worth talking about until we straggled into Washington, every man for himself. Coming and going we got in about sixty miles of travel, to say nothing of several hours on the battlefield. I was about all in when, midday Monday, I reached the Virginia end of Long Bridge. We were then inside the fortifications, and there were kettles of hot coffee and boxes of hard bread set out for everybody to help themselves. It did seem as if I never could drag myself over to our camp. But I finally negotiated with a huckster who was over there with his team, and having purchased his remaining stock of pies and distributed them among the crowd of refugees, he gave me a ride across the bridge and up into the city well toward Camp Sullivan. The battle was the hardest fought so far, and the losses on both sides were heavy. At the roll call this morning 175 were missing from the Second Regiment, but this number will doubtless be cut down as stragglers come in. Of my eight tentmates, six went. Two [Harvey Holt and Henry Morse] were killed outright, and one [George F. Lawrence] was severely wounded in the head. I got my little upset at the very tail-end of the fight. The regiment had crossed over to the opposite hill, and about a hundred of us had taken cover in a cut in the road. We had a house on our front, some secessionist cannon up near it, and enough of the enemy to give us a real lively time. There was a rail fence along the edge of the cut, and I rested my musket on one of the rails, and carefully sighted on a fellow who seemed to be showing off. Then something happened. A cannon ball struck the rail, one of the fragments hit me in the head and neck, and I rolled down the bank. I heard one of the boys cry out “Mart is killed!” and for about half a minute I didn’t know but what I was. But when we had to break for the rear, a few minutes later, I had no trouble in keeping up with the procession. In all my life I never suffered from thirst as I did that day. On the advance, our regiment was right at the ford of Bull Run creek when the head of the column sighted the enemy. A staff officer rode back with the announcement and called to the men to fill their canteens. I waded up a few feet and filled my canteen with good clear river water. A little while [13] [14] J T after, I took a drink, spat out the tepid mouthful in disgust, and emptied the canteen. I learned my lesson and will never do that again. Before that day was over I would have given dollars for one square drink of that same water. On the retreat I one time scooped up a few sips from a mud puddle through which men and horses and wheels were ploughing their way. Before reaching Centreville I filled up clear to the ears from a little trickling rivulet, and filled my canteen as well. Laid down in the old bivouac, and went to sleep. After two or three hours was waked up and told to keep agoing. The old thirst was on me, but when I lifted my canteen it was empty—drained to the last drop. If I could have got hold of that sneak thief the casualty list would have been one bigger, I think. You will be pleased to know that “Heenan” behaved finely. His tin dipper, hanging by his side, was desperately wounded—otherwise all right. Frank Wasley had one or more fingers hurt by a bullet. Col. Marston was not more than twenty or thirty feet from me when he was shot in the shoulder. It was rather a wild scene just then—a dead man stretched out here and there; a stream of wounded men staggering or being helped to the rear; the Rhode Island battery, shrouded in smoke and with several horses down, soaking it to the batteries across the valley, on the other hill. A little later we were farther down the slope, lined up in a cornfield, helping drive the enemy out of woods and bushes where they were strongly posted. While here we saw the Black Horse, a famous secessionist cavalry corps, charge the Fire Zouaves, and then go back with lots of empty saddles. I find I must hurry to get this into the mail, but will write again in a day or two. XVII Camp Sullivan, Washington, D. C., July 30, 1861. UST to let you know that I was alive and kicking, I wrote a week ago, but did not write half I wanted to. I got a letter from Roger [Woodbury] a few days ago. He has an idea of enlisting in the Third Regiment. I advised him, as he is situated, not to do it. It may seem inconsistent in me to advise him against doing what I myself have done; but he has others dependent on him, while I have not. Things are getting straightened out so we can now tell about how many men we lost in the unfortunate battle of Bull Run. Our total loss in killed, wounded and missing is only about eighty or ninety. I lost some of my best friends. Mose Eastman was wounded in the leg. I saw him carried to the rear. If still living he is probably a prisoner. Frank Wasley has had a finger cut off. I had a letter from mother today. She says they do not know yet, in Manchester, who is missing, and there is the deepest anxiety there. By the way, I may as well remind you that this is my birthday, and I am nineteen years old. If some one with the gift of prophecy had told me, a year ago, that at my next birthday I would be in the army and a participant in the greatest battle ever fought on this continent, wouldn’t it have seemed a wild piece of fortune telling? XVIII Camp Sullivan, Washington, D. C., August 5, 1861. HE heat today is something awful. We are all just about dead from it—lying about camp and sweltering. I received your letter of the 30th and will answer your questions in turn. Charlie Farnam is in our regiment as a drummer. All the boys you specially inquired after are well. Hen. Pillsbury inquires often where “the woman” is and how she is getting along. As to the talk that we are going to be beaten in this war, that is the veriest bosh. The next time we march towards Richmond we will have force enough to crush our way. We were not beaten this time in the fighting, but by an unfortunate combination of adverse circumstances. Had Johnston’s division been held back by Patterson, as it was expected it would be, we should have beaten them anyway. And even with that reinforcement I am not sure we would not have whipped them in the end, but for that unaccountable panic communicated to two or three broken regiments by teamsters who had driven their teams into places where they were not wanted, and who took the order to change positions as a signal for retreat. Then everything went to pieces before anybody really knew what had happened. My tentmates Holt and Morse were both awfully nice boys. Holt was the first man killed in the regiment. He was not with the company, but with the corps of pioneers, a detachment of axe-men, made up of details from the various companies. He was killed very early in the action, while crouching in a ditch, by a piece of shell which struck him in the shoulders. Morse was killed late in the day. The regiment was crossing from the slope where it had been fighting over to the opposite hill. It was halted in the valley, while Gen. Burnside rode up the hill a little piece and took an observation. We were under very sharp fire from a battery further up. I heard a shot from it come roaring down the slope, ending in a “thud” which told it had got a victim down the line. Looking back, I saw a prostrate form sprawled in the dust of the road, with Johnny Ogden bending over it. “Who is it, Johnny?” I called back. “Hen. Morse,” he answered me. We expect to change our position before long—are hoping to spend a few of these hot weeks at Fort McHenry, in Baltimore, or at Fortress Monroe. I don’t know where the idea started from, but it would be fine. I hear from Manchester often. Roger Woodbury, George Dakin, Ruthven Houghton and Frank Morrill have enlisted [15] [16] [17] D P O I into the Third Regiment. How I wish that crowd was in this company! Some of our officers are now in New Hampshire after recruits to fill the gaps in the Second Regiment. XIX Bladensburg, Md., August 12, 1861. IDN’T wake up very early this morning; but when I did I got up, quick—rolled out of a puddle of water I had been sleeping in. We moved over to this camp last Friday morning, and are in a most delightful location. It is about five miles from Washington, on the field where the battle of Bladensburg was fought in 1814. There is a little village, a little river, little hills, &c., and plenty of the very best of water close at hand. The place has quite a reputation for its mineral springs. There is one right in the village, and the water is so clear, so cool, so refreshing—only the merest suggestion of a mineral flavor. It is surprising how many of my old friends I manage to run across. Gust. Hutchinson, who used to work with me in the old American office, is in the Massachusetts Eleventh, which is camped here. Almost every day I run across somebody I have known before. August 15.—I have been about used up for the past two days, but now I must finish my letter. You can assure your rebel-sympathizing friends that the rebels cannot take the capital, and I do not believe they will attempt it. I hope they will try. I have just received a paper with a list of the second company of Abbott Guards. I note that Roger Woodbury, Frank Johnson, Johnny Stokes and others of my old friends are in it. My uncle John has gone home. The climate did not agree with him as well as it does with me. XX Camp Union, Bladensburg, Md., August 25, 1861. RESIDENT LINCOLN, accompanied by Secretaries Seward and Welles, reviewed the brigade this forenoon. Friday afternoon we were reviewed by Gen. McClellan, who is next in command to Gen. Scott. We expect to stay here several weeks—perhaps till the first of October. We are so very pleasantly situated that we would not object to lying around here for a few weeks. If the rebels should be bold enough to attack Washington there will be lots of music. The city is being fortified against any such emergency. Our brigade is working on a fort near here that would prove a hard nut to crack. Three of our regiments were at Bull Run. The First Massachusetts was in the Thursday fight at Blackburn’s Ford, and the Eleventh Massachusetts was in the Sunday fight. There was a most laughable scene here today. Colonel Fiske’s horse ran away with him and bolted smack into [Lieut.] Joe Hubbard’s tent. Down went tent, horse and rider all in one grand mix-up. And while they were trying to save something from the wreck out of the ruins crawled the worst-scared man ever seen in these parts since Bull Run. He was reading a newspaper, all unsuspecting, when the heavens fell. A day or two ago I read a letter from a daughter of old John Brown. It was written to a brother-in-law of hers in my company—Willard P. Thompson—whose brother, her husband, was one of John Brown’s men killed at Harper’s Ferry two or three years ago. It was a gem of patriotic sentiment, and with a fine womanly instinct she expressed her sorrow that Avis, who was her father’s jailer, was killed at Bull Run—he was so very kind to the old prisoner. XXI Camp Union, Bladensburg, Md., Sept. 4, 1861. RDERS came tonight to pack and be ready to march at a minute’s notice with two days’ cooked rations. I learn from headquarters that we are going over into Virginia again. We want a chance to try the Southern Chivalry on again, and I guess we will have it before long. We hear there was a scrimmage over there today, and our troops took possession of Munson’s Hill, which the rebels had fortified. It is after ten o’clock at night. “Taps” beat an hour ago, and I must close. Perhaps in my next letter I will tell of a battle, and if I do, it will be a battle won. XXII Camp Union, Bladensburg, Md., Sunday, Sept. 15, 1861. AM somewhat surprised to hear that M—— has, as you write me, given her secession-sympathizing lover the mitten. I can not work up any more sympathy for a rebel in New Hampshire than for one in Virginia, and a Manchester man who would jubilate over our defeat at Bull Run ought to be taken out into a back pasture and shot. As [18] [19] L C for my never getting home again, I’m not worrying about that. I went through Bull Run safe and sound, and I don’t believe we will ever see a harder fight than that, and there is no reason why I should not come out of the rest of the battles equally well. There has been some sort of a shake up in the commissary department. Capt. Goodrich has had three clerks since I got out, all of whom threw up the position. He and the Brigadier General [Hooker] didn’t hitch up together very well, and now, I understand, he has quit the service. Am I homesick? you ask. Not a bit. And that does not mean that I would not like to see you and the “old folks at home.” We are very comfortably situated just now. No signs of immediate starvation. Government rations are excellent, and we can piece out with any luxury we are willing to pay for. And drill and camp duties are so arranged that we have much time for pleasure. I got a letter from Roger Woodbury Wednesday. He is camped on Long Island and is enjoying camp life immensely. The Division he is in will consist of ten New England regiments, and is probably designed to operate somewhere along the coast when the time comes for the grand move. We are building a line of forts to encircle Washington on the north. Details from this brigade have worked upon two near our camp. One of these now has twenty guns mounted, commanding the country for miles around. How soon we will move, we cannot tell—perhaps in a day, perhaps not for a month. We have two days’ rations constantly in readiness. The Massachusetts First has gone over into the country somewhere for a few days. I ran into a little bunch of excitement this noon. Had gone over to a huckster’s on the road running between the camps of the Pennsylvania Twenty-sixth and Massachusetts Eleventh, to buy a pie for dinner. Saw a commotion over in the Eleventh camp which seemed worth looking into, so I went over. Had just passed the camp guard when I saw one of the boys rushing a negro out of the crush and over to the Pennsylvania camp. The negro was almost paralyzed with fright. He was a runaway, and had been with the Massachusetts boys quite a little time. His master got track of him and sent two slave catchers to get him. But when they tried to execute their mission, some of the boys promptly knocked them down and got the negro out of the way. XXIII Camp Union, Bladensburg, Md., Sept. 22, 1861. AST Wednesday I went down to the Third Regiment and saw lots and lots of the old crowd. Roger Woodbury had not come on yet from Long Island. I met Frank Morrill, Jack Holmes, Ruthven Houghton, and many others. Frank and I had such a good long talk over the happy old times. The regiment is camped about three miles from here, and the men are worrying for fear they may be ordered back to Long Island. So you think, do you, it would be a good plan to go down to the city once in a while for something good to eat. Why, bless you, we don’t have to do that now. We have sutlers here, and hucksters out from the city, and farmers with their truck, and can buy most anything we want to piece out the army rations, from sweet potatoes to pound cake. XXIV Camp Union, Bladensburg, Md., Sept. 29, 1861. OMPANY I goes on guard today, and I can manage to pick out a little time for writing letters. I wish you could be in camp here Sundays and see the colored people come in. Sunday is the negro’s holiday, and they swarm into camp with their apples, peaches, chickens, or whatever they happen to have that can be turned into money or old clothes. Each one has a basket, with a crooked stick on which to swing it over the shoulder. These plantation negroes —mostly slaves—are a quaint lot, not a bit like the bright colored people you see north. We used to think the stage negro at the minstrel show was a burlesque. He wasn’t. Fast Day some four hundred of the regiment marched down to the camp of the Third and had a jolly time. Roger had got along, but I saw him for only a moment. Frank Morrill and I took a most cheerful stroll down to that most cheerful public institution, the Congressional Cemetery, and saw the tombs of Gen. Macomb, Gov. Clinton, and no end of generals, commodores and other big men. The Fourth N. H. Regiment passed here today. I do not know where they will camp. I have many acquaintances in its ranks. Have you read about the taking of Munson’s Hill? Wasn’t that a pretty neat trick the rebels turned on us—mounting stovepipes and wooden cannons on the forts? The boys are borrowing trouble now through fears that McClellan will not take us with him when he advances over into Virginia. It would be decidedly ungrateful not to give us a chance to square accounts for Bull Run and the run we made after it. I shall never forgive the rebels for that affair until we have paid them in their own coin. The First Michigan Regiment came in today and camped right beside us. They were at Bull Run as a three months’ [20] [21] T W regiment, and enlisted again, for three years, when their time was up. The fort we have been working on is about ready for business. It mounts thirteen 32-pounder guns, and would be a lovely thing for a few thousand men to butt their heads against. The days are very hot and the nights terribly cold. I put my overcoat on and wrap my blanket about my legs and feet when I bunk down nights, and then I am almost frozen. This is a good time to catch the fever and ague, and I may be in for it. XXV Camp Union, Bladensburg, Md., Sunday, Oct. 6, 1861. HE Fourth Regiment are encamped about two miles below here. I went down to see them one day last week and had a good time. Saw Kin. Foss, Sam. Porter, “Tulip” Bunten and many others. As I went strolling through the camp, I noted one street down ahead where there appeared to be half a dozens fights going on, in various stages of development. I said to myself, I’ll bet a dollar that’s Charlie Hurd’s company. I won the bet. The Third Regiment has gone to Annapolis. This afternoon we are to be reviewed by Gen. McClellan. He has reviewed us once before, and it may be that he intends putting us ahead somewhere, and that we shall leave Bladensburg before long. So you want me to learn a lot of songs, do you? Well, I have anticipated your wishes and already commenced. There is one pathetic local ballad that I have been practicing on and can do pretty well for a green hand. Here is the first verse, which will give you some idea of its high artistic merits: “A grasshopper sat on a sweet pertater vine, On a sweet pertater vine, on a sweet pertater vine, When a turkey gob-u-ler acoming up behind Just yanked him off of that sweet pertater vine.” Then there is another that is very popular with the boys. It is easy to learn, notwithstanding there are 147 verses to it. I will give you the first verse, and when you’ve got that you’ve got the whole thing, for they’re all alike. One, two, sing: “John Brown he knew that his father was well, And his father he knew that John Brown he was well, For when John Brown knew that his father was well, His father he knew that John Brown he was well.” 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...