Part 15

Well, I went down to the company and turned into George Lawrence’s bunk, and today I got the whole story. Pendleton carried things with a high hand, did not attend to his duties in any kind of manner, and his conduct became so outrageous that he was sent back to the company and the business turned over to the chaplain. So now “Othello’s occupation’s gone!” Old Mr. Bailey told me he heard them planning to get rid of Pendleton, and the colonel said very emphatically that he wanted me to have the place when I came back. But they decided it would make but little difference to me what was done, as I would probably receive a commission within a few weeks. My choice seems to lie between taking a commission in a negro regiment or going back to company duty under Gordon and his precious gang of non-coms., and I think my preference will be for the negroes. I will have my furlough made out today, and will probably go to Washington for examination within a few days.

Now I must tell you about our trip back from New Hampshire. On our arrival in Boston we at once went on board the steamer “Guide”—and a slow old guide she was. But slow as she was, she was in a hurry to get away. The instant the baggage was on board she started, so suddenly that a number of the boys never got aboard, but were left behind. This was Tuesday afternoon, and Friday morning we were at Fortress Monroe. We got ashore about noon and loafed around until 5 o’clock, when we took the Baltimore boat. At 11 we met the tugboat from the Point, got aboard, and bobbed about out on the Bay until the boat from Baltimore came along. From her we got some of the boys who missed connections at Boston. Among the number were Jess, Dewey and Johnny Ogden, who had come on to Baltimore by rail. My home grub gloriously met all drafts, and I ate the last of it this morning, for breakfast.

Parties of our men now go across to Virginia every day, for wood. So far as fuel is concerned, we are living off the enemy’s country.

Not more than half our furloughed men have got back yet, and they will probably be straggling along for some time.

_Afternoon._—My furlough to go to Washington has just gone to headquarters for indorsement, and I shall be off within two or three days. Frank Wasley sent me word that he and Irene would like to see me, so I went up and called. They were living as cozy as could be, and I had a jolly visit. They have two tents, boarded up and the walls neatly papered, making two very attractive rooms.

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_CXXXVI_

POINT LOOKOUT, MD., _Friday, March 25, 1864_.

I believe I was never lamer or more absolutely used up than I am right at this present moment, the result of my participation in a great snowball battle, yesterday, between the Second and Twelfth. I emerged with both eyes blacked and a big cut over one, with minor contusions too numerous to mention, and thoroughly soaked and bedraggled from top to bottom. The Twelfth turned out _en masse_, which was more than our fellows did, as half of them were lying in their bunks, asleep, having been on guard the night before, while our subs didn’t care nor dare to mix into anything so strenuous. The Twelfth mustered three men to our one, but we held up our end in good shape. At the close both sides got to throwing ice and bricks, and several men received quite severe injuries.

It was a great storm that brought that snow down upon us. It set in Tuesday, and at 9 o’clock in the evening was at its height—the fiercest storm, by all odds, I have ever seen in this part of the country. I slept in a bunk in the company cook-house. Snugly curled up, I slept perhaps a couple hours, when I woke up and decided to straighten out my cramped limbs. I opened out like a jack-knife, took just one second to catch my breath, and pulled up again like a turtle going into his shell. I had rammed both head and feet into a snowdrift. The next morning the inside of our tent was like a view in the arctic regions—everything covered or filled with snow. In front of the tent was a drift five feet deep. I guess it was about the toughest snowstorm this part of Maryland ever experienced.

_Evening._—I have a little piece of news which I know will make your heart glad. I have decided not to go to Washington nor to make any further move for a commission. The move served as an anchor to windward in case I should otherwise have to go back to company duty under Gordon. I appreciated that it was a good deal like deserting you to go off again, perhaps for years. But things have come my way, and I do not want a commission now any more than I have in the past, but will come home and settle down in a few weeks.

No sooner did I make known my disinclination to go to Washington than an order was made out detailing me again as regimental P. M., and I am once more on my old job. Oh, it was sweet—the way I threw the hooks into the captain! I was in the adjutant’s office, playing cribbage, when Gordon came in. Just as he was going out he turned to me and said, “Well, Haynes, when do you expect your furlough back?” “I don’t know when it will come,” I answered, nonchalantly, “but probably before long.” “Well,” he snapped back, “if it doesn’t come in a day or two I’ll have to give you a gun and put you on duty.” “All right!” I said—and butter wouldn’t have melted in my mouth. But no sooner had he gone than John Cooper, the adjutant, turned to Hen. Everett and said, “Make out a special order detailing Mart. for special duty at these headquarters, and serve it on Captain Gordon.” The thing was done so quickly that Gordon was hardly back to his tent before the order reached him. It tickled Bill Ramsdell and my particular gang immensely, and I could see them going around and laughing and slapping each other on the back.

_Saturday, March 26._

I have been at work today fixing up my tent, and expect to move into it tonight. The Washington mail is taken off, which makes my already light work much lighter. The boat is needed in carrying troops to the Peninsula, which the camp strategists think it likely will be Grant’s line of advance on Richmond. And it is also the general impression that we will leave here before many weeks.

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_CXXXVII_

POINT LOOKOUT, MD., _March 28, 1864_.

Have got my old tent in running order again, fixed somewhat as it was before the Pendleton disaster overtook it. It does seem good to be back doing business at the old stand. But still it does not look exactly homelike yet. For a stove I have got one of the little sheet-iron conical “Sibleys.” It was donated by Charlie Shute, the quartermaster, but he had no stovepipe for me. But I made a raise of four lengths in Bailey’s sutler shop, and stole one length down in the company, which was sufficient for my purpose, and the stove works to perfection. But yesterday and today have been so very, very pleasant that there has been but little need of any fire. Warm, summery days, with the sun shining and the robins flying.

Yesterday morning I was awakened, very early, by a violent banging which threatened to burst in my door. I asked, in the polite manner customary in camp, who was there, and the reply that came left no doubt: “Hey, _Muggins!_ Get up and let me in here, won’t you?” Only one of all my old school crowd remembers and still hails me by my schoolboy nickname—“Muggins.” I tumbled out of bed in a hurry and opened the door to our old friend Charlie Wilson, just in on the boat from Portsmouth, Va. [Charles H. Wilson, of Manchester, until discharged for disability a member of the New Hampshire battalion First New England Volunteer Cavalry, and then in the employ of the Quartermaster Department at Portsmouth, Va.] He was going back last night, but he enjoyed himself so well yesterday that he decided to accidentally miss the boat. He goes back tonight—that is, if he does not accidentally get left again.

_Tuesday, March 29._

One day nearer home, and only sixty-seven more are between us. I have a card almanac hung up, and as soon as a day passes I scratch it off, just as I have heard of men doing who were going to be hanged. The fine weather I was bragging about has changed to cold and windy, with every indication of a coming storm. Charlie Wilson started back last night, and I went down to see him off. I am messing now with the cooks, down at the company cook house, and you may be sure we have the best of rations and plenty of them.

The wind is piping up furiously, and my old tent is shaking and creaking like a ship in a gale, but I guess she will weather it. Charlie Wilson sent his regards—come to think of it, I guess it was his love.

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_CXXXVIII_

POINT LOOKOUT, MD., _April 5, 1864_.

The mail boat did not go out last night, owing to the storm, and it bids fair to be much rougher tonight. It is an awful storm we are having, and I would like to see the sun once more and feel its warmth.

Yesterday General Marston was relieved by General Hinks, and from this the boys look for an early transfer of the regiment to the front, as Marston will probably want us with him, while Hinks would naturally prefer his own old regiment, the Nineteenth Massachusetts. The paymaster is expected here day after tomorrow to make what will probably be the last payment we will receive in the southern country.

A drop of water comes through the tent occasionally and strikes this paper with unerring accuracy, but I am bound to write in spite of it. Jess. Dewey and I are going up the river for sea shells the first fair day. He is now “right general guide” for the regiment, and has his time to himself quite as much as I do, so there is nothing to stand in the way of our little expedition when the weather will permit. The Veteran Volunteers have returned from their furloughs, some of them completely “busted,” so far as finances are concerned.

_Wednesday, April 6._

Orders have just come for our regiment to be ready to embark tomorrow morning. We are to take two days’ rations, and are going, probably, to either Norfolk or Yorktown. I may stay here a day or two, or may not, to look after the mail. The officers of the regiment have for some time been making great preparations for a grand ball to come off tomorrow night. It was to have been held in the chapel, and as it would not sound well to talk of a dance in the church, the affair, was designated as a “picnic.” But it is all the same now. Some of the officers do not relish the idea of leaving the quarters they have fitted up so comfortably and at considerable expense. Frank Wasley swears he will burn his when he has to leave it, orders to the contrary notwithstanding.

Bill Pendleton has been down to headquarters, and he says Gen. Marston says we are going to Norfolk, and that we will have an easier time than we are having here. Marston has been appointed military governor of Norfolk. As for myself, if I fare as well where we are going as I have here I will have no reason to complain.

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_CXXXIX_

YORKTOWN, VA., _April 11, 1864_.

Here I am again, only a couple miles from the spot where we camped two years ago. I have been looking around a little since we arrived here. Yesterday Hen. Everett, Jesse Dewey and I paid a visit to that old camp, and it was intensely interesting to us. The company streets and the ditches around the tents were there almost as we left them, and even much of the litter of the camp. I found the site of my tent and sat down on the very spot where, two years ago, I used to rest after a night in the trenches, and where the letters addressed to “Miss Nealie T. Lane” were written. I picked up one of the old tent-pins, and intend to make some little souvenir of it. Also a piece of shell and a fragment of boiler from the old Magruder sawmill, the music of which was continually in our ears.

Perhaps you remember about an old tentmate of mine named Damon. When we were here then he hollowed out an oven in the steep bank of a ravine, and as that was one of the institutions of Company I, we hunted it up. We found it in perfect condition and as good as new, and as we stood there Damon was right before my eyes again, bobbing about and learnedly discoursing on the peculiar advantages of ovens built on that peculiar plan.

We are camped just outside the works around Yorktown, on a plateau overlooking the York river and, far off to the east, the blue waters of Chesapeake Bay—on the whole, a very pleasant location. The first night we were here we had no tents, but they came the next day, although not as many as we needed, and we are, consequently, somewhat crowded. It was the intention to give Jess. Dewey and I a tent together, but we will have to wait. But at the rate our subs are deserting there will be tents enough and room enough before long. About a hundred have made tracks, so far.

Yesterday the Fourth U. S. Colored Regiment left here. One of the officers went out of this company. They are going to Point Lookout. The fellow I would have gone to Washington with if things had not shaped themselves to my liking in the regiment, is back with a captain’s commission. You see what I escaped. Col. Bailey tells me I ought to go up anyway, whether I accept or not—it would help pass the time away. But I tell him I am getting along very comfortably as I am, that I can enjoy myself better with the regiment than I could loafing around Washington, and that if I had wanted a commission I could have had one long, long ago. I am quartering now in the cook-tent, and have very good accommodations. It is understood we are going to Williamsburg soon. Hen. Pillsbury says Col. Bailey is determined to go home when the old men do, and most of the officers are of the same mind. We have just drawn rations of cracked pease, beans, rice, smoked sides, &c., so there are no signs of immediate starvation.

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_CXL_

YORKTOWN, VA., _April 13, 1864_.

Not a bit of mail have we had, until yesterday, since our arrival here. Then George Colby came down from Point Lookout, bringing what had accumulated there.

We are expecting to have a military execution of a deserter this afternoon. He is one of our subs, going under the name of John Egin. He was taken while trying to make his way into the rebel lines, was tried yesterday by court martial, and condemned to be shot today between the hours of five and six o’clock in the afternoon. He was making for the rebel lines when he met a man in a gray uniform, and he gave himself dead away. He didn’t know that a gray uniform between the lines was pretty sure to cover one of our scouts, so he unbosomed himself, and was then about-faced and marched back to Yorktown.

Just outside our camp is the grave of a man who was executed a little over a month ago. He was on guard over a prisoner, at Williamsburg, whom he allowed to escape, carrying important information to the rebels. Most of the large number who have deserted since we got here have been picked up at one place or another. Their utter ignorance of the geography of the country has in many instances led to their undoing. It is probable that several of them will meet the same fate that has been decreed for Egin. The second of Gordon’s precious subs, made corporals to spite the old men, made tracks day before yesterday, but was picked up and brought back yesterday. When the bulk of the old men are discharged, and the subs have all run away, and most of the officers have been mustered out, where will the glorious old Second Regiment New Hampshire Volunteers be? I am glad I have not got to stay and serve any longer, for it can never again be the old Second except in name.

Close to our camp is a contraband settlement familiarly known as “Slab City.” There are several hundred houses. It is laid out in streets, the shanties, built of slabs, split logs, &c., averaging about half the size of an ordinary New Hampshire woodshed. Jess, and I have explored it from one end to the other, and it was as good as a circus. They have quite a corps of teachers, both white and black, and there is more religion to the square inch than in any other part of the United States. There are stores, with little stocks of goods that wouldn’t inventory twenty dollars apiece, and the signs are fine examples of phonetic spelling. Here is one: “GROSERIS STOOR.” And on two that we saw appeared the magic word “GROSEYS”—the orthography evidently dictated from the same fount of knowledge. The mechanical execution was on a par with the spelling.

_Friday, April 15._

This forenoon I witnessed the execution of two deserters from our regiment. One was the John Egin I have spoken of before, who was respited for a day. The other was a man who has gone by the name of Holt, but who last night acknowledged that his name was McGuire, and that he was from Yorkshire, England, where he had a wife and two children. The Second Regiment was drawn up in line, facing the execution ground, with two loaded cannon in position to rake it, one negro regiment in line to the rear of the Second, and another drawn up at right angles, on its left. When the troops were in position, the two condemned men rode upon the ground, each seated upon his coffin in the bottom of a wagon. Arriving at the spot where they were to be shot to death, they got down from the wagons, their coffins were taken out and placed end to end before the open graves. Then the firing squad of twelve men were drawn up about a dozen paces in front of them. They knelt by their coffins while a Catholic priest, who had come up from Fortress Monroe, conducted the appropriate offices of the church. Then they arose, their handcuffs were taken off, and they removed their coats and vests. Their eyes were bandaged, their wrists tied with white handkerchieves, and each seated on his coffin. What an awful moment it must have been for them when they heard the click of the gun-locks as the executioners cocked their pieces. The next instant they fell back across their coffins, each pierced by five bullets. Holt did not die for several moments, and raised his hands a number of times. There are some eighty or ninety deserters under guard down town, and more will follow in the way these two have gone.

George Colby is down here, and is going into a little sutler business on his own hook, as he does not think Mr. Bailey will take the risk and bother of doing business under present conditions.

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_CXLI_

YORKTOWN, VA., _April 21, 1864_.

Today is, I believe, the third anniversary of my entrance upon a military life. It is entertaining to hear the old fellows count up the number of days that lie between them and home. The 9th of May appears to be the generally accepted date of release, but I am afraid the wish is father to the thought. The first thing I hear in the morning is something like this: “Well, only eighteen days more!” or “Only eighteen loaves more of army bread for me!”

Since I wrote last we have moved our camp about a mile, and are now in a delightful location, on a smooth, grassy slope close to the river and near the spot where Egin and Holt were executed. At the right of the camp is the last parallel in which I put in a night’s work two years ago. The very tree under which I shoveled so diligently is still standing, close by an angle of the trench. I sometimes catch myself imagining the siege is still going on, and when the sunset gun is fired, involuntary duck my head below imaginary earthworks and listen for the rush of the shell.

A great army is being gathered here. Troops are pouring in, by regiments and by brigades. Several regiments have arrived from Hilton Head, S. C., among them the Fourth New Hampshire. I hear the Third is expected. The negro troops who have been stationed here during the winter are going to Fortress Monroe, and from there, I understand, to Port Royal, and troops are coming here from Norfolk and Portsmouth. The Tenth and Thirteenth New Hampshire are on the way and will be here today. We will soon be ready for another advance on Richmond, and, to tell the truth, I rather like the idea of seeing a little more of active service before I go home. Gen. Smith [W. F.—“Baldy,”] who, it is supposed, will lead this column of advance on Richmond, arrived yesterday, and was escorted to headquarters with great parade, which there were indications was not exactly to his liking. He is a western general, one of Grant’s favorites, a big, rough-looking, grizzled old fellow, without any frills, and I hope will not disappoint expectations.

It was at first intended to send this regiment to Williamsburg, but there were so many desertions it was not deemed advisable, and we may be kept here. But the execution of the two deserters has had a good effect, and there has not been a single case of desertion since that time.

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_CXLII_

WILLIAMSBURG, VA., _April 20, 1864_.

Since my last letter we have made our first hitch up the Peninsula, and are now about two miles from Williamsburg and one mile from the spot where, two years ago the 5th of May, we had the little scrimmage known as the battle of Williamsburg. We got our orders to march last Friday afternoon, started about sunset, and marched until one o’clock, when we arrived at our present location. Now, who do you suppose I saw last Friday? None other than our old friend Frank Morrill. I was just out of camp at Yorktown, heading for town so as to get my mail off before we started up here, when I heard my name shouted, and turning around, saw some one galloping toward me. And who should it be but Frank! The Third Regiment has not come up yet, and it is not definitely known that they will come, but Frank is signal officer on Gen. Terry’s staff and so came up with the General. [I never saw him again. He was mortally wounded, before Petersburg, in July.]

I have to go clear to Yorktown, now, for my mail. I leave here about one in the afternoon and get back about sunset. For a horse they have given me a great, stout, rawboned “buckskin,” a hard-rider, and the immediate physical effects on a fellow as soft and out of practice as I am have been slightly disastrous. The first day I wore out the seat of my pants, and it didn’t stop wearing when it got through the cloth. As I have to make the trip every day, I am having a pretty tough time getting acclimated, as it were.

Everything here indicates that we will soon be on the move. Orders were issued, day before yesterday, limiting the personal baggage of officers below the rank of brigadier-general to one small valise—to become operative in five days. There are to be only two wagons for each regiment, one of these exclusively for the hospital department. We may not move, though, for a fortnight. Whether or not we are to be discharged before the 4th of June is the main subject of discussion now. If we are not, we may, and probably will, have a chance to see “the dirty Chickahominy” again, and possibly the city of Richmond. When we old fellows are discharged, the Second Regiment is likely to be still further reduced in numbers by transfers to the navy, as permitted by recent orders. Now that I am counting my time by days, I am not troubling myself about how large or how small the regiment may be.

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_CXLIII_

WILLIAMSBURG, VA., _May 4, 1864_.

This letter may be the last I will write you from the army, as there is a prospect of our being discharged on the 9th of May. Our “final statements” were made out yesterday and forwarded to headquarters. But they may decide at headquarters that our time is not up until June. In that event we will have a chance to march a piece in this “On to Richmond” movement. A big pier is being built on the James River, about three miles from here, indicating that we are to take boats there for some point—perhaps to go up the river as far as Fort Darling and attempt to take it as a preliminary to the capture of Richmond.