Tuesday, July 26. — Line was formed for our review at 9.30. Men looked well and the affair on the whole was a success. Ended at 1.30 P.M. We moved to the second line at dark.
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Tuesday, July 26th.
The whole regiment was at work all day on the fortifications, and it looks as if the plan is to settle down to a regular siege. Already the earthworks on both sides form two or three lines and are very heavy, and at points the picket lines are hardly twenty yards apart. Frequently the pickets get very chummy, and I have heard that they sometimes have a game of cards with each other, though I have never seen it, but I do know that when the men seem to be getting familiar, orders will be issued by one side or the other to commence firing, and then we hear, “Get into your holes, Yanks,” or “Lie low, Johnnies, we’ve got orders to fire.” During the day I saw a man killed by a shell passing straight down the “covered way” some distance behind the works, and another killed by a mortar shell which went into the ground and exploded close by where he was sitting in one of the mortar battery forts.
26th. Day spent improving the picket line, etc. Word came in P. M. that rebs were preparing for a movement on the left. Caution ordered. No demonstration.
July 26th.—Isabella went with me to the bulletin-board. Mrs. D. (with the white linen as usual pasted on her chin) asked me to read aloud what was there written. As I slowly read on, I heard a suppressed giggle from Isabella. I know her way of laughing at everything, and tried to enunciate more distinctly—to read more slowly, and louder, with more precision. As I finished and turned round, I found myself closely packed in by a crowd of Confederate soldiers eager to hear the news. They took off their caps, thanked me for reading all that was on the boards, and made way for me, cap in hand, as I hastily returned to the carriage, which was waiting for us. Isabella proposed, “Call out to them to give three cheers for Jeff Davis and his generals.” “You forget, my child, that we are on our way to a funeral.”
Found my new house already open hospitably to all comers. My husband had arrived. He was seated at a pine table, on which someone had put a coarse, red table-cover, and by the light of one tallow candle was affably entertaining Edward Barnwell, Isaac Hayne, and Uncle Hamilton. He had given them no tea, however. After I had remedied that oversight, we adjourned to the moonlighted piazza. By tallow-candle-light and the light of the moon, we made out that wonderful smile of Teddy’s, which identifies him as Gerald Grey.
We have laughed so at broken hearts—the broken hearts of the foolish love stories. But Buck, now, is breaking her heart for her brother Willie. Hearts do break in silence, without a word or a sigh. Mrs. Means and Mary Barnwell made no moan—simply turned their faces to the wall and died. How many more that we know nothing of!
When I remember all the true-hearted, the light-hearted, the gay and gallant boys who have come laughing, singing, and dancing in my way in the three years now past; how I have looked into their brave young eyes and helped them as I could in every way and then saw them no more forever; how they lie stark and cold, dead upon the battle-field, or moldering away in hospitals or prisons, which is worse—I think if I consider the long array of those bright youths and loyal men who have gone to their death almost before my very eyes, my heart might break, too. Is anything worth it—this fearful sacrifice, this awful penalty we pay for war?
Allen G. says Johnston was a failure. Now he will wait and see what Hood can do before he pronounces judgment on him. He liked his address to his army. It was grand and inspiring, but every one knows a general has not time to write these things himself. Mr. Kelly, from New Orleans, says Dick Taylor and Kirby Smith have quarreled. One would think we had a big enough quarrel on hand for one while already. The Yankees are enough and to spare. General Lovell says, “Joe Brown, with his Georgians at his back, who importuned our government to remove Joe Johnston, they are scared now, and wish they had not.”
In our democratic Republic, if one rises to be its head, whomever he displeases takes a Turkish revenge and defiles the tombs of his father and mother; hints that his father was a horse-thief and his mother no better than she should be; his sisters barmaids and worse, his brothers Yankee turncoats and traitors. All this is hurled at Lincoln or Jeff Davis indiscriminately.
July 26th, 1864.
It has been unusually quiet at the front the past week. It is the calm that precedes the storm. That storm will, doubtless, be a fearful one; the very earth will shake in terror when all Grant’s artillery opens up in concert. The signal is to be the springing of a mine or mines. All able-bodied soldiers, doing duty in hospitals, leave for the front today, their places being taken by musicians. Every man will be needed in the coming onslaught.
It is nearly supper time, and I, who never gave a thought to such matters in all my previous life, must go and see that the table is properly spread.
July 26th. Called up early this morning. Wade the Potomac River over into Maryland. Marching on down the river road, across the Burnside Bridge, over Antietam Creek and the battlefield, passing the Dunker Church, located in the woods on the right. The rail fences were riddled with bullet holes, showing how fierce the battle must have been. Marched on through Sharpsburg, going into camp near the town, which shows the effects of the battle. The battle is known in the South as Sharpsburg. A fearful hot day, and a hard march. Our record for today is a march of about fifteen miles. Many of us fellows are marching shoeless.
July 26th. Started at 6 P.M.; marched towards City Point, turned off and crossed the Appomattox and James. Rested but twice the whole march, about 20 miles; the corps straggled very badly.
Camp Near Sharpsburg, Maryland,
Tuesday evening, July 26, 1864.
Dearest: — We reached here today after two nights and one day of pretty severe marching, not so severe as the Lynchburg march, and one day of very severe fighting at Winchester. We were defeated by a superior force at Winchester. My brigade suffered most in killed and wounded and not so much in prisoners as some others. The Twenty-third lost about twenty-five killed and one hundred wounded; [the] Thirty-sixth, eleven killed, ninety-nine wounded; [the] Thirteenth, fifteen killed, sixty wounded (behaved splendidly — its first battle); [the] Sixth, four killed, twenty-seven wounded. In [the] Twenty-third, six new officers wounded and two killed — Captain McMillen late of [the] Twelfth and Lieutenant Gray, a sergeant of Company G. Morgan again wounded, not dangerously. Comly very slightly. Lieutenant Hubbard, late commissary sergeant, fell into [the] hands of Rebels. The rest all with us. Lieutenant Kelly slightly three times. Lieutenant Clark (late sergeant) not badly. All doing well. Lieutenant-Colonel Hall (Thirteenth) twice badly but not dangerously — a brave man, very. My horse wounded. This is all a new experience, a decided defeat in battle. My brigade was in the hottest place and then was in condition to cover the retreat as rear-guard which we did successfully and well for one day and night.
Of course the reason, the place for blame to fall, is always asked in such cases. I think the army is not disposed to blame the result on anybody. The enemy was so superior that a defeat was a matter of course if we fought. The real difficulty was, our cavalry was so inefficient in its efforts to discover the strength of the enemy that General Crook and all the rest of us were deceived until it was too late.[1]
We are queer beings. The camp is now alive with laughter and good feeling; more so than usual. The recoil after so much toil and anxiety. The most of our wounded were brought off and all are doing well. — Colonel Mulligan, commanding [the] brigade next to mine was killed. Colonel Shaw of [the] Thirty-fourth killed.
As we were driven off the field my pocket emptied out map, almanack, and [a] little photographic album. We charged back ten or twenty yards and got them!
There were some splendid things done by those around me. McKinley and Hastings were very gallant. Dr. Joe conspicuously so. Much that was disgraceful was done, but, on the whole, it was not so painful a thing to go through as I have thought it would be.
This was Sunday, about 2 P. M., that we all went up. We shall stay here some time if the Rebels don’t invade Maryland again and so give us business.
I thought of you often, especially as I feared the first reports by frightened teamsters and cavalry might carry tidings affecting me. It was said my brigade was crushed and I killed at Martinsburg. By the by, the enemy followed us to that place where we turned on them and flogged their advance-guard handsomely.
So much, dearest, as ever.
Affectionately,
R.
Mrs. Hayes.
[1] Dr. J. T. Webb, in a letter of July 28 to his mother, writes: —”All this misfortune was occasioned by the infernal cavalry. They were sent out to guard our flanks and failed to do so. Had they done their duty, Crook would never have thought of fighting. There were about twenty thousand Rebels, while we had some six or eight thousand, all told. Our calvary is a miserable farce. They are utterly useless, in fact they were in our way. Had we not depended on them, we never would have been caught. They (cavalry) cut loose from their artillery and we, with our infantry, hauled off their guns, at the same time driving, or rather keeping, back the Rebels.”
July 26—To-day on the ocean a great many of our boys were seasick, but not I. I was promised a guard to take me to see my parents in New York for thirty minutes.
Etowah Bridge, Tuesday, July 26. Not so cold last night. Cool day. I spent it very quietly. Great dearth of reading matter. Health very good. All the boys drew soft bread, quite a rarity. Hard-tack getting wearisome.
