27th. Passed the day in camp. Drew “Stumbling Blocks” and read. In evening went to prayer meeting at chapel. Mustering officer examined our returns. Boys moved down to Marine hospital.
Saturday, June 27, 2015
Brazos de Santiago, Texas,
June 27, 1865.
Dear Sister L.:—
By this time you will think I should be able to give you something of a description of this strange country. If you look at a map of Texas you may see down at the mouth of the Rio Grande, the name of Brazos de Santiago. There is a little strip of sand about ten miles long, dignified by the name island, and on the northern end of the island is the village. The village is a row of small wooden houses put up by the government for store rooms and offices, with a few occupied by sutlers.
There is a wharf and shipping. These form a very small part of the scenery—the rest is sand. There is not a spear of vegetation growing within sight of my tent. There is not a tree within fifteen miles. Just across the narrow strait is the Isla del Padre, another sand strip, seventy-five miles long. At the mouth of the strait is the bar and a dangerous one too. There is only about seven feet of water and the breakers roar and tumble over it so that at most times a small boat could not live ten minutes. The ships anchor outside and are unloaded by little sloops called lighters, which, with the Spanish names, Bonita, Dos Amigos, etc., and their Mejicanos crews are funny crafts. They rendezvoused here when cotton ran the blockade, and loaded and unloaded the ships, and now that their occupation is gone they come to Uncle Sam for employment.
I told you, I think, that our regiment was ship-wrecked when they came ashore. It was only such a peril as one likes to tell of when it is past, for no one was lost. The schooner though, lies high and dry on the beach. We have had terrible times for water. There is none on the island fit to drink—all salt. Two condensers are in operation, but they would not begin to water all the troops. Our men have gone nine miles up to the Rio Grande after water and got back the same night, rolling barrels of water all the way. Just think of that for getting your water. It don’t rain here, or we might get rainwater. Now that all the troops except our brigade have gone up the river we hope to get water enough.
The sun is terribly hot. At noon it is directly overhead and if it were not for the constant sea breeze we could not live. The wind commences to blow from the southeast every morning about nine o’clock and blows till nearly daylight next morning, so that in the shade of a tent it is quite comfortable. The hottest time of day is from sunrise till nine o’clock when there is no breeze. About four p. m. it is comfortable walking and we go to bathe, keeping an eye out for sharks.
You must be well on in the summer now, and it is almost the Fourth. What glorious celebrations there will be this year!
Many officers are sending in their resignations, but none of them in this corps are accepted. I think I shall stay through the summer pretty well contented and see what turns up then.
June 27th. Taps sounded later than usual last night. When the lights were put out we could not sleep for joy, as we were all so happy over the prospect of going home. I cannot write and do justice to those happy hours. Will remain with me as long as memory lasts. The hymns heard mostly last night were “Oh Happy Day” and “We are going home, to die no more.” Everybody can sing at this time if they never can again. Reveille sounded very early this morning, for the last time at Martinsburg. Broke camp very early this morning. In line, waiting for orders to march. This is a fine morning. We shall soon be homeward bound. When orders were given to march great excitement prevailed. Cheers and shouting as we marched along, on through the town. The waving of flags, handkerchiefs, and “Good-bye boys” from the towns-people. On reaching the depot it did not take us very long to board the train, a gay and happy crowd. I was soon on top of a car, where I enjoyed riding when the weather would permit. In this section we always rode in box cars. The train left about 7 A. M., with cheers and shouting to and from old Martinsburg friends. The train soon rounded a curve and that scene was closed forever. We knew this railroad and country, having been over it a number of times by rail, and marching through it, during our service in the Shenandoah Valley. About 10 A. M. we arrived at Harper’s Ferry. Soon out of the cars and in line ready to march. Passed through Shenandoah Street. Entering an open lot, close in town, came to a halt, stacked arms. Must remain here until we are mustered out of the United States service. When we first entered Virginia, near three years ago, at Harper’s Ferry, our first stopping place was this very same place, or lot, where we are now waiting to be mustered out. Late this afternoon we were mustered out. Expect to go on board of train tonight, homeward bound.
June 27th.—An awful story from Sumter. An old gentleman, who thought his son dead or in a Yankee prison, heard some one try the front door. It was about midnight, and these are squally times. He called out, “What is that?” There came no answer. After a while he heard some one trying to open a window and he fired. The house was shaken by a fall. Then, after a long time of dead silence, he went round the house to see if his shot had done any harm, and found his only son bathed in his own blood on his father’s door-step. The son was just back from a Yankee prison—one of his companions said—and had been made deaf by cold and exposure. He did not hear his father hail him. He had tried to get into the house in the same old way he used to employ when a boy.
My sister-in-law in tears of rage and despair, her servants all gone to “a big meeting at Mulberry,” though she had made every appeal against their going. “Send them adrift,” some one said, “they do not obey you, or serve you; they only live on you.” It would break her heart to part with one of them. But that sort of thing will soon right itself. They will go off to better themselves—we have only to cease paying wages—and that is easy, for we have no money.
Tuesday, 27th—Quite sultry today. Nothing of any importance.
Chattanooga, Tuesday, June 27. Daylight found us in our boots and stirring. 7:30 A. M. the Battery moved out followed by battery wagons, forge and four wagon loads of ordnance. I on detail along. Ordnance officer ready to receive us. Lieutenant A. Sweet superintended the counting of everything by the clerk, which is a very tedious job. Captain Simpson disposed of ammunition. I was on duty with Lieutenant Sweet and rode fast and heavy as orderly for him, bringing reports, etc. to and from camp. To-night everything is gone except the horses, which will be turned over to-morrow.
Great anxiety is expressed by all to reach home by the Fourth of July, which at present looks very probable. Camp looks forlorn and disorganized, everything upside down, boxes being made to be carried by express, knapsacks packed as though there was no time to do it to-morrow, but nobody notices it. All of the reserve are under home orders to-day. Fortune smiled on us this time in being first; aye, it laughed outright upon us. But, dear Journal, I cannot write, I feel too good.
