16th.—I am too stupid, to-night, to write intelligibly even a journal of the day. After we had shaken the broken and grating bones of our wounded, by moving them in ambulances, yesterday, we had scarcely got the poor fellows lifted out and placed quietly on a coating of straw on the ground, when we received orders to reload them for a move farther to the rear, so we worked nearly all night, and by daylight, were thoroughly rain-soaked. This morning, having reloaded them all, we moved about two miles further to the rear, repitched our tents, dumped the men into them, and, for the first time since Friday morning, commenced dressing their wounds. But what was my surprise, on rising the hill on this side of the river, to find all of our great army encamped as quietly as if they had been settled there for a month, and that our pontooniers had taken up the bridges? We are all back! What next? I am hardly in condition to reason much about it to-night, but, taking it all together, and admitting the necessity of a withdrawal, from whatever cause, I must think it one of the most brilliant achievements of the war. The great preparatians of two days in the face of the enemy, as if for a decisive battle, the giving out, on the authority of the Generals themselves, that it would certainly be fought, the manner of moving the wounded, and the pitching of the hospital tents, and filling them with patients, in full view of the enemy; the story got up of Jackson’s attempting to cross, and the necessity of one corps of our army recrossing to prevent him, thus so thoroughly deceiving our own troops, that each corps supposed that it was the only one recrossiug; and the strengthening of our pickets and videttes that night, all so completely deceived the enemy, as well as our own army, that not a gun was fired or a suspicion entertained of our retreat.
Sunday, December 16, 2012
December 16th. To-day six more steamers arrived loaded with troops, and as they passed our ship cheer upon cheer rent the air, while a brass band discoursed splendid music.
December 16, Tuesday. The army has recrossed the Rappahannock; driven back, has suffered heavy loss. The shock is great, and it is difficult to get any particulars. I fear the plan was not a wise one.
Tuesday, 16th—The Sixth Division received orders to be ready to march in the morning. We have been in the rear of the army and we are now to move forward. The railroad being in operation now, it is said that our base of supplies will be moved forward and established at Holly Springs, Mississippi.
Tuesday, 16. — Rained last night; raw and cloudy with a little snow this morning. Sun shone in the afternoon. We hear today of the crossing by General Burnside of the Rappahannock at Fredericksburg.
[Battle of Fredericksburg]
Camp Near Falmouth, Va.
Dec. 16th, 1862.
My dear Mother:
Back again once more in the old camp, sound as a dollar. Would that 10,000 lying on the field across the river, or stretched on rude soldiers’ beds in pain and some in mortal agony, could say as much! Gone are the proud hopes, the high aspirations that swelled our bosoms a few days ago. Once more unsuccessful, and only a bloody record to show our men were brave. This cannot heal the broken hearts this pitiful record is to cause. That God must do! Alas, my poor country! It has strong limbs to march and meet the foe, stout arms to strike heavy blows, brave hearts to dare — but the brains, the brains — have we no brains to use the arms and limbs and eager hearts with cunning? Perhaps Old Abe has some funny story to tell appropriate to the occasion. Alas, let us await the wise words of Father Abraham! I say I am back, having recrossed the river about two o’clock this morning. Yesterday evening I was sent out with a couple of hundred sharpshooters to cover the front until the troops were all withdrawn. There I lay supporting the pickets within two or three hundred yards of the enemy while our troops crossed the river. Then word was sent us, and in silence we fell back, crossed ourselves, and then the pontoons were removed. Now we are in the old camp, and I am happy to write myself down in the number of those who have narrowly escaped. In the battle of Saturday, troops were thrown into the fight without any seeming regularity. Many were not under fire at all. Among the latter were the First, and a part of the Second Division of Wilcox’s Corps. You know I belong to the First Division. Our position gave me a fine opportunity to witness the battle. It was a bonnie sight though, and thrillingly exciting. From the crests of the hills frowned the enemy’s batteries. The city was gay with our troops. Beyond the city and below the batteries was open country giving no cover to advancing troops. Over this expanse our men were marched. The pennons fluttered gaily in the sunshine. Then suddenly the hills seemed to vomit forth smoke wreathing them in obscurity. Then followed the thunder of the cannon, intermingled with the screaming of the bursting shells. The ordeal was a terrible one. Some Regiments marched on without flinching; others fell back. To the left, running diagonally, was a stone-wall. A portion of our troops drew near it. This suddenly is likewise jetting with curls of smoke, followed by the sharp crack of the rifle and the angry humming of the conical balls. Now the troops are shaken. Stragglers run rapidly to the rear, then whole Regiments fall back with torn colors and broken ranks. It is of no use. That terrible stonewall is alive with death. Many Regiments try to reach it. Their efforts avail nothing, though. Nearly in the center of the hill, west, there stands a fine old Virginia mansion of red brick with a stately colonnade running along its front. It was here that Col. Farnsworth had his headquarters last summer. This point was often attacked by our troops, but the house was like a hornet’s nest. The enemy was strongly posted about it, in its alcoves, outbuildings and windows. There was death only, for those who tried to reach it. Our troops found some partial cover at a point below the house at the foot of the hill, where a small white house stood. Here two American banners were planted, the dear old thirteen stripes! How breathlessly we watched them! Though often attacked, when the smoke wreathed upward, our hearts were happy to see the colors still floating defiantly near the small white house. At length night closed on the scene. We believed the bloody day was done. There was one scene yet bloodier to be enacted. A final night attack was decided upon. We could not see our troops advancing in the darkness, but we heard a yell along the rebel line. Then a rapid musketry fire ran along the heights — a more terrible fire I never have seen. Forked tongues of flame such as old artists paint issuing from the mouths of the serpents to whom is given the tormenting of the damned, flashed in the night with a brilliant effect as the fire was delivered from man to man. Then darkness followed. Then silence. And we knew that more blood had been shed and nothing won. The next morning we were told that the 9th Army Corps was expected to storm the heights. It was Sunday morning. The Regiment was drawn up in line. The Chaplain read a chapter from the Bible, then said a short prayer. The men followed the prayer with their hearts, as men do who may never pray again. Then the word was given, “Forward,” and we started on the march, few hoping to survive. Then we were ordered to halt. We lay long in a state of expectancy. Meanwhile a new council of Generals was being held. There had been enough blood fruitlessly shed, said the most. No more of the madness and folly which will only result in the certain destruction of our army. Ten thousand men lost and the enemy sits unharmed in his trenches. Burnside says he will lead his own corps in person. But finally reason prevails in the council. The attack is postponed and finally abandoned. Last night the troops crossed the river, and to-day we are counting on our fingers the thousands of men the events of the past few days have cost us. There are impossibilities in warfare — things that no troops can accomplish, however brave they may be. They cannot for one thing cross long stretches of open country without any cover in the face of an artillery fire of any magnitude, and then clamber up a hill-side exposed to the musketry of a concealed foe, and then cross the ditches and scale the earthworks of the enemy, driving the latter from their position with the bayonet. Men fight in masses. To be brave they must be inspired by the feeling of fellowship. Shoulder must touch shoulder. As gaps are opened the men close together, and remain formidable. But when the ranks are torn by artillery, the cohesion begins to fail. Then expose the men for several hundred yards to a murderous fire of musketry, and front rank man is gone, rear rank man is gone, comrades in battle are gone too. A few men struggle along together, but the whole mass has become diluent. Little streams of men pour in various directions. They no longer are amenable to command. The colors must be drawn to a place of safety, and in time the men will gather around it again. Numbers can effect little under such circumstances, provided they have no means of touching the enemy. The latter, lying under cover, firing from a place of safety, may murder your men. You may try again and again the experiment, but each repetition only lengthens the butcher’s bill. Now I have written all this to show that success, as the attack was made, was impossible. In the same way we butchered the Confederates at Malvern Hill.
Well, I have seen McDonald, and felt quite happy to meet one who had been so lately among my friends at home. He told me of Uncle Phelps’ offer of a horse, of his efforts for me and their probable success, and brought me some liquor and cigars from him and Cousin Henry. Give them my thanks, and say I delay acknowledging their kindness in a special manner until I can learn all particulars from the Doctor. Arriving here the day of the battle, he has been so busy in the hospitals since, that I have barely learned the above facts as they were hurriedly repeated by him. I will write Uncle Phelps as soon as McDonald has time to tell me anything more than the general result of his visit.
I am so cold, that though I have much more that I would like to write, I must close and go to the fire. I may write again to-morrow. Love to all.
Affec’y.,
Will.
From Mrs. Lyon’s Diary
Fort Henry, Dec. 16, 1862, eight o’clock.—Captain Ruger and Lieut. Bowerman came to the boat to meet their wives, but William had not the least intimation of my coming and stayed snugly in his tent until we were nearly here, when Captain Hewitt ran in and asked him if he knew that his wife had come on the boat. William said: “No, and if you have deceived me you shall be court-martialed.” It was a complete surprise. He could not get over it all the evening. After we had gone to bed, a party came and serenaded us. The music was very sweet. They had a flute, violin and guitar. After serenading us, they went to Colonel Chapman’s and to Captain Ruger’s and Bowerman’s. They have a double log-house for both families. I can’t say that I like sleeping out of doors. My first experience was rather unpleasant. The tent post was one of the bed posts. The wind blew quite hard that night, and we rocked about as you would in a boat in a gale, but we have remedied that. It seems so noisy, living in a tent, and so exposed — only a thin cloth between you and the outside world. I think I should prefer a log cabin; but William enjoys this so much, he wonders that I should not. We have a little stove and are quite comfortable.
Tuesday, 16th. Went on as usual 18 miles and waited for the Major to meet us. Went in and camped between the fort and town. Went down to the Planters House for supper with Sergts. Love, Pierce and Archie. Had my hair cut. Went with Love to theatre. All the officers there. Play was Willow Copse. Very good, also a farce.
Dec. 16. —I am writing now among the great columns of the St. Charles Hotel, in New Orleans, in front, detailed for special duty at head-quarters, in a clerkship which Gen. Banks offered me this morning, and which I have accepted on trial. It will give me a place close by the general, and, I hope, a good opportunity for observation and to be useful. I left the ship last evening just at dusk, thinking I would settle the matter at once,—wait upon the general, present my letters of introduction and credentials, and see what he would do for me. The “Illinois” had hauled up to shore. I loaded my revolver, climbed down the wheel-house, and made my way up through the streets, toward the St. Charles Hotel, to seek my fortune. It was a hostile city: but the sense of insecurity which I had when I landed soon wore off; for people were invariably polite when I made inquiries; and, had they not been, soldiers of the Union passed me at every few rods; and not unfrequently I came upon sentinels posted in doorways, on sidewalks, before places of amusement. Occasionally I passed buildings which seemed very fine in the dusk; and at length the stately front of the St. Charles threw its glare over me, as I ascended through the gas-light into the rotunda. Shoulder-straps were innumerable among the tall columns, —double-breasted colonels and majors, with eagles and leaves, — and slimmer captains and lieutenants, with the single row of buttons.
The general was not in: so I was forced to wait until this morning, though I ran the risk of losing the “Illinois,” which might sail any hour, leaving me with my fate undecided. Soon after eight this morning, fortified with a good breakfast, I went again to the St. Charles. The general was at breakfast. I sent in my name on a card, with my documents, and waited. In half an hour, perhaps, an unpretending figure, in blowze and loose pantaloons, with felt hat and shuffling slippers, crossed the marble floor just in front of me. At first, I did not notice him. His appearance was less distingué than that of the least second lieutenant among the columns; in fact, I believe even the corporal outshone him in his freshly brushed dress-coat. As he passed opposite me, however, I saw it was the general going to his rooms.
He is out of sight now, and I wait to be summoned. Wait, wait. If he comes out again, I determine to waive ceremony, and present myself. Here he does come! Up, courage, before he is swallowed by shoulder-straps! I touch my cap, give my name. He is very polite, — “was looking for me;” and I presently feel at my ease. The iron-gray moustache over the mouth is a grim and formidable archway, but from under it proceed pleasant words. At present, he can only offer this clerkship. I may take it, and wait for something better to turn up. He leaves me to think about it; meantime inviting me into his parlor, where I sit among eagles and stars, who come and go.
Colonels of regiments just arrived are here to report. Major Varnum reports: —
“I am paymaster, sir. I have brought with me a million dollars.”
“Indeed!” (the general, with a pleasant smile and imperial bow:) “then we are all glad to see you, major.”
“Major So-and-so is coming with eight hundred thousand dollars more.”
“Ah! then we shall all be glad to see him, — almost as glad as to see you.”
The general withdraws. I make up my mind then; take out my paper, and read, while the adjutant-general and his clerks (who occupy this parlor for the time being) write and write. The general appears again, walks across the room, his hands behind him, and face bent down, in deep thought. He is just about to meet the municipal authorities of New Orleans, — an important interview. As he approaches my corner, he looks up, and smiles affably. I tell him briefly I will come on trial, — not to stay unless I choose. I am then introduced to the adjutant-general, and presently retire to the shadow of these great columns of the portico: but, before I go, I behold the general in full blaze,— double star on each shoulder, double row of buttons in front; the sash of his office about his waist, which the adjutant-general steps forward and adjusts. As I pass out, the civic dignitaries are entering, — a body of gentlemen of good bearing and substantial aldermanic appearance.
I have also an opportunity, just at night-fall, to contrast the setting with the rising sun. In the afternoon, I pass the handsome mansion occupied by Gen. Butler as his head-quarters. From the stoop I am hailed by name, and look up to behold Callighan and Pat O’Toole of our company, who have got lost, and come to the guard, before the door here at head-quarters, to be set straight. I go up on to the roomy stoop; and, as we stand talking by the sentry, two gentlemen come from within to the door, escorted by a third with portly figure and thin hair. It is the verge of evening, and I cannot see his face plainly. “Shall we say at half-past four, then?” It is Gen. Butler, making an engagement with his visitors for the next day. He goes in. I hear a door close, and through the blinds I can see him in an elegant parlor, alone, reading; the gas-light falling full on his large frame and rather sinister face.
Near Oxford, Tuesday, Dec. 16. Pleasant and sunny. Health never better. Lost my needle book, very sorry. Received three days’ mail; had two papers and a letter from home.
