Before Vicksburg, Saturday, July 4. The National Birthday, and we awoke to welcome it under favorable auspices. All was quiet and still and we could hardly convince ourselves but that we were transformed to the quiet home of Wisconsin and were ready to take a part in the grand celebration. The truce was still held. Butternuts leisurely lounging along their breastworks, our men the same, still we knew not what the result would be at the national salute fired with blank cartridge.
9 A. M. orders came stating that at 10 A. M. the enemy were to march out, stack arms on the outside of their works and return as prisoners of war. What glorious news—the men all in ecstasy too great for cheers. At the appointed hour white rags were stuck all along their line, which were hailed with cheers from one end of the line to the other. Commanding officers and staff rode out first, making the formal surrender, after which all the troops formed in line and marched out, colors flying, stacked their arms, equipments and colors, marching back under their officers. Commissioned officers were allowed to retain their side-arms. In the meantime our bands, which had been silent for so long, struck up “Hail Columbia” etc., which affected the troops as an electric shock, and they saluted with deafening cheers. As the last of the rebs went in, General Grant and staff with body-guards, entered the tent. Guards were stationed on breastworks and the surrendered prisoners permitted to run at large.
So Vicksburg, the pet of the Confederacy has fallen, and that too, on the most glorious day of the whole year, and long to be remembered by the soldier boy who spent his Fourth there. He was happy, but still he turned with longing eyes and wishful heart to the North. There was a void there, a vacancy which triumphs and which military victory could not fill, his home, never forgotten. I ended my Fourth on guard, hopefully.
