Army letters of Oliver Willcox Norton (Eighty-third Pennsylvania Volunteers)

Line of Battle,
three miles southeast of Hagcrstown, Md.,

Sunday, July 12, 1863.

Dear Sister L.:—

All my writing material is in my knapsack and I have had no chance to write since the 4th, when I sent you a line to say I was safe. Now I have begged a scrap of paper just to relieve your impatience for news, but I can’t write much more now.

Since the great victory at Gettysburg we have been straining every nerve to overtake and strike the enemy before he leaves Maryland. Thousands of the men are barefoot, and officers, too, but they are bravely struggling on, footsore and hungry, enduring everything without a murmur, so we may finish the war now.

We had one of the greatest battles of the war, and a great victory, too. The old Third Brigade fought like demons, took four hundred prisoners, and laid the rebels in heaps before them. We were splendidly posted behind rocks and trees, and you may judge of the fight when I tell you that of thirteen hundred men in such a position we lost three hundred and fifty-nine and no prisoners. Colonel Vincent was mortally wounded, and died on the 7th. That was a loss to our brigade that cannot be replaced. The night he was wounded I went in to see him. He was very weak, but he held out his cold hand to me and asked “if I had just come from the front.” When I told him yes, and how well the boys had fought, his eye brightened, but he was too weak to talk much. His commission as Brigadier General was read to him on his death-bed.

There are thousands of things I could tell you that I cannot write. The main thing is to tell you that I am still safe and well, doing my duty the best I can, never shunning danger when it calls, but ever coming out safe. With that for the present you must be content. I am tired, almost worn out, haven’t had my shoes off for a week, lying sometimes in the heaviest rain without a shelter, not allowed a minute of my own, and you can see I have but little time to write.

Edwin Willcox has been within ten minutes’ ride of me for a week, and yet I have not and cannot go to see him.

Last night there was one of the grandest sights ever seen. The whole Army of the Potomac advanced two miles in line of battle, column by division, ten lines deep. As far as the eye could reach through fields of wheat, corn and clover that grand line was moving on.

I have no time for more. Write to me (at headquarters) as soon as you can. Alf is well.

Gettysburg, Penn., July 4, 1863, 10 A. M.

Dear Father:—

I am safe and well. We have met the enemy and given them hell. Colonel Vincent is mortally wounded. Alf Ayres is safe; so is Conway. No time for more.

Headquarters, Third Brigade, First Division,

Fifth Army Corps, Crittenden’s Mill, Va., June 8, 1863.

Dear Sister L.:—

I have no letter of yours to answer, but having nothing to do and knowing that you are always glad to hear from me, perhaps I can’t do better than to spend an hour jotting down for your amusement a few incidents by the way. Life at headquarters is pleasant on one account—it gives me a better opportunity to see and talk with the people of the country than I had in the regiment.

You will see by this that we have again moved. Since the 27th ult. we have been engaged in guarding the river at different points above Fredericksburg. Crittenden’s Mill is some twenty miles above town and two miles back of the river. Ellis’ Ford and Kempel’s Ford are near, and our brigade is ordered to guard these crossings and watch the enemy on the other side. Reports of the observations have to be sent to Division headquarters every four hours of the day and night. Headquarters are at the house of a certain widow James. She has three sons in the rebel army and is a pretty loud secesh herself. My bivouac is in one of the old lady’s tobacco houses, and there I am writing this at present, so if it smells of tobacco don’t charge it to my habits. On the road up here we stopped one night at the house of a Mr. Imbray. He was a cripple and at home, but made no secret of his being secesh to the backbone. “I belong to the South,” said he, “and my heart is with the South. If I was with the army I should shoot at you with all the power I had, but, meeting as we do, I shall not allow any difference of opinion to influence my treatment of you.” (Very considerate, wasn’t he, when we had the force there to enforce respect?) But it wasn’t of him I meant to speak, but of his daughters. There were two, one a lady of “uncertain age,” and the other not. The “not” was about eighteen, and the bitterest, rabidest, outspokenest, cantankerous-est specimen of secesh femininity I’ve come across yet. She had no objection to talk, and she commenced at me when she saw my flag, with, “Is that a Yankee flag?” “Well, the Yankees use it,” said I, “but here’s the Yankee flag,” and I unrolled a new silk “star spangled” and waved it over her head. “Don’t you think,” said I, “that that’s a prettier flag than the ‘stars and bars?'” “No, indeed! I can’t see it, sir—no, sir—give me the Confederate flag. I don’t want none o’ yer gridirons about me.” Finally after some bantering we dropped the subject and I induced her after a chaffer to sell me two quarts of milk for half a dollar, and she offered me half a loaf of rye bread for the same price, but I preferred hard tack. “We’re no way particular about prices with you all,” she said. “So I see,” meekly replied I. Next morning we were going, and I was bound to have some fun first, so I opened by asking her if she didn’t sometimes feel lonesome with none of the young men about. “Well, sir, not lonesome enough to care to see you Yankees about.” (Repulse.) “Have you any relatives in the rebel army?” “I have two brothers and a lover in the Confederate army.” (Cool—that about the lover.) “Then Yankee boys stand no chance in your good graces?” “No, sir, I hate the sight of them.” (Cooler yet.) “Why, I don’t think you are a secessionist.” (Tactics.) “Well, I am, sir, I am true to the South.” (I wish I could write their pronunciation of South; it beats all the down-east you ever heard of.) “No, you are a Yankee, at least a Yankee secesh.” “No, indeed, sir, nary drop o’ Yankee blood in my veins, I tell you, sir.” “Oh, but you are, begging your pardon, and I’ll prove it to you.” “No, sir, you can’t do that, sir; better tell that to some one else. If I had any Yankee blood in me I’d let it out. Yes, indeed, I would.” “Well, you acknowledge that a Yankee thinks more of property and money than anything else, don’t you?” “Yes, sir, I’ve heard they do, and I believe it.” “Yes, well, you’re a Yankee then. If you were a secesh you would go with the South and help them. True secesh women do that, but your family have some property here and you stay to take care of it and let the South get along the best she can. You are a genuine Yankee, say what you please. You wouldn’t go and share the fortunes of your ‘Sunny South,’ but you must stay to keep the Yankees from destroying the property.” Oh, how she did sputter! “To think that she should be called a Yankee!” I guess she’ll get over it.

Down on the bank of the river I went into a house and met a young married woman with a baby in her arms. She had been pretty once and it was not age that spoiled her beauty, but care. “Can you sell me a pie, or something good for my dinner?” said I. “A pie! sir.” said she. “Well, now, sir, if I was to tell you that I have not tasted or seen a piece of pie for more than a year, would you believe me?” “I certainly should if you said so. Of course I couldn’t doubt a lady’s word.” “Sir, ‘fore God it is the truth. I have only been married ’bout a year, and my husband, who was an overseer, came on to this place after the fruit was all gone, and I’ve had no fruit. I haven’t seen a bit of sugar, nor coffee, nor tea for nigh eight months, I reckon,” and she went on and gave me such a story of struggles to keep alive, to get enough to keep from starving, as made all the hard times I have ever seen seem like a life of luxury. I did pity her. On such as she, the poor whites of the South, the burden of this war is heaviest. She had but little sympathy for the South or North either. She cared but little how the war ended, so it ended soon. Poor woman, she understood but little of the nature of the contest. She sent a little darky girl to bring in a pan of milk. The girl came with it balanced on her head, not touching her hands. I remarked how strange it seemed to me to see everybody in the south carry pails on their heads. “Why,” said she, “how do you-all carry ’em?” “In our hands.” She laughed. “I have to tote all my water up a steep bank, and, if I toted it in my hand, it would pull me over.” She gave me some milk, and by the time I had eaten my dinner the colonel came back from the lines, and I mounted my horse and came back to camp.

Strawberries are ripe and I get a few. No more news from Fredericksburg.

June 6, 1803.

Dear Sister L.:—

Headquarters are at Crittenden’s Mill, twenty miles above Fredericksburg. The Eighty-third guards Kempel’s Ford. The Sixteenth Michigan and Twentieth Maine guard Ellis’ Ford. The Forty-fourth New York is in reserve at the Mill. Franklin has crossed below Fredericksburg and is fighting this morning. I can hear the cannon.

Benson’s Mill, Va.,
June 1, 1863.

Dear Cousin L.:—

You see by the dating of my letter that we have moved again. Benson’s Mill is the most appropriate name of this village. I wonder they didn’t call it a city or at least a “ville.” It is a larger place than Charles City or Chancellorsville, as it contains two buildings, and those places only one each. Perhaps I am wrong about Charles City and it ought to be called the city of magnificent distances, for there is a jail about half a mile from the court house, and a tavern of “ye olden time” the same distance the other way, probably all within the limits of the corporation.

But about our moving. Our brigade had just got comfortably settled in the nicest place for a camp I have seen yet, when at 10 o’clock one morning the order came, “Break camp and prepare to march immediately,” and by noon we were on the road. We found that we were to relieve cavalry pickets on the river and at the fords beyond the infantry lines of the army. The brigade is scattered along the river for six or eight miles. The Eighty-third is on the right at Richards Ford, the Twentieth Maine next at United States Ford, the Sixteenth Michigan next at Benson’s Mill and the Forty-fourth New York (Ellsworth’s Avengers) at Banks Ford on the left. The camps are near the fords, and the pickets extend right and left to connect with each other and watch every point. The rebel pickets are in plain sight on the other side of the river, not over ten rods apart, and though no communication is allowed, there is some talking across the water. One of the rebs called out yesterday at United States Ford: “I say, you Yanks, why didn’t you shoot General Hill? He stood right here half an hour ago.” Our boys had seen a man pass along their lines, but supposed he was the officer of the guard. There is a good understanding between them, and neither side will fire unless an attempt to cross is made. The rebs go in bathing on their side the river, and our boys do the same on ours. Colonel Vincent and his staff rode along the lines in plain sight and I followed carrying the flag, but they did not fire. I thought it was a risky piece of business, but I think I can go where he can. I am afraid he is a little too rash sometimes. We were riding along the bank last night just about sunset. Suddenly he stopped, and taking a map from his pocket, commenced to examine it. Just in the edge of the wood on the other side I saw the glistening of a rifle barrel, and I uttered some exclamation of surprise. “What is it, Norton?” said he. “Nothing,” I replied, “only I was thinking if I was a picket here, and should see a rebel general across there, I couldn’t resist the temptation to draw a bead on him.” “Well, it is a little risky to stop, that’s a fact,” said he, “we’ll get out of this,” and I was glad when he got out of range. Confound ’em! I don’t think it’s safe to trust them. I wouldn’t be afraid of their firing at me, but I’m afraid to trust their promises with a Union officer within range of their guns.

I don’t remember whether I told you that I had returned to my old place at headquarters or not. I came back on the 22d of May. Colonel Vincent took command of the brigade then and took me with him. Headquarters are located near the center of the brigade, and of course I have no bugling to do. In fact I have just nothing to do. The Colonel says he shall find me some work in the office, copying orders, probably.

We are pleasantly situated, though it seems rather lonely to see none of the regiments about.

Strawberries are beginning to ripen, and I presume we shall have them quite plenty, as there are so few to pick them.

I am much obliged for your description of the house and its inmates. I think I have a pretty good idea of it now. I had no idea till lately that you had so large a family. That young man—well, I suppose he is like most young men in that respect. No doubt he did not intend to do any such thing, but was betrayed into it.

And now I’ve got a “bone to pick” with you. “It seems much more terrible” to enslave a white child than it does to enslave a black one. You “suppose it is no worse,” but “it seems to be.” Then you have some of the prejudice of color? You must be more guarded. Don’t let such expressions drop in your letters to me, for I may make capital of them to oppose your “radicalism.”

First Division, Fifth A. C,
Wednesday, May 27, 1863.

Dear Sister L.:—

The concluding portion of your letter is already answered. I have a very good prospect of getting back to headquarters, inasmuch as I am here now. My horse is fat as a cub and sleek as a mole, and my flag—oh, I must tell you about the new flag; it is a quaint concern. This is the shape of it: triangular, six feet on a side. The border is blue, the middle white, and the Maltese cross is red. The red cross is the badge by which our division is known. Red, white and blue crosses, First, Second and Third Divisions of Fifth Corps.

We have moved camp about two miles northwest of the railroad station. The brigade is camped in line on a big hill, and headquarters are in a large orchard overlooking the line. It is a splendid place. I have pitched my tent under an apple tree that shades me all day long, and a mocking-bird sings to me the sweetest song ever heard. He combines in one the song of every bird I ever heard and many I haven’t. One minute he’s a bobolink, the next a lark or a robin, and he’s never tired of singing.

Stoneman Station, Va.,
Sunday, May 10, 1863.

Dear Mother:—

I wrote to E. on Monday. Perhaps I better continue my journal. We were then lying in line of battle, and soon after my letter was off, our Second brigade went out to feel of the rebels, and stirred up a muss that we expected would result in a general engagement. The firing was sharp for half an hour, our men retreating till the rebels had followed into range of the artillery, which opened on them, and they soon fell back. That was the last of the fighting. During the night the pickets had a sharp skirmish and we were called to our guns, but it soon died away and we slept again. We, I say, for I counted myself in. I do not carry a gun, and in battle as a musician I am in charge of the surgeons to carry off the wounded. This did not suit me at all. It involved the necessity of going on the field, and I am too much of a coward to walk quietly where bullets whistle and have nothing to say myself. When I can return ball for ball, cheer, and shout defiance to the enemy, my courage is as good as anybody’s, but not to walk through them with my hands full. So, on the first appearance of fight, I picked up a rifle and cartridge box and joined Company K. Our good fortune kept us out of the fight, but I felt much better with the company than anywhere else. But this is a digression. Tuesday was very quiet. In the afternoon a tremendous thunder shower burst upon us. Our trenches in an hour’s time were full of water. The rain continued all night, yes, for three days.

About 2 o’clock Wednesday morning we were ordered to pack up silently, and in a few minutes we were on the retreat. To say we were surprised would give but a feeble idea of our feelings. We felt more confident than ever that we could repulse all that could be brought against us. But for some reason, satisfactory to General Hooker no doubt, we did recross the river, and night saw us in our old camps. The Eighty-third had the post of honor, the last regiment to cross, and our brigade was the rear guard, but we were not molested. It was one of the hardest marches we ever had, and I am stiff and sore from the effects of it. Most of the way the mud was over shoe, in some places knee deep, and the rain made our loads terrible to tired shoulders, but it is all over now.

We have eight days’ rations again, and orders to be ready to move at any time.

Stoneman Station, Va.,
Friday, May 8, 1863.

Dear Sister L.:—

Well, now to dash right into it, for I have something to write this time. We left camp Monday, April 27th, with eight days’ rations, and night found us at Hartwood Church, ten miles up the river. Here our corps (Fifth) joined the Eleventh and Twelfth corps, and next day we all marched to Kelly’s Ford. Wednesday morning early we crossed the river, and after marching hard all day forded the Rapidan, water waist deep, and the Eighty-third was sent to the front on picket. Next day we marched on again, and noon found us at Chancellorsville, a big brick house in a field surrounded by a wilderness of woods. Here we halted and spent the night, and here the great battle of the war was fought.

Friday morning our brigade made a reconnoissance towards the Rappahannock. On the road we found a newly deserted camp with tents all standing, and in it some of the French knapsacks and muskets we lost at Gaines’ Mill. We returned in the afternoon and there was some skirmishing with the enemy. Saturday was spent in building breastworks, and in the afternoon the rebels arrived. They attacked our lines furiously in the center, but were repulsed. At first the Eleventh Corps (Sigel’s Dutchmen) gave way, and Sickles’ division (the one Alf is in) was sent in. They drove the rebs back and held them. At night we lay on our arms behind our works. The moon was full and it was almost as light as day. Six or seven times the attack was made in the same place and every time repulsed. It was an anxious night, for the morrow all felt sure would be a bloody Sunday, and so it was. We were up at light and moved off to the right of the center, and immediately went to work building breastworks. Just as the sun came up the enemy came on. Their whole army was massed on half a mile of our center, and Jackson told his men “they must break our line if it killed every man they had,” but we were prepared for them. Our first line in front of the works was overpowered and driven in, and they rushed on. Artillery and infantry met them. Protected by their breastworks, our men poured it into them. Grape and canister swept through their columns, mowing them down. Still, on they came, like a vast herd of buffaloes, struggling over the trees and brush, dashing, brave, impetuous, but doomed to destruction. Thousands of them charged right up to our works, but, the line shattered, comrades killed, they could do nothing but throw down their arms, retreat being impossible. For six hours they persevered and then withdrew. You must imagine the scene—I cannot describe it. The roar was unearthly; there is no better word for it. I shudder at the slaughter. Ours was fearful enough, but a drop in the bucket to theirs. In it all our brigade did not fire a shot. Right in sight of the fighting, expecting to be attacked, they spent the day and night, and next day and night. Monday and Tuesday we were waiting for them, confident of victory. While we were busy there, Sedgwick with his corps crossed the river and took the heights of Fredericksburg, capturing their big guns, but I learn that he was afterwards driven back.[1]

Wednesday, to our great surprise, we recrossed the river and returned to our old camps. No one seems to understand the move, but I have no doubt it is all right. It rained all day and it was the toughest march we’ve had in many a day. Tramp, tramp, through the mud. I was almost ready to drop when I got in, but I did not fall out, though half the regiment did when they found we were coming to camp.

So here we are with eight days’ rations and orders to be ready to march again. I don’t know anything about the meaning of it. I would give half a dollar for to-day’s Herald.

[1] Note.—Error—Sedgwick was not driven back, but recrossed the river at Banks’ Ford.

Stone man Station, Va.,
Wednesday, April 8, 1863.

Dear Sister L.:—

Your long letter of March 31st reached me in due time. For once I have not been very prompt, but you will have to excuse me. I have been moving. Yes, moving, for I am returned to the regiment. Colonel Vincent could not be satisfied to let me stay when I had a good berth, but insisted on my coming back. My reward for strict attention to duty is this, retrograde promotion. The colonel’s reason for promoting me was to put me in charge of the bugle corps here to play for dress parade in the place of a band. You may believe I was some vexed about it, and if it were not that I hope to get back to headquarters, I would smash my bugle over a stump and take a musket again. Some one else will ride my horse now (you know how I have always loved a horse and can guess how I shall miss him), and some one else will carry my colors. Perhaps you will be glad of that. I come back to the original position of a private. Though I was nominally only a private there, I had really the privileges of a commissioned officer, some of them, at least, and the advantage of line officers, in that I had a horse to ride. My pay, too, by the next muster would have been twenty-one dollars per month. If I had been thrown out of this place for any fault of my own, I would have said nothing about it, but I did squirm some to find that I was only recalled because Colonel Vincent wanted a good bugler in the regiment, and cared nothing about what they had at headquarters. Coming back to the regiment seems almost like leaving the comforts of a home and enlisting again. I did not half realize the privileges I did enjoy till I came to be deprived of them.

If you don’t have better weather than we have had for a week past you will not make much sugar. It is cold for April. Cold north winds blowing all the time, most. I cannot stand round without my overcoat, without shivering like a man with the ague.

Yesterday Abraham paid us a visit, or rather he didn’t. He reviewed all the other regiments in the brigade, but by some blunder of Colonel Stockton’s he made a bridge of our nose. It was rather provoking to see him pass within ten rods of us and not so much as nod to us. We had made great preparations and expected a speech. Our old Peninsula flag, tattered and blood-stained, was brought out and put beside the new one, but it was no go, Abraham didn’t see it.

To-day there is a big review. Our brigade has gone on picket, so I didn’t go out, but I saw the most of our corps go by. The regulars ( Sykes’ division) don’t begin to come up to the volunteers in soldierly bearing and appearance. They seem to have no pride about it and only do what they are forced to do.