Journal of Surgeon Alfred L Castleman.

20th —A hard, cold rain all day. The regiment is out on picket. I wish those comfortably housed at home could realize what picket duty is, in such weather as this. To-day they stand from morning till night, on guard. Night comes, but with it no relief from the exposures of the day. In his thoroughly soaked clothes, with the snow flying and the wind whistling about him, without fire and without tents, he must stand; he must still stand and guard the lines till the coming of another day. However much nature may give way under the trial, however exhausted the man, should he be caught slumbering a single moment on his post—the penalty is death. The soldiers bear all this cheerfully, to the shame and disgrace of those disaffected, cowardly cavillers at home, who would sacrifice together these noble, self-denying men and the Government for which they fight. ‘Tis said that we go into winder quarters here. I cannot believe it. General Burnside has not been pushing us forward at such a rate for a week past, to winter us in this most gloomy and desolate country. We are forty miles from “any where,” in the midst of a pine forest, the roads in winter impassable, the people semi-civilized. Whugh! I shudder to think of it.

19th.—The army is reorganized. Instead of the former divisions of only brigades, divisions and corps, it is now brigades, divisions, corps, and grand divisions, of which last there are three, General Sumner, at present, commanding the right, General Hooker the centre, and General Franklin the left. I wish I had more confidence in General Franklin, but I cannot forget his conduct at West Point, Virginia, nor at Centreville, where he failed to reinforce General Pope.

This is a dark and rainy night; and a little sad, and a good deal home-sick; I sit unattended, (except by my faithful “General,”[1]) reflecting, over my log fire, on the beauty of the opening stanza of the sixth canto of the “Lay of the Last Minstrel;” (what an expletive of possessives.) In my home-sickness, I have called up all my Bachelor acquaintances, and even above the patriotic reflections stands forth each one—

“The wretch concentered in himself.”

How intensely this stanza reflects my feelings to-night. I have not only a country but a home, and, oh, how often, and how deeply have I prayed for the presentation of integrity to each—

“Breathes there a man with soul go dead.
That never to himself hath said—
This is my home, my native land.”

[1] A black servant.

18th.—Nothing of moment to-day. We started early; it rained a little, and to-night we are encamped within three miles of Stafford Court House, six miles from the mouth of Acquia Creek, on one of its tributaries, and about twelve miles from Fredericksburg.

17th.—I am feeble to-day, from my indisposition of yesterday. Army was astir at 4 A. M. Have had a fine day, marched fifteen miles, towards Stafford Court House. Men in fine spirits. The prospect of work has reanimated them, and they are perfectly satisfied with the exchange of Commanders. At 8 P. M. it is raining hard, and I fear the good weather is over. Hard as we have worked for the last two days, and unfavorable as is the prospect of the weather, when the order came, a few minutes since, to continue the march at 6 A. M., to-morrow, there went up a long, loud “Hurrah for Old Burney!” The men want business. They wish to close this war; and, if the officers only prove true to the country and to their Commander-in-Chief, I predict for him, (based on the energy of his troops,) a brilliant campaign.

Sunday, 16th.—What a Sunday! What a day of rest! Troops were called at 5 A. M. Carried heavy knapsacks, guns and ammunition, and march till 9 1-2 P. M.; sixteen and a half hours, and no enemy near! Truly, “Old Burney” begins vigorously; but, if this is an earnest that he means business, let him push on. His men will not complain.

This morning I got up sick, with a painful diarrhœa. Have been feeble all day, and as 9 o’clock came, with its cold and piercing winds sighing through the pines and over the hills, how longingly I looked for that “little candle,” which in times of peace was wont to “throw its beams so far” to greet me on my return to home, after a long night’s ride! How I yearned, in lonely thoughts, amidst this crowd, for the cheerful scenes and comforts which had often welcomed me on such a night. When shall I enjoy them again? When will this thirst for blood, and unholy struggle for power, yield to the love of peace and happiness at home? We passed Cattlett’s Station in our march to-day, and encamped for the night near Weaversville, with orders to continue our march at 6 o’clock to-morrow morning.

15th.—Another beautiful day; no move. Heavy cannonading this forenoon, in the direction of Warrenton. At 2 P. M. received orders to march to-morrow. Where to?

14th.—Another day of sunshine and quiet. I rode to Warrenton to-day, a pretty little town five miles from us; but, oh, how desolate to those whose home it has been; every house and church a hospital or a barrack; dirty, squalid soldiers crowd the streets; the sick and wounded of both armies hang on every door step, whilst hundreds of mules, with their braying, and their drivers swearing, vie with each other in their efforts to Babelize the scene. All this, if not a necessity, is a concomitant of war.

I mixed freely with the prisoners, hoping to find some from Texas or from Georgia, who could tell me of my friends in those States, but without success.

13th.—Beautiful day; and all quiet. What a pity that we must lose this fine weather. Already, as I predicted, I can hear many of McClellan’s friends, who were depressed yesterday, admitting that he had failed, and expressing their gratification at the change of Commanders. It will go hard only with the aspirants in high places, who have spent so much time and breath in inflating McClellan, that he became an unmanageable balloon, broke from his fastenings, and has “gone up.” Can we trust that they will not betray Burnside, as some of them did Pope. I confess that I am apprehensive on this point.

12th.—Quiet in camp all day. It seems hard that we must lose this beautiful weather, when winter is so near at hand; but I suppose it is necessary to allow the new Commander-in-Chief to perfect his plans. General Fitz-John Porter re-arrested to-day, and taken to Washington, on charge of disobedience of General Pope’s orders, at the battle of Bull Run, on the 29th of August. That the defeat of Pope’s army there, the slaughter of thousands of our true and loyal men, the escape of Lee’s and Jackson’s commands from capture or destruction, was the result of treason, there is not a shadow of doubt. If Porter is proven to be the traitor—hang him, hang him; for God’s sake hang him; and if a traitor at the instigation of a higher in command, hang him too. We have had enough of this thing of staking the lives of our men, by whole brigades, on political chess games. Hang a few of the traitors to save the sacrifice of true and honest men.