Journal of Surgeon Alfred L Castleman.

19th.—Moved at 7 this morning. Marched to-day over much of the same ground which we travelled over on our way to Richmond. But strange! There was scarcely a spot which I could recognize. Heretofore my memory of places has been almost wonderful. Why could I not now recognize? Has age impaired my memory, or was my mind at the time of passing so occupied with weightier matters that ordinary scenes and circumstances made no impression!

At 12 M. to-day we reached Yorktown. How wonderfully our minds deceive us in estimates of places and things associated with great events! Whoever heard of Yorktown, that city on the banks of the noble York River, on the sacred soil of the great State of Virginia? The famous city where Lord Cornwallis took his stand to crush out the American rebellion—the city in which was fought the last great battle for American independence—the mother of a nation, and which lives to have witnessed the growth of that nation through youth to maturity, from the feeble efforts of infancy to the power of a giant, and still lives to look on her offspring: sent by the convulsive struggles of its own strength, perhaps to final dissolution. I ask what mind can contemplate a city associated with all these events and recollections, without being possessed of ideas of its vastness and its splendor? But what the reality? Yorktown is a little dilapidated old village, which never contained a population of over 200 or 300, and at the commencement of this war not over 150. When I look on its insignificance, or rather on its significant littleness, I find it difficult not to detract from the ideas of greatness, associated with the great men who figured there. How wonderfully have the great advantages which nature has lavished on this State been prostituted to the one great idea of maintaining her peculiar institution, which she has nursed and defended against the approaches of the world, as she would protect and encourage the whims and weakness of a sickly girl.[1]

A circumstance occurred to-day so painful that I should like to forget it, yet so suggestive of the trials of this army and of the discouragements which has occasioned much of their indifference to events, that I feel it a duty to record it, that it may not be forgotten. On the late retreat from Richmond, most of the men found it necessary to throw away everything which impeded their progress, even their canteens. During our stay at Harrison’s Point they had not been fully replaced. This morning we started early. The day has been intensely hot, the dust almost insufferable. Gen. H—— was in command of his brigade. We had made a rapid march of about ten miles. The men were fatigued, foot-sore and thirsty. In many instances, two or three having to depend on one canteen, it was soon emptied, and when we stopped to rest after the ten mile march, we were in sight of a large spring of beautiful cold water. But the General ordered that not a man should leave the ranks to fill his canteen. It was hard to bear, but the men submitted in patience till they saw the soldiers from other brigades passing from the spring with their canteens filled. This was too much, and they commenced crying out “Water, water.” Immediately the General dashed amongst them, proclaiming “mutiny,” and demanding the offenders. Of course no one could tell who they were. He then turned upon the Regimental and Company officers, “damned them to hell,” and spent some time in consigning the soldiers to the same comfortable quarters. After he had got them all labeled for that kingdom, he told them that their officers were “not worth a G—d d—n,” and having exhausted his vocabulary of gentlemanly expletives, calculated to encourage subordination, he called the men into line and put them through the evolutions of a brigade drill for about half an hour, and thus were they rested to resume the march. These men—this remnant of a fine army, who had been dragged through the putrid swamps of the Chickahominy till they were more like ghosts than men, were thus rested, thus drilled, thus marched, thus abused. Surely the end is not yet.

[1] I think that all the towns on this noble river, from its source to its mouth, will not amount in the aggregate to a population of 2,000 souls! And the same may be said of the James River, from Richmond to its outlet; and yet these rivers pass through one of the finest agricultural regions in the world. There is not a spot of earth, the wheat from which can compete in market with that of the James River.

18th.—Left camp this morning at 6 o’clock, on the Williamsburg road, and at 12 to 1, passed in retreat over the scenes of our first hard fight, where my regiment, by its firm and unyielding bravery, won the promise that it “should have Williamsburg inscribed on its banner;” a promise richly merited but never fulfilled.

When passing through Williamsburg I, in company with Surgeon Frank H. Hamilton, stepped aside to take a stroll through the halls and rooms of old William and Mary, the oldest college, I believe, except Yale, on this continent. There still stood the students’ desks and seats, at which Virgil and Ovid and Horace had kindled whatever spark they possessed of poetic fire, and Livy had evoked many a curse at his dry detail. There were the black-boards on which the mysteries of Euclid were solved into the unwavering language of distance and of measure, and there was the old chapel, with the benches still in situ, from which for more than a century, hopeful youths had sat and listened to prayers for their usefulness and prosperity, whilst they laid plans of mischief against the supplicators for their good. But the places of the Professors were now filled with the inevitable Commissary and his aids, with their barrels and their boxes, whilst the benches of the students were crowded with clamors for their bacon, beef and beans. I mused for awhile over thoughts of the learned men who had passed forever from these ancient halls, and of the influences they have left behind them.

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“Their heads may sodden in the sun,
Their limbs be strung to city gates and walls;
But still their spirits walk Abroad.”

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They certainly do not walk here. The sight would be too painful for sensitive and sensible spirits to bear. But these thoughts were dissipated as I looked again on the places where for the first time any number of our regiment had met death on the battle field, and on which it won laurels which shall be green forever!

At 2 o’clock we encamped on the east bank of King’s Creek, a small stream about three miles from Williamsburg, on the banks of which repose the bodies of thousands of the Federal army—of those brave men, who, flushed with hope and patriotic enthusiasm, rushed boldly to the contest, and were permitted to be swept away by hundreds, unsupported by commanders, who, with their hosts unengaged, stood calmly watching the slaughter.

17th.—Left Charles City at 5 1-2 o’clock this A. M. Beautiful day; clear, windy and cool, but terribly dusty. At 3 P. M., crossed the Chickahominy near the mouth, on a pontoon bridge.[1] * Pontoon bridges are a success. To-night we lie at the mouth of the Chickahominy, under protection of our gun boats. What a commercial world this State of Virginia should be. Its navigable waters are nearly equal to that of all the Free States combined; yet there are single cities in the North which have a larger commerce than the whole of the Slave States. Why is this? Has the peculiar institution any thing to do with it? If so, God, nature— everything speaks aloud against it as a curse. The ground which we now occupy is one of the most beautiful, as well as one of the most desirable sites for a city in America, high and dry, with an easy ascent from the water, presenting three fronts to the navigable rivers, with fine water views in all directions, as extensive as the range of vision, with business amounting to one house and a few cords of dry pine wood, which seems to be the article of export from this part of the State.

There is no longer a doubt that we are leaving the Peninsula. What now becomes of the statement that our retreat was only “a change of base?”

[1]A pontoon bridge is thus built: Narrow, flat-bottomed boats, about twenty-five feet long, are anchored in the stream. They lie side by side, from ten to fifteen feet apart, so as to make a row of boats from one bank to the other. From one to the other, clear across the stream are tied stringers, on which are laid down heavy planks, about sixteen feet long, which makes the bridge, and which is sufficient to bear up any number of teams which can be crowded on it.

16th.—Morning came, and found us still waiting orders, whilst immense trains of teams and masses of soldiery, sick and well, are pushing past us. Our division are again to bring up the rear, and receive the attack, if one is made. j This is said to be the post of honor; but we are beginning to feel that we may be ” honored over-much.”

At 5 P. M. came the expected and anxiously looked-for order, and we are on the road down James River. Not being a military man, I may be hypercritical, but it does seem to me that it should not require the forty-eight hours which we have taken for that purpose, to get out of camp with an army no larger than ours; or, that if so much time is required, the leaders should adopt some system in leaving, so as to call the divisions successively to get ready; not to call all at once, and wear out the rear guard with watching and with expectation, whilst the-advance is passing. Two days ago our division was ordered to be ready to march at an hour fixed, and to have two days’ rations to march on. The two days expired without further order to prepare rations, and the hour of starting found our rear guard, which is to stand the brunt of battle, worn out, and without rations to march on! “Shiftless.”

At 11 p. M. we reached Charles City, an extensive capital of of one of the oldest and richest counties in Virginia. This Charles City contains one dwelling house, with three or four , buildings for “negro quarters,” and a court house of about 20×35 feet, and one story high. In Virginia, they must have very little legal justice or very little need of it. From the direction of our march so far, I judge we go to Fort Monroe, and that we shall cross the Chickahominy at its main junction with the James.

15th.—Called up at 2 A. M., to be ready to move at daylight. Eight o’clock comes, but no order for us to march; 10, 12, 2, 4, 8, 10 o’clock at night, and still here. One day’s rations consumed, men wearied with watching and impatient expectation; no tents, no comforts, men dropped on the ground to rest, whilst other regiments, brigades, divisions, are marching by. Many fires kept brightly burning through the night, and many soldiers would not lie down, but kept watch, momentarily expecting a call to march. This excitement and waiting, I find, is more wearing to the soldier than active duty.

14th.—At 9 P. M., received orders to be ready to move at daylight to-morrow morning, with two days’ rations in haversacks. The crisis approaches, and whilst the men are cooking their rations, I note this, and then go to packing.

13th. We are now all packed ready for a move, awaiting only the final order to march. Where or how we go, we do not yet know. We learn, however, beyond a doubt, that the regiments which disappeared so mysteriously a few nights since, embarked on transports under cover of the darkness, and have gone down the river. Their destination is not certainly known to us. From present appearances the plan seems to be, that the army, with the exception of Smith’s Division, or perhaps Franklin’s Corps, are to embark on transports, leaving us to escort and protect our immense transportation train overland to Fortress Monroe. Should this conjecture be true, we shall have a hazardous time, unless General Pope shall succeed in keeping the enemy so busily engaged as to relieve us. I have full confidence that he will exert himself to the utmost to relieve us in this manner.

Our leaders here are rapidly losing the confidence of the army and becoming objects of ridicule to the enemy. At White Oak Bridge, when we retreated, we left our pickets at their posts, without notifying them of our movements. They were of course taken prisoners. They have been paroled and are returning to camp. They say that immediately on being captured, they were being examined by a rebel Colonel, when Stonewall Jackson came up and upbraided the Colonel for spending time with the prisoners. “Let the prisoners go,” said he, and “press on after the enemy. So accustomed have they become to digging that if you give them twelve hours’ rest, they will dig themselves clear under ground.” Flattering, truly! I hope General McClellan will note it. But these things must not be talked about. Oh, no! We must see army after army sacrificed, the bones of hundreds of thousands of our bravest men bleaching on the plains, the nation draped in mourning, and not speak of it lest we shake confidence in our Generals, who through selfishness or incompetency, I will not yet say treason, are so frequently subjecting us to such contumely and sacrifices. History will make sad revelations of this war. I verily believe that, could its abuses be fully told, it would arouse the people to an enthusiasm which no acts of the enemy can excite. Under our present leaders, God knows what is to become of us. I have lost all confidence in them. In only four months from the time we landed on the Peninsula we had lost nearly two-thirds of the vast army brought with us, without one decisive battle! Since the 20th March we have landed here about 160,000 men. I doubt whether we could to-day bring 45,000 into action! At any time between October and June last, it has been in the power of this army to crush out this rebellion in a month; and yet the rebellion is more formidable to-day than at any previous time. Even now we are receiving reports of the discomfiture of Pope’s army, and, notwithstanding that its struggles are for our relief, it is unmistakeably evident that the report gives pleasure to the staffs of McClellan and Hancock. It may be so with other staffs; these are the only ones I have seen. Jealousy, jealousy—what will be the end of this? God preserve us.

Whilst I am noting down these abuses, a strange feeling possesses me; I lose all sense of my determination to abandon this rotten thing, and I resolve here to fight to the bitter end. Oh, if we had a Wellington, a Napoleon, a Scott, or even a Jackson, to do—something—anything, but dig and watch and —! falsely report!

Just as I close this journal of the day, a man rides up and tells me that General Pope has had a fight, and “holds his own.” I hope this is true, but I cannot forget that on the 26th of June, General McClellan made the army boisterously joyful by his assertion that McCall had thoroughly whipped Stonewall Jackson. On the next morning at daylight, it was claimed that McCall had only “held his own.” Two hours later we find that instead of even holding his own, he had retreated four miles, but it was only a “strategic movement,” and next day it became necessary for the whole army to—not retreat—but—”change its base.” All this it required to tell the simple truth that we were overpowered, whipped, and on the retreat. I hope it may not now be the beginning of a like history of General Pope’s movements.

6th,—I am just in receipt of the following letter, and lest I may some day be disposed to charge the friends of those for whom I labor with want of appreciation of my efforts, I record it in my journal, with the hope that my eyes may often fall on it. I am almost daily receiving similar letters, and how they brace me in my efforts to do my duty, despite of the embarrassments which are unnecessarily thrown around me!

[Letter omitted in the publication of this journal.]

Do surgeons in the army ever realize that often friends of the soldier, at home, are as great sufferers from this war as the soldier himself? Do they ever think of the comfort, of the happiness they may with a little effort, impart to those whom they never saw, but are perhaps as active participants in the war as those actually in the lines! and do they begrudge the little time and labor required to impart this comfort or consolation?

2nd.—What numbers of letters, and from home, are lost en route! Can it be possible that the private letters of soldiers and officers to their families and friends are “vised?” Many suspect it; and should it prove true, woe betide the authorities which should attempt to justify it. West Point wields a mighty influence in this army. But this would be a dangerous assumption, even though the attempt might be made to justify it under the plea of the “necessity of war.” There are whispers in camp that we are to commence another retrograde movement. Should we attempt it, and an attack made on us in retreat, I should fear a total route without even resistance. Since our Generals showed such want of confidence in the soldiery as was hidden under terms “change of base,” “change of front by a flank movement,” the soldiers are correspondingly distrusting their commanders, and I verily believe would not again fight under them on a retreat. Should they be brought by an advance to the battle, it would be a different thing. I think they would fight as they ever have fought, like heroes. I have heard hundreds say that if we are to retreat again, they would prefer to be captured as prisoners, than disgraced as fugitives.