January 4 — Snowed last night, and our hog nest shelter did nothing but sift snow on us all night. We did not leave our camp till nearly midday, then marched over a rough mountainous country. We crossed one mountain over a rough steep road. At some places it meandered through deep and wooded ravines and at others it wound along the craggy sides of steep rocky ridges, like a huge serpent feeling its way around insurmountable barriers.
On top of the mountain we had a grand and imposing view of wild and picturesque scenery, mountains piled up in every direction, ridged and ravined and covered with new-fallen snow, the rocks and trees all mantled in the crystal garb of winter. Looking to the north, ridge succeeds ridge and mountain follows mountain, like mighty waves on some storm-swept ocean, until way in the dim distance the snowy crests touched the bending sky and softly blended with the dull leaden wintry haze that hung along the horizon.
There are people living all through these mountains and uplands. Here and there I saw little cleared spots, hanging along the hill and mountain slopes, with small, low wooden houses on them, weather-stained, gray with age, that constitute the homes of these dwellers in the highlands.
It is hard to comprehend how these mountaineers can be contented to spend their lives in these isolated, solitary, dreary spots in this mountain wilderness, but I suppose they, like all highland dwellers, love the lofty slopes that lift their humble homes to the storm.
It was nearly sunset when we arrived at Bath, and General Jackson’s men had already driven the enemy away an hour before our arrival.
Bath is the county-seat of Morgan County, and also noted as a summer resort and watering-place, bearing the name of Berkeley Springs. It is almost entirely surrounded by steep little mountains close by, and on top of the nearest one to the little village the Yanks had a few pieces of artillery in position, from which they fired a few rounds at Jackson’s infantry when it first approached the town. The Yanks, without making much resistance, fled toward Hancock, Md., which is six miles away due north from Bath. Jackson’s men pursued them, and just at nightfall we started from Bath toward Hancock.
It was drawing toward midnight when we arrived near the river opposite Hancock. Some Yankee sharpshooters in or near the town were firing at the dark hills on the Virginia side of the river, and some of Jackson’s batteries were replying to the Yankee fireworks at midnight. The scene was grand. The light that flashed from the cannon darted around the hills and lighted the frosty landscape just like regular old-time lightning would do it when it is playing from the clouds.
The troughy road is crowded with Jackson’s shivering infantry, standing in the cold and dark. The snow is about four inches deep, and the night is very unfavorable for an outdoor performance; and to add to the disagreeableness of the situation, an icy breeze is creeping over the frozen hills and feels like a breath from the North Pole.
At last, about two hours after midnight, an order came around permitting us to make fires, and I never before saw fences disappear so fast. In twenty minutes after the “You may make fires” was spoken there were a hundred friendly camp-fires cheerfully blazing along the snowy hillside.
