Left bank, Cape Fear River, Opposite Fayetteville,
March 15, 1865.
Everything valuable to the Rebels has been destroyed, and we are about ready to push on to Goldsboro. Fayetteville is about a 3,000 town, nearly all on one street. There was a very fine United States Arsenal burned here, some 20 good buildings, all of which are “gone up.” The rest of the town is old as the hills. We lay on the river bank expecting to cross all last night, and finally reached the bivouac three quarters of a mile from the river just as the troops on this side were sounding the reveille. This is the 21st river we have pontooned since leaving Scottsboro, May 1st, ’64. It is more like the Tennessee than any other stream we have crossed. We send from here all the negroes and white refugees who have been following us, also a large train to Wilmington for supplies. The number of negroes is estimated at 15,000. Nearly all the population of this town will go inside our lines. It has rained all day and seems abominably gloomy. Makes me wish for letters from home. Last night while we were standing around fires by the river, some scoundrel went up to a negro not 75 yards from us, and with one whack of a bowie knife, cut the contraband’s head one third off, killing him.
At Goldsboro, we are promised a short rest. If it were not that the wagons are so nearly worn out that they must be thoroughly repaired, I don’t believe we would get it. Well, time passes more swiftly in campaigning than in camp. Most of the army are moved out.
