Chattanooga, Wednesday, May 17. Reveille sounded very early every morning now. Begin to feel very well, think I can grind hard-tack enough to keep the system going for a while. Nothing to read or do, so procured a pass to see if I could not find some reading matter in town.
Found Chattanooga literally filled with “gray backs” riding to and fro at will. About 200 hundred came in this morning, a portion of Hardee’s Corps, the picked escort of Old Jeff. They followed him to Washington, Ga., when he took it alone with a few friends, and left them to go and receive their paroles, which they received at Atlanta, Ga. Many of them were quite splendidly dressed, having the finest uniforms I have ever seen with them. I talked with many of them in a friendly strain, astonished to find them so ignorant of the history of the last year. But most of them are heartily tired of war, and say they are willing to bide the will of the United States, but fear Andy Johnson’s severity. One poor fellow in a sad strain said he “was going to the place where his home once was, but God knows where it is now, I have not heard from any of them for ten months.” They were commanded by one of the most desperate, wild-looking colonels I have ever seen, a fair representation of the pictures we see of brigand chiefs or buccaneers. He wore a large, warm, home-made cloak, plaited around the waist like an old fashioned wammus, hanging clear to his heels, and a coarse white hat with a brim a foot wide, and greasy hair below the shoulders. About evening six hundred more came in.
Silver and gold is quite plenty. Dealers in town are reaping a harvest. Scrip is useless, a newsboy hesitating to sell a paper for $100.00 of it.
Tuesday, 16th—Started at 4 a. m. and marched twenty miles today. We passed through Fredericksburg at 1 p. m., crossing the Rappahannock river at that place. On coming into Fredericksburg we marched along that stone wall by the bend of the river and looked down upon the lowland below where so many of our boys were marched to their death—at that terrible battle. It made me shudder to look down upon that horrible place. Fredericksburg seemed filled with Johnnies just returned from the war. At 5 o’clock we crossed the Poe river and went into bivouac.
16th. A cool morning. Up betimes. Dreamed till nervous about F. Would that I could reasonably get this subject out of my mind. God guide me. There would be satisfaction in a short look into the future. Chet and I called on Electa and Lorenzo. Went to a Catholic Fair.
Camp Lincoln, Va.,
May 16, 1865.
Dear Sister L.:—
“Camp Lincoln” is the camp of the corps at Lighthouse or Jordan’s Point and vicinity, and it is becoming the “A No. 1” of camps. Matters are arranged a la regulars and we are becoming regulars as fast as possible. Cannot tell whether we will be discharged this summer or not—most likely “or not.” Every man has a scheme of his own for disposing of us and they will all hold good till Congress meets and takes the matter into consideration.
Jeff Davis is captured. The country doesn’t seem to get much excited about that, but I have my own jubilee. I never expected it, but I am most happily disappointed, and if the villain doesn’t stretch hemp, I shall be disappointed less happily.
I send you to board a photo of my quartermaster-sergeant James Duty. The cap rather spoils the face, but it is not a bad picture. How’s that for a “navgur”?
I had strawberries and cream for dinner with a late secesh maiden—how’s that, too?
I have been busy and am not done yet in fixing our headquarters. I send you a plan. 1 low do you like it?
It is my plan and my execution. The colonel’s tent faces up the avenue, and the others in toward the center. The court inside is all to be covered with a shade or booth of pine boughs. The “O O” at the rear corners are servant’s quarters. Well, it is midnight and I must wind up. Write to me soon. Camp is all right but won’t write. Tell his mother.
May 16th.—We are scattered and stunned, the remnant of heart left alive within us filled with brotherly hate. We sit and wait until the drunken tailor who rules the United States of America issues a proclamation, and defines our anomalous position.
Such a hue and cry, but whose fault? Everybody is blamed by somebody else. The dead heroes left stiff and stark on the battle-field escape, blame every man who stayed at home and did not fight. I will not stop to hear excuses. There is not one word against those who stood out until the bitter end, and stacked muskets at Appomattox.
Five miles south of Fredericksburg, May 16, 1865.
Our division and brigade in advance of corps to-day. Made 24 miles by 2 p.m. Fences all gone on the road, but houses all standing. From a bluff three miles back had a beautiful view of about 15 miles of the Rappahannock valley and in all that did not see a fence or a cultivated field, or a specimen of either the kine, sheep, or swine families. This certainly does not largely rank the Sahara. Passed through a melancholy looking line of rifle pits, and mentally thanked Heaven for my poor prospect of ever using the like again. Passed through Bowling Green this a.m., only 11 miles from where Booth was killed.
Chattanooga, Tuesday, May 16. Captain Hood took us out to battery drill early, but came back in an hour. Orders received to graze but twice a week, which is agreeably received by the boys. Notwithstanding, went out this afternoon, went to the hills. Will Holmes and I got into an orchard, had all the ripe cherries we wanted to eat, also, some nice strawberries.
When we returned, we found a large squad of rebs having come in, and they were coralled near the church where General Judah was paroling them. After roll call Griff and I went down to view the last ” row of shad.” They were a portion of Brig. Gen. B. J. Hill’s Cavalry Division, quartered in a barn. He sent several squads to other points nearer to their homes to be paroled. He came in person with them, some 150 Tennessee and Kentucky men. The officers kept horses and side arms. Many of them support a great deal of gold lace with an air of defiance. Privates are the same squalid, low-foreheaded, long-haired, unintelligent specimens of humanity. As all the others, look a little crestfallen, but strange to say many of them thought they were not whipped, but “reckoned they mote be arter a while”. Poor ignorance.
Monday, 15th—We left bivouac at 5 o’clock this morning and marched eighteen miles. Went into bivouac for the night near the Fay river. The weather is quite warm and the roads are very bad.
15th. Was routed out this morning at 10 A. M. by Chester. Gave the P. M. General a call to learn about extra pay on resignation. Visited Navy Yard before dinner and Arsenal after dinner. Wrote to Mr. Wright.
South of Bowling Green, Va., May 15, 1865.
Crossed the Pamunky river this morning and the Mattapony this p.m. Beautiful country, but most desolate looking. Stopped at a house for the “cute and original” purpose of asking for a drink of water. While a servant went to the spring had a very interesting chat with the ladies, the first of the sex I have spoken to in Virginia. One of them was quite pleasant. She inquired if we Yankees were really all going to Mexico. Told her “such was the case,” when she remarked, “Well, all our men are killed off, and if all you Northerners go to Mexico, we women will have our rights sure.”
Heard of Davis’ capture. Did not excite an emotion.
