Gauley River, 8 Miles South Of Summersville,
September 11, 1861.
Dear Lucy: — Well, darling, we have had our first battle, and the enemy have fled precipitately. I say “we,” although it is fair to say that our brigade, consisting of the Twenty-third, the Thirtieth (Colonel Ewing), and Mack’s Battery had little or nothing to do, except to stand as a reserve. The only exception to this was four companies of the Twenty-third, Captains Sperry, Howard, Zimmerman, and Woodward, under my command, who were detailed to make an independent movement. I had one man wounded and four others hit in their clothing and accoutrements. You will have full accounts of the general fight in the papers. My little detachment did as much real work — hard work — as anybody. We crept down and up a steep rocky mountain, on our hands and knees part of the time, through laurel thickets almost impenetrable, until dark. At one time I got so far ahead in the struggle that I had but three men. I finally gathered them by a halt, although a part were out all night. We were near half an hour listening to the cannon and musketry, waiting for our turn to come.
You have often heard of the feelings of men in the interval between the order of battle and the attack. Matthews, myself, and others were rather jocose in our talk, and my actual feeling was very similar to what I have when going into an important trial — not different nor more intense. I thought of you and the boys and the other loved ones, but there was no such painful feeling as is sometimes described. I doubted the success of the attack and with good reason and in good company. The truth is, our enemy is very industrious and ingenious in contriving ambuscades and surprises and entrenchments but they lack pluck. They expect to win, and too often do win, by superior strategy and cunning. Their entrenchments and works were of amazing extent. During the whole fight we rarely saw a man. Most of the firing was done at bushes and log and earth barricades.
We withdrew at dark, the attacking brigades having suffered a good deal from the enemy and pretty severely from one of those deplorable mistakes which have so frequently happened in this war — viz., friends attacking friends. The Tenth and Twenty-eighth (Irish and Second German of Cincinnati) fired on each other and charged doing much mischief. My detachment was in danger from the same cause. I ran upon the Twenty-eighth, neither seeing the other until within a rod. We mutually recognized, however, although it was a mutual surprise. It so happened, curiously enough, that I was the extreme right man of my body and Markbreit the left man of his. We had a jolly laugh and introductions to surrounding officers as partners, etc.
The enemy were thoroughly panic-stricken by the solid volleys of McCook’s Ninth and the rifled cannon of Smith’s Thirteenth. The Tenth suffered most. The enemy probably began their flight by a secret road soon after dark, leaving flag, ammunition, trunks, arms, stores, etc., etc., but no dead or wounded. Bowie knives, awful to look at, but no account in war; I have one. One wagon-load of family stuff — a good Virginia plain family — was left. They were spinning, leaving rolls of wool, knitting, and making bedquilts. I enclose a piece; also a pass — all queer.
They [the enemy] crossed the Gauley River and are said to be fortifying on the other side. We shall probably pursue. Indeed, Colonel Matthews and [with] four of our companies is now dogging them. We shall probably fight again but not certainly.
I have no time to write to other friends. The men are now talking to me. Besides, I want to sleep. Dearest, I think of you and the dear ones first, last, and all the time. I feel much encouraged about the war; things are every way looking better. We are in the midst of the serious part of a campaign. Goodbye, dearest. Pass this letter around — bad as it is. I have no time to write to all. I must sleep. On Sunday last, I rode nineteen hours, fifty to sixty miles, crossed a stream with more water than the Sandusky at this season at Mr. Valette’s from thirty to forty times — wet above my knees all the time and no sleep for thirty-six hours; so “excuse haste and a bad pen”, as Uncle says.
Affectionately,
R. B. Hayes.
P. S. — Joe and his capital assistants are trumps.
Mrs. Hayes.
