The review was on the south side of the Trent, the country there affording splendid facilities for military manœuvres on a large scale, as it presented an unbroken stretch of nearly two miles in each direction. We were well acquainted with the spot, having trodden almost every foot of land thereabouts in our numerous brigade drills, and were first on the ground that day, as befitted our position in line, the Forty-fifth ranking as 1st Battalion, 1st Brigade, 1st Division, 18th Army Corps.
It was a beautiful sight to watch the long line of troops which filed over the bridge, their bayonets flashing in the sunlight, as regiment after regiment came up and took its place in line. The line was formed in brigades, four regiments deep, in the order of the brigades, our brigade holding the right, the artillery and cavalry occupying the extreme left.
The thunder of the artillery announced the arrival of our gallant commander, Major-General Foster, and soon he appeared at our front, finely mounted, and attended by his full staff. Drums are ruffled and arms presented, while the band plays "Hail to the Chief," as he dashes along in his inspection of each regiment, the music continuing while he is passing through the brigade, then the next band takes up the strain.
After a long rest and a lunch by all who had been prudent enough to bring a supply of hard-tack in their pockets, our turn came for an active part in the proceedings of the day. General Foster had taken his station on a slight eminence, and sat facing the centre of the line, which, brigade deep, extended for full a mile. Surrounded by his staff, he was the object of attraction of the crowd of spectators who thronged about him, from Mrs. Foster and her brilliant staff of ladies, down to the most ragged contraband in all that motley assembly.
As we wheeled by platoons and marched in review, the sight which greeted us was one long to be remembered for its grandeur and beauty. Line upon line of unbroken ranks stretched on as far as the eye could reach. Over each regiment waved our beautiful flag, its colors glowing with unwonted richness in the warm winter's sun, the bayonets throwing back flashes of light, and the artillery and cavalry relieving the scene from all monotony, while the Neuse, sparkling in the sunlight, and its distant bank covered with the forest evergreen, formed a perfect background for this gorgeous picture. Then there was the long row of spectators, some, seated in vehicles of all sorts and descriptions, others, mounted on animals ranging from the finest charger to the scrubbiest donkey, while on foot was a crowd composed of every age, sex and color. In their midst sat our commander, patiently awaiting our approach.
As we drew near, the band filed off to the left, and took its position directly opposite the general, where it continued playing till our brigade had all passed, when it was relieved by the next band, and once more took its place in line. As each platoon passed, the general saluted, while he honored the colors by removing his hat, the band also giving the customary salute. Battalion after battalion, battery after battery, troop after troop, they came, till the first battalion, making the complete circuit, came upon the rear of the last troop, thus forming an unbroken circle. As each regiment reached the place of starting, it halted until the long, glittering array was once more in position, then again the artillery thundered forth the salute, and the grand review was over.
Not long after this we were gladdened by the arrival of a party of ladies and gentlemen, friends of the regiment, and those amongst us who were not personally acquainted with any of the visitors, were, notwithstanding, pleased to see the familiar faces, and witness the joy of those who were made happy in their coming. We were favored on the next Sunday by a sermon from Dr. Lothrop, of Boston, who was one of the party, and it seemed strange indeed to listen to him there, preaching in a southern pulpit to an audience of soldiers. The Presbyterian church was the one occupied by us, and our chaplain held service there every Sunday afternoon, the regiment and visitors filling the body of the house. It was a plain, old-fashioned building, with a high pulpit and small organ.
The Episcopal church was open in the morning, Major Sturgis, in the absence of the rector, reading the service and a sermon. The singing by a quartette of male voices, two from our regiment, and two on detailed service in the city, would have shamed most northern choirs. The church was built of stone, and was very prettily situated on Pollock street, standing back from the street, in an old burying-ground filled with elms and willows and moss-covered tombstones. The interior of the building was finished in very good taste, and there was a fair organ, which we often went up into the organ-loft to listen to, as one of the musicians of our company had access to the building. A Sunday school was also started during our stay in town, and was very successful, increasing rapidly in size and influence.
But the most remarkable service it was our lot ever to witness, was one held in the contraband Methodist church. A small party of us, having obtained passes started one Sunday for the church in the Second District, and on entering the building, found the galleries were reserved for visitors and already well filled with soldiers, drawn there, like ourselves, by curiosity. The body of the house was crowded with the congregation of worshippers, the women occupying one side of the church, the men the other. Every shade of color from that of Erebus, god of night, to fair-haired Aurora, child of the morning, was there represented, while the bright colors which adorned the female portion of the house, added to the brilliancy of the scene.
The pulpit was unoccupied, but the leader of the meeting, an intelligent looking man, nearly white, and with, what was remarkable, sandy hair, sat in a chair in front of the pulpit. He opened the service with singing, reading a line from the hymn, which was then sung by the congregation; then reading the second line, and so on. Having heard so much of the melody of the negro, and the beautiful singing to be heard on the plantations, our expectations were highly raised, but, alas! no sooner had the first note reached our ears, than our hopes were dashed to the ground. Imagine some old psalm tune, screamed forth, line by line, from the cracked throats of the old, and by the shrill voices of the young, all singing the air, each voice pitched on a different key, and some idea of their style of music may be formed.