A beautiful—and after the long and tedious march exhilarating—sight here met the eye. Stretching far away to the left and front was a vast plain, variegated with green pastures, and field after field of cereals yellowing into maturity. To the right the tortuous Pamunkey appeared, skirted with dense forests and rich pasture lands, and bearing upon its sluggish waters Federal transports of every description. For the first time in a twelvemonth, vessels flying the stars and stripes were pursuing its serpentine course. No sooner had the order been given to halt and stack arms, than the soldiers began to scatter in every direction, some to bathe in the river, others to enjoy a siesta under the shade trees, or indulge in a pipe of the royal weed, that never failing solace for a soldier’s griefs.
Reports of every description concerning operations elsewhere were served up to the troops here; one to the effect that Gen. Brooks with his whole brigade had been captured, another that we had made prisoners of Gen. Magruder and most of his force. The further we advanced the more filled the air became with these
“Flying rumors gathering as they rolled.”
Moving five miles up the river, Col. Taylor’s command encamped in a large clover-field, on the old Custis estate, at present in the possession of Gen. Fitzhugh Lee, of the rebel cavalry service. On every side were magnificent fields of grain, into which the jaded horses and lank cattle were turned loose.
Ruin of R. R. Bridge at White House, over the Pamunkey.
Here for the first time the men began to find negroes scattered around on the plantations, whom, owing to their rapid flight, the rebels had not driven before them. Several of these contrabands were appropriated by the officers, and remaining with the regiment through its various campaigns, came home with their new “Masters.” Among this number was a comical specimen of the race, who, on being approached as he stood huddled together with a squad of fifty or more, and asked by Sergeant Windchip if he “would not like to see the north,” replied, “God bless you, massa, don’t care if I do.” Then turning to his fellow contrabands, he took a most affectionate as well as droll adieu—the tears coursing down his ancient cheeks—broke away from the sobbing “brothers and sisters” and “fell into line.”
Upon reaching the White House, which was merely a landing on the river, the left wing of the Regiment was detailed for picket duty, along with a detachment under command of the Lieut.-Col. of the Seventy-seventh New York. The orders were to proceed as far as a certain Court House, and connect with Gen. Brooks’ pickets on the left. After marching some two miles and a half, on what was supposed to be the right road, they were suddenly brought to a halt by rebel cavalrymen, who fled rapidly on being fired at. A few moments reconnoitring served to convince the Lieutenant-Colonel that the picket lines did not extend in that locality. So deploying his men in a wheat-field, he returned to head quarters to ascertain its whereabouts. They remained here until near dark, when an Aid came out and ordered them into camp. The laugh over this fruitless search of eight hours after our picket line became intensified, when it was afterwards ascertained that the force had proceeded full a mile beyond our outer or cavalry pickets.