During the afternoon our ears and eyes were gladdened, the one by intelligence that Hagerstown had been taken after a sharp fight, the other by the sight of our dinner (or breakfast) coming up the road, in the shape of an astonished ox, who, when he threw up his head in response to the cheers which greeted his entré, was shot, skinned, and boiling, before he fairly knew what he was wanted for; and finally, the arrival and distribution of a case of shoes to those who were actually barefoot, put us all in the seventh heaven of delight. We also found some tobacco! To be sure it was poor stuff, apparently a villanous compound of seaweed and tea; but only those who have known what it is to see their stock of the precious weed vanish day by day, with no available means of replenishing it, can imagine our feelings on finding a supply, after we had been reduced to less than a quarter of a pound to a company.
At about twelve o’clock the next day, the column camped by division, some three miles from General Meade’s headquarters, about the same distance from Boonesboro’, and within sight of the immense train of the reserve artillery, at a place where the old bivouacs of the Army of the Potomac filled the air with the nauseating smells invariably incident to deserted camps. In this delightful spot we waited for the battle which was to be brought on.
All were in high spirits;—it was universally supposed that the rains had made the Potomac unfordable, “and that Lee was a goner this time sure;” but as hour after hour passed without a sound of the heavy cannonading which marks “the battle’s opening roar,” and rumor after rumor filled the air, the talk, as time lengthened, grew less and less hopeful, and finally during the afternoon we learned definitely that “the play was played out.” Lee was gone, boots and baggage, and our hopes of taking a hand in the contest which would probably have decided the war, were gone with him. Perhaps it was all for the best. If Lee gave battle, it would be on selected ground, against weary troops, where every man in the rebel army knew he was fighting with no hope of escape, and would consequently resist to the utmost; under these circumstances, the contest, if not doubtful, would unquestionably have been bloody beyond all precedent; and many desolated homes, and empty places in the armories of the Empire City, would have mourned for those who would return no more.
We were now in the midst of the Army of the Potomac, and it is difficult for those inexperienced in such matters to form the least conception of the vast bulk of men and material which contribute to form that organization; yet, huge as it was, no confusion was visible, and everything went like clockwork, even during the difficulties of that hurried pursuit.
We only wished that the same could be said of us, but so far was this from being the case, that it was remarked by a regular officer that there was more destitution and suffering among our little division than among the whole Army of the Potomac, and no one acquainted with the facts can deny the correctness of the assertion.
It is impossible to express what a relief it was when we once became incorporated with this army; for to enter it, was coming once more from the scarcity and make-shifts of the backwoods, into the light of civilization. We found ourselves again among newspapers, and sutlers—people who could change a two-dollar bill and had things to sell; where greenbacks yet served as a medium of exchange, and provision trains were not more than two days behind time; and in our exultation, we even began to entertain vague hopes that, in the progress of events, our letters might be possibly forthcoming. It was now more than two weeks since a word of news had been heard, either from home or abroad; and we naturally were exceedingly anxious for a little information about matters and things in general. Our ignorance was painful on almost every subject. Vicksburg, we knew, had been captured, but this was all; and even the battle of Gettysburg, fought right under our noses, and a common topic of conversation, was to us “a tale untold.”
On the 15th of July, our time was up, the rebels gone, and there being nothing more that we could do, General Meade told us “he was much obliged and we could go.” So, bidding General Smith a cordial good-by, we took up our line of march for Frederick City, and home; first, however, going a long way in the wrong direction, and having to countermarch back. This was nothing new, however, for, whether it was owing to ill luck, bad guides, indefinite orders, or stupidity, something of the kind took place at every movement that was ordered. The brigade never turned down a side-road, or took an unusual direction, without a general grumble arising—“Wrong road, of course! see if we don’t have to go back in a few minutes,”—and we generally did. In truth, we went back so often, that we began to hate the very word “countermarch.”
It is presumed that those in authority had been informed by telegraph respecting the riots in New York; but the first that the subordinates knew about the matter was, on obtaining, on the march, that memorable Herald, describing how the “military fired on the people.” If any of the editors of that veracious journal had happened to be in our vicinity about that period, it is more than probable that they would have been furnished with a practical illustration of their text, for a more angry set of men than the first division N. Y. S. M., never was seen.
It was sufficiently galling to know, that while we were away enduring all sorts of hardships to expel the rebels from Northern soil, an infamous set of copperheads had undertaken a counter-revolution in our very homes; and the additional reflection of the opportunity it would give our Pennsylvania friends to depreciate our state, lent the account an additional sting. That day was the first, and we hope the only time in our lives, that any one was heard to say that he felt ashamed to think that he was born in the city of New York.
As may well be imagined, this intelligence, and the pleasing uncertainty existing in our minds respecting the welfare of our friends and homes, considerably accelerated our desire to get home again; and we pushed vigorously down the Fredericksburgh pike, breathing prayers, the reverse of benevolent, for the welfare of the rioters—until we could attend to them in person. Under any other circumstances it would have been a beautiful march; although oppressively hot in the early part of the day, the weather afterward was all that could be desired. The road was wide, smooth—tremendously hard, to be sure, for feet, as sore and badly shod as ours, and in its windings through the passes of the South Mountain, traversing a few more hills than were strictly agreeable—yet more beautiful scenery than it presents to the eye of the traveler can rarely be found.