You will be pleased to know that “Heenan” behaved finely. His tin dipper, hanging by his side, was desperately wounded—otherwise all right. Frank Wasley had one or more fingers hurt by a bullet. Col. Marston was not more than twenty or thirty feet from me when he was shot in the shoulder. It was rather a wild scene just then—a dead man stretched out here and there; a stream of wounded men staggering or being helped to the rear; the Rhode Island battery, shrouded in smoke and with several horses down, soaking it to the batteries across the valley, on the other hill. A little later we were farther down the slope, lined up in a cornfield, helping drive the enemy out of woods and bushes where they were strongly posted. While here we saw the Black Horse, a famous secessionist cavalry corps, charge the Fire Zouaves, and then go back with lots of empty saddles.
I find I must hurry to get this into the mail, but will write again in a day or two.
XVII
Camp Sullivan, Washington, D. C., July 30, 1861.
JUST to let you know that I was alive and kicking, I wrote a week ago, but did not write half I wanted to. I got a letter from Roger [Woodbury] a few days ago. He has an idea of enlisting in the Third Regiment. I advised him, as he is situated, not to do it. It may seem inconsistent in me to advise him against doing what I myself have done; but he has others dependent on him, while I have not.
Things are getting straightened out so we can now tell about how many men we lost in the unfortunate battle of Bull Run. Our total loss in killed, wounded and missing is only about eighty or ninety. I lost some of my best friends. Mose Eastman was wounded in the leg. I saw him carried to the rear. If still living he is probably a prisoner. Frank Wasley has had a finger cut off. I had a letter from mother today. She says they do not know yet, in Manchester, who is missing, and there is the deepest anxiety there.
By the way, I may as well remind you that this is my birthday, and I am nineteen years old. If some one with the gift of prophecy had told me, a year ago, that at my next birthday I would be in the army and a participant in the greatest battle ever fought on this continent, wouldn’t it have seemed a wild piece of fortune telling?