XCIII
Ten Miles above Falmouth, Va.,
June 12, 1863.
DO not know when I shall have a chance to finish or to send this letter, but just now I have plenty of time to begin it. We left Washington about noon yesterday, on the steamer “Hugh Jenkins,” for Acquia Creek. There we took a train for Stoneman’s Switch, where we arrived about dark and bivouacked for the night. I did not go to the trouble to pitch any tent, but “Curley” Converse and I made up a bed together and slept soundly. I woke up once during the night and found the rain beating in my face, which was very easily remedied by simply pulling my head down under the blankets. This morning we were off again at about sunrise. I understand our destination is Warrenton, about forty miles from Falmouth. The rest of the Third Corps started yesterday, and is on ahead somewhere. We may not catch up with them before they reach Warrenton. We halted here about noon, having made a march of a dozen miles or so during the forenoon. Notwithstanding the showers in the night, the roads were dusty and the march fatiguing.
I made a pretty busy day of it the day before we left Washington. I went down to the city in the forenoon, after getting off guard. First, up to the post office and posted my letters. Then down to a Dutch cobbler’s shop, where I had some staving thick soles and heels put on my boots. I waited while he did the job, and when he got through it was dinner time. So I went into a restaurant and ate ham and eggs, strawberries and cream, and other luxuries. I didn’t know as I should have another chance at a decent meal for eleven months, and I filled up accordingly. Then I went around and laid in a big stock of writing materials and stamps and was ready to go to the front.
About two miles back from here is a little brick church, known as “Hartwood Church,” which possesses a great deal of interest on account of the pictures and inscriptions on the walls. There is a picture, drawn by one of our cavalrymen, representing a cavalry charge. It is on a grand scale, drawn with charcoal, and is wonderfully well done. The cavalryman artist—so the story goes—began it for his own amusement, and was “laying on the colors” when the Rebs dropped in and took him prisoner. They insisted on his finishing up his picture, so he drew in a lot of ragged, unkempt Rebs running as fast as their legs would carry them; and the artist’s captors laughed and roared and thoroughly enjoyed the lampoon on themselves. There is an inscription on the wall which is a rather neat little puzzle—“Major BBBB CCCC.” Have you made it out? Major Forbes’ Forces.
We have run across a good many of our old brigade boys, and they were mighty glad to see the Second again. Ran across Hen. Everett today. Also Stearns, who used to keep store in Manchester. He was on a sutler’s wagon—is sutler for some Pennsylvania regiment, I understand. A two-years regiment, whose term had expired, passed us on its way home today.
Rappahannock Station, June 13.
We have had a hard march today and I am very tired. The dust was simply stifling, and some merciless old rascal on horseback, at the head of the column, evidently set the pace and gauged the capacity of the men at what he and his horse could do. We were hustled right along, hour after hour, without a moment’s rest. Fool orders were read in the morning, that if three men straggled from any one company the officers of that company would be tried by court martial. But this did not prevent straggling, for many men simply could not keep up—especially our Seventeenth recruits.
We are getting mighty hard up for grub and are anxiously looking for our supply train. When I started out this morning I had a piece of boiled salt pork about as big as two fingers. At noon we halted about three-quarters of an hour for rest and refreshments. We were short on both. Other troops had camped on the same ground and moved on, and among the embers of one of their campfires I saw some ribs of fresh pork. Some old Virginia razor-back had died to make a Yankee holiday, and perfectly good pork had been recklessly and wastefully thrown onto the coals. I pulled out a chunk that looked good to me, carefully scraped and pared off the charred outside, and never had a better pork roast than I got by picking those ribs. Tonight I made a sumptuous repast on hardtack and water. I missed, however, the “one day’s solitary” that usually goes with that fare up in New Hampshire.