The army bivouacked for the night within about five miles of Whitehall. In the morning, just before we started, a difficulty occurred between Billy Patterson and a little drummer. Words grew hot, and the drummer, making a demonstration on Billy's physiognomy, the latter (a burly, double-fisted fellow), as if resolved to die in the last ditch, exclaimed—
"Well, be——, a man has got to die but once, and I might as well die now"—
But his further utterance was stopped by the little drummer springing up and dealing him a 'sockdologer' under the ear. Before Billy could draw in his skirmishers, however, and prepare for a general engagement, an officer stepped up and separated the belligerents.
About nine o'clock on Tuesday, our advance came up with the enemy at Whitehall, who, after a sharp skirmish, retired across the river, burning the bridge behind them.
Whitehall consisted of one house, which looked as if it never knew a coat of paint, and why it was called by that name has been a mystery to me to this day. The only reasonable solution I can give to the apparent misnomer is, that a man named White, or a white man, lived there.
Upon the advance of our forces towards the river—a feint being made as if we intended to cross the same—the enemy opened on us from the opposite side with artillery and musketry. They had also a number of sharpshooters in the tree-tops, and other advantageous positions on the other bank, who kept up a continuous and pelting fire upon us, with perfect impunity, too, for we could not see them, though they could see us, and picked off many of our poor fellows.
The 17th were ordered down to the river bank on the right of the road, and got into a hornet's nest and no mistake; for the shells burst around and among us, and the bullets made the air vocal with their insinuating p-e-w-phet; but though we had quite a number wounded, not one of our number was killed.
While being actively engaged upon the river bank, our own artillery had come up, and commenced pelting at the rebs in glorious style. We had six batteries (forty-two pieces) in the expedition, and here they were all brought into play. The enemy had also a good share of artillery, and when they all got into full working order, what with the bursting of shells and the diapason of small arms, the ground fairly shook with the reverberations.
The wooded bank of the river, in which the 17th were posted, becoming dangerous from the fire of our artillery, which ripped through the trees and drove the splinters about in all directions, wounding some of our men, Col. Amory sent in his aide with instructions for Lt. Col. Fellows to draw his men further to the rear. I was sitting cosily on the edge of a sloping bank, my legs astride the butt of a tree, and anxiously dodging my head about in search of a sharp-shooter who was, as I had occasion to believe, exclusively engaged in the endeavor to put me out of suspense and existence at the same time, when the aide came up and inquired where the Lt. Col. was. Perhaps it was officiousness on my part to direct him in the most safe and expeditious way to find Lt. Col. Fellows, who, as usual was at the front; for, without noticing my directions he proceeded further, and came near faring much worse. Just as he was taking advantage of an opening in the underbrush to go down the bank, whizz-herr-r-r-bang came a shell from the enemy which passed within two feet of him. He drew back, pale, and looking frightened enough; but, rallying, he proceeded a few yards further; but, just as he had found another opening, one of our batteries sent a discharge ripping through the woods just in front of him again, when, thinking, probably, he had gone far enough in that direction, he came to the right about, and sought the path I pointed out to him in the first place.