While the march to Blount’s Creek was a hard one, the going to Core Creek was as easy as a train of cars could make it. Here we stayed two days and took two hundred rebel prisoners. Two incidents still remain fresh in my memory: one was, that when going out, some break about the engine caused a stop and the engineer, finding it beyond his power to mend it, asked if there was any man on the cars who knew how to fix it up. Hardly were the words out of his mouth when a man stepped forward saying, “I guess I can fix this machine. I helped make it.” The other incident was that of a very young soldier, in fact, the youngest soldier I ever saw in the army. Speaking to me about the killed, he innocently said, “I think I killed one of them, for the hole in his head was made by a very small bullet, and you see I have a musket smaller than the others.”
Our last march was to Batchelder’s Creek, where the rebels attacked our men, and Colonel Jones, commanding the post, was killed. May 23, 1863, at eight P. M., we commenced our march and when within a safe distance, learning that the rebels were two brigades strong with a battery of six guns, we halted for the night. The following morning Company A was sent one mile in advance of the regiment, and the writer with six men was sent one mile in advance of the company. But at nine A. M., word being received that the rebels learning of our coming had politely retired, we were ordered to join our regiment. As I was sitting beside Captain Marble, Captain Hawes and Lieutenant Mason being present, Corp. Uriel Haskins came up, and, saluting Captain Marble, asked permission to go foraging, saying, “We have nothing to eat.” “No,” said Captain Marble with a frown, “Not one of you shall go. I brought a minister with me and when I want any stealing done I will send him. It is no harm for a minister to steal.”
The return march to Newbern was exceedingly hot and the road was so dusty that at times it seemed impossible to breathe. We reached our camp at one P. M., a tired, dust-covered and sweat-stained set of soldiers.
June 10, 1863, was our last day on southern soil. Several of the non-commissioned officers being on the sick list, I was ordered to act as orderly sergeant in detailing and marching the last detail from Company A to guard mount in North Carolina. And so I have this honor. The next morning found us on the train for Morehead City, where seven companies embarked on the steamer S. R. Spaulding. The other three companies went on board the steamer Tilley at Newbern.
Our passage home was for the most part of the voyage rough, so much so that a majority of both officers and men were seasick. One morning the adjutant of the regiment came to me and asked, “Will you take the guard to-day?” remarking at the same time, “I know you have done double duty, but the fact is, about all the officers are so seasick that they cannot take care of themselves, much less take charge of the guard.” My reply was, “Yes, adjutant, I will do it.” As I left Company A’s quarters, I heard several saying, “Is there anything that Corporal Gammons cannot and will not do, when emergency so requires?” and I remember answering, “It is a pretty poor soldier who would not prefer to do double duty than to be seasick.”
How good the shores of Cape Cod looked to us; even the sand on the tail-end of grand old Massachusetts looked far more glorious to us than all the magnolia swamps of North Carolina; and the surf, as it broke on the beach, seemed to say, “This is the land of the free, the loyal, the brave North.”
Tuesday, June 16, 1863, we again marched the streets of Boston with the glad consciousness of having done our duty as soldiers when our services were needed. We had proved ourselves worthy of the country of which we were citizens, and of the Old Flag we had defended; and of our record we were not a little proud.
Our march through Boston was one continued ovation from the start to finish. Often we heard the people saying, “This is the Old Third Regiment;” and from doors, balconies, and windows came the glad “Welcome home again to our brave Massachusetts soldiers.” Many times our ranks were broken by the hand-shaking of fathers, the embraces of mothers, and the kisses of sweethearts. And because the officers were equally served with the rank and file, no one said anything about perfect alignment or perfect marching. To be home again and see our own, who had come fifty miles to welcome home the war-stained boys, who had served nine months in Uncle Sam’s army, correcting their mistaken and misled brothers, was more than anything else, more than everything else.