Sunday morning the
regiment was ordered out on grand guard. Went up on hill some two miles from
camp—heavy firing heard in the distance—McArthur's division in the advance and
the rebels are falling back before him. As I sat on a log this morning about
church time I thought of many dear friends wending their way to church and how
the church bells were ringing at home, speaking of nothing but peace, while, in
dear old St. James, many are listening to the glorious anthems and the litany
of the church. I wondered to myself if any there give their thoughts to the
absent ones who loved their country better than all the pleasure and comforts
of home and are willing to die for it. How different here; everything speaks of
war and desolation—foraging wagon trains constantly coming in, bringing cattle,
pigs, chickens, turkeys, everything they can lay their hands on. On the other
side of the creek are regiments marching forward, their colors flying, bands
playing, men chewing, while in the distance is the sound of McArthur's guns or
rebel ones returning their fire. I would not be in Chicago if I could.
SOURCE: Joseph
Stockton, War Diary (1862-5) of Brevet Brigadier General Joseph
Stockton, p. 5
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