Camp Near Edinburgh, April 7, 1862.
As I write less often now, you must expect me to be more
voluminous, and I shall stick to my form of journal, as it may be interesting
to me as well as you, some of these days, to have a connected history of our
small share in this campaign.
The Saturday following my last letter, our whole regiment
was ordered to go on outpost duty. We started about four o'clock and relieved
the Twenty-ninth Pennsylvania. By the way, at this time our regiment consisted
of only eight companies, Company G being on provost marshal and off at
Centreville, and Company A being at Snicker's Ferry guarding the bridge over
the Shenandoah. I had command of Company D, Captain Savage was sick. Three
companies were held in reserve, the other five, B, D, E, H, and K, formed the
pickets, furnishing the outposts and sentinels. We did not get our men posted
till dark, and then it began to storm, raining, hailing, thundering and
lightening. My company did not have the slightest shelter, and at the outposts
no fires were allowed. The rain froze as fast as it fell, giving everything a
coating of ice; altogether it was what might be called a pretty tough night.
Morning came at last, and then I found that we were within a hundred yards of a
big barn full of hay and straw; of course I moved the company right into it and
had big fires built in front of the door, making things seem quite comfortable.
The next thing to do was to push out the outposts and sentinels; this I did in
connection with the other officers, until we came in sight of the enemy's vedettes.
They do all their outpost duty in our neighborhood with Ashby's cavalry. It is
an interesting sight to see their line of horsemen slowly walking back and
forth on a ridge, standing full out against the sky.
About nine o'clock, Company F was sent out to make a
reconnoissance of their position, but was driven back by a large force of
cavalry. In the afternoon, they ran a gun down to within a mile of us and fired
a few shells; one of them burst within a few yards of one of my men, but did no
damage. We were relieved in the afternoon by the Third Wisconsin.
Monday night, we were waked up to draw and cook rations, and
received orders to march in the morning. At nine next morning, our line was
formed; our brigade had the advance of all. As soon as we came in sight of the
enemy's vedettes, the column was halted; five of our companies were deployed as
skirmishers, H, C, F, B, and I, forming a line a mile or more wide. As we
advanced within rifle range, they fell back: wherever they had any woods to
take advantage of, they would stay on the edge and fire at us as we came across
the open, but they shot very badly, most of their bullets going over our heads.
One of Company I received a bullet in his breast-plate, bending it all up and
passing through his overcoat, dress coat and shirt, inflicting a slight wound.
Occasionally they would give our men a chance to fire, but very seldom, though
we managed to kill several of their horses, and, I think, wound some of their
men. Going through Woodstock was very lively; the rebels planted their battery
in the middle of the street, and shelled away at our main body until our
skirmishers almost flanked them. One of our shells went straight through a
church steeple and through one wall of the jail.
We marched thirteen miles, the shelling and firing
continuing the whole way. The enemy burnt their bridges as they retreated;
there were four splendid railroad bridges burned in this way. We almost caught
them at Edinburgh; the two bridges across Stony Creek had not been on fire
fifteen minutes when we arrived. The enemy, knowing we could not ford that
stream, took up a position and shelled away at us, but our battery silenced
them in less than a quarter of an hour, firing with great accuracy right into
the middle of them. One of the Third Wisconsin was killed here, and three or
four others slightly wounded. It seemed impossible that we should get off with
so small a loss; the shells seemed to strike everywhere except where our men
were. My good boy Hogan knocked one of their cavalry out of his saddle at
nearly five hundred yards; he is quite a hero now in the company. As night came
on, the firing ceased and we went into bivouac near by. The day was a very
exciting one, and though it really amounted to nothing as a fight, on account
of none of our men being hurt, yet it was good practice for us and gave us
confidence under fire. Our pickets along the river are in sight of the enemy's
all the time.
Last Friday our company was detailed to accompany some
signal officers up one of the mountains of the Blue Ridge, to establish a
signal station. We had a hard climb of it; the mountain was very steep, the
view on top superb. You could see up and down the Shenandoah valley for miles;
could see some of Jackson's camps and a section of a battery within a short
distance of our outposts; most of his force is concealed by woods. That night
we bivouacked about half-way down the mountain. Our position was so isolated
that we didn't dare to have any fires, but we did not mind much, as the night
was warm and the moon bright. I thought, as I lay down, how impossible it would
have been for me to conceive of being in such a position a year ago. It was the
wildest place we have ever been in, the nearest house being a mile or more off.
Towards morning I was awakened by hearing the pleasant sound
of rain-drops pattering around my head; a delightful sound, you know, when you
have a roof over you, but not so pleasant when there is nothing between you and
the clouds. There was nothing to do but pull my blanket over my head and sleep
until daylight. No signalling could be done that day, so we marched down the
hill and put the company in the nearest barn; we officers took a room in an
adjoining house. Sunday was a beautiful day, and we again ascended the
mountains. Monday I returned to camp.
SOURCE: Charles Fessenden Morse, Letters Written
During the Civil War, 1861-1865, p. 48-52
