Gauley River, 8 Miles South Of Summersville,
September 11, 1861.
Dear Lucy: —
Well, darling, we have had our first battle, and the enemy have fled
precipitately. I say “we,” although it is fair to say that our brigade,
consisting of the Twenty-third, the Thirtieth (Colonel Ewing), and Mack's
Battery had little or nothing to do, except to stand as a reserve. The only
exception to this was four companies of the Twenty-third, Captains Sperry, Howard,
Zimmerman, and Woodward, under my command, who were detailed to make an
independent movement. I had one man wounded and four others hit in their
clothing and accoutrements. You will have full accounts of the general fight in
the papers. My little detachment did as much real work — hard work — as
anybody. We crept down and up a steep rocky mountain, on our hands and knees
part of the time, through laurel thickets almost impenetrable, until dark. At
one time I got so far ahead in the struggle that I had but three men. I finally
gathered them by a halt, although a part were out all night. We were near half
an hour listening to the cannon and musketry, waiting for our turn to come.
You have often heard of the feelings of men in the interval
between the order of battle and the attack. Matthews, myself, and others were
rather jocose in our talk, and my actual feeling was very similar to what 1
have when going into an important trial — not different nor more intense. I
thought of you and the boys and the other loved ones, but there was no such
painful feeling as is sometimes described. I doubted the success of the attack
and with good reason and in good company. The truth is, our enemy is very
industrious and ingenious in contriving ambuscades and surprises and
entrenchments but they lack pluck. They expect to win, and too often do win, by
superior strategy and cunning. Their entrenchments and works were of amazing
extent. During the whole fight we rarely saw a man. Most of the firing was done
at bushes and log and earth barricades.
We withdrew at dark, the attacking brigades having suffered
a good deal from the enemy and pretty severely from one of those deplorable
mistakes which have so frequently happened in this war — viz., friends
attacking friends. The Tenth and Twenty-eighth (Irish and Second German of
Cincinnati) fired on each other and charged doing much mischief. My detachment
was in danger from the same cause. I ran upon the Twenty-eighth, neither seeing
the other until within a rod. We mutually recognized, however, although it was
a mutual surprise. It so happened, curiously enough, that I was the extreme
right man of my body and Markbreit the left man of his. We had a jolly laugh
and introductions to surrounding officers as partners, etc.
The enemy were thoroughly panic-stricken by the solid
volleys of McCook's Ninth and the rifled cannon of Smith's Thirteenth. The
Tenth suffered most. The enemy probably began their flight by a secret road
soon after dark, leaving flag, ammunition, trunks, arms, stores, etc., etc.,
but no dead or wounded. Bowie knives, awful to look at, but no account in war;
I have one. One wagon-load of family stuff — a good Virginia plain family — was
left. They were spinning, leaving rolls of wool, knitting, and making bed quilts.
I enclose a piece; also a pass — all queer.
They [the enemy] crossed the Gauley River and are said to be
fortifying on the other side. We shall probably pursue. Indeed, Colonel
Matthews and [with] four of our companies is now dogging them. We shall
probably fight again but not certainly.
I have no time to write to other friends. The men are now
talking to me. Besides, I want to sleep. Dearest, I think of you and the dear
ones first, last, and all the time. I feel much encouraged about the war;
things are every way looking better. We are in the midst of the serious part of
a campaign. Goodbye, dearest. Pass this letter around — bad as it is. I have no
time to write to all. I must sleep. On Sunday last, I rode nineteen hours,
fifty to sixty miles, crossed a stream with more water than the Sandusky at
this season at Mr. Valette's from thirty to forty times — wet above my knees
all the time and no sleep for thirty-six hours; so “excuse haste and a bad pen”,
as Uncle says.
Affectionately,
R. B. Hayes.
P. S. — Joe and his capital assistants are trumps.
Mrs. Hayes.
SOURCE: Charles Richard Williams, editor, Diary and
Letters of Rutherford Birchard Hayes, Volume 2, p. 90-1
