We are now on the “heaving
sea and the bounding wave.” We were aroused yesterday morning at four o'clock,
ordered to prepare breakfast and be ready to march at a minute's notice. At
five-thirty the bugle sounded "fall in." We slung our accoutrements,
the first time since the battle of Fredericksburg, and in fifteen minutes were
en route to the depot, distance about two miles. After some delay we took cars
for Aquia Creek, where we arrived at 10 o'clock a. m., and were immediately
transferred to transports, bound for Fortress Monroe. The Seventy-ninth New
York and Seventeenth Michigan were crowded on the North America, an old Hudson
River propeller. There was hardly standing room, much less room to walk about.
The day is fine, and the bay, unruffled by a breeze, presents a lively and
picturesque appearance. Steamers are continually arriving and departing,
sailboats of all sorts and sizes spread their white wings and glide leisurely
through the still waters, while the active little tugs go whisking and snorting
here and there, assisting larger and more unwieldly vessels. We left Aquia
Creek at 10:30 o'clock a. m., expecting to reach the Fortress by nine o'clock
next morning. I love the sea in all its forms and phases, and it was with a
thrill of joy I took my seat on deck, prepared to enjoy whatever of interest
might present itself. The Potomac, at Aquia Creek, is truly a noble stream, if
stream it may be called, for there is no perceptible current, being, I judge,
one and one-half miles wide, gradually broadening out as it nears the bay,
until at its mouth it is nine miles wide. There is a striking contrast between
the Maryland and Virginia shores. The Virginia side, nearly the entire
distance, presents a rugged, mountainous aspect, with very few buildings in
view, while the Maryland shore is level, dotted with farm buildings, and, at
frequent intervals a village with its church spires glittering in the sun. In
contemplating these peaceful scenes of rural life, the quiet farm houses
surrounded by groves of trees, the well-tilled fields, outbuildings and fences
undisturbed by war's desolating hand, the genial air of quiet repose that
pervades the scene calls up emotions that have long lain dormant. For many long
months, which seems as many years, my eyes have become inured to scenes of
blood, of desolation and of ruin; to cities and villages laid waste and
pillaged; private residences destroyed; homes made desolate; in fact, the whole
country through which we have passed, except part of Maryland, has become
through war's desolating touch, a desert waste. As I gazed on these peaceful
scenes and my thirsty soul drank in their beauty, how hateful did war appear,
and I prayed the time might soon come when “Nations shall learn war no more.”
Gradually the wind
freshened, increasing in force as we neared the bay, until it became so rough
the captain thought it unsafe to venture out, and cast anchor about five miles
from the mouth of the river to await the coming of day. I spread my blanket on
the floor of one of the little cabins and slept soundly until morning. When I
awoke in the morning the first gray streaks of early dawn were illuminating the
eastern horizon.
The gale having
subsided, we were soon under way, and in about half an hour entered the broad
Chesapeake. And here a most grand and imposing scene met my enraptured gaze. Not
a breath of air disturbed its unruffled surface. Numerous vessels, floating
upon its bosom, were reflected as by a mirror. A delegation of porpoises met us
at the entrance to welcome us to their domain; they were twenty-two in number,
were from six to eight feet in length; in color, dark brown. It was truly
amusing to witness their sportive antics as they seemed to roll themselves
along. They would throw themselves head foremost from the water half their
length, turning as on a pivot, perform what seemed to be a somersault, and
disappear.
A flock of sea gulls
fell into our wake, sagely picking up any crumbs of bread that might be thrown
them. They are a strange bird, a little larger than a dove, closely resembling
them in color and gracefulness of motion. They followed us the whole distance,
and as I watched their continuous, ceaseless flight, the effect on the mind was
a sense of weariness at thought of the long-continued exertion.
Soon after we
entered the bay I observed what I thought to be a light fog arising in the
southeast. We had not proceeded far, however, before I discovered my mistake,
for that which seemed to be a fog was a shower of rain. I was taken wholly by
surprise, for I had been accustomed to see some preparation and ceremony on
similar occasions. But now no gathering clouds darkened the distant sky,
warning me of its approach, but the very storm itself seemed to float upon the
waves and become part of it, and before I was aware, enfolded us in its watery
embrace. The storm soon passed, but the wind continued through the day, and, as
we neared the old Atlantic and met his heavy swells, they produced a feeling of
buoyancy that was, to me, truly exhilerating.
Some of the boys
were seasick, and a number "cast up their accounts" in earnest. We
entered the harbor about sundown and cast anchor for the night under the
frowning guns of Fortress Monroe.
Vessels of war of
every class, monitors included, and sailing vessels of all sizes, crowded the
harbor. It was a magnificent scene, and one on which I had always longed to
gaze.
In the morning we
learned our destination was Newport News, distant about five miles. We arrived
about eight o'clock, marched two miles to Hampton Roads, our camping ground,
pitched tents and, at noon, were ready for our dinner of coffee and hardtack.
We have a pleasant
camping ground, lying on the beach, where we can watch the vessels as they pass
and can pick up oysters by the bushel when the tide is out.
SOURCE: David Lane,
A Soldier's Diary: The Story of a Volunteer, 1862-1865, p. 30-3
