bivouac Near
New Market, Virginia,
Raining from the East. Easter Sunday, April
20, 1862.
Looking back, it seems an age since we dwelt peacefully in the wooded
camp near Edinburg. It was Wednesday night that our marching orders came. On
Thursday morning at a quarter before two we had reveillé, and marched before light, under a pale moon,
toward Mount Jackson.
Shields's division had gone on in advance. The day was a glowing one,
and the valley spread itself out before us like a garden in its fresh green.
After a short halt at Mount Jackson, which is a town, and filled with
evidences of Rebel occupation, such as large hospitals, one of them unfinished,
we were ordered to march round to “turn the enemy's left.”
Our path was a rough one, through a river, over rocks, and through deep
mud, on, on, on. We heard occasional cannonading over toward the centre, where
Shields's force remained drawn up in line of battle, to await our tedious
circuit. The day was long and hot; the artillery labored over the almost impassable
road. I went on in advance, with some pioneers to aid a little by removing
obstacles. As we passed through the little village of Forrestville, a party of
young girls sang Dixie to us. I bought a loaf of bread there of a woman, and
paid her five cents in silver. “It’s too much,” said she. “No,” said I. “It’s
more money than I've seen for a year,” said she. On we go. We have got round
the enemy's position. It is dark; too late to ford the North Fork of the
Shenandoah to rejoin the rest of the army, who have now entered New Market,
which Ashby even has left. Tired and foot-sore, we lay down to sleep in the
woods. Marching for eighteen hours, and such marching! the bivouac, in the
warm, pleasant night is a luxury. The next morning we start again, and ford the
Shenandoah, and get on to the turnpike at New Market which we had left at Mount
Jackson. The Shenandoah is swift, and up to one's middle. Fording is an
exciting, amusing, long task. It is finished at last, and the brigade, led by
our regiment, moves through the town of New Market to the saucy strains of
Yankee Doodle. We move two miles beyond the town, and bivouac on a hillside.
Our tents and baggage are all sixteen miles back, at Edinburg.
It is late Friday evening before we get bivouacked. Many of the men are
barefoot and without rations. Saturday morning it begins early to rain, and
ever since we have been dripping under this easterly storm. Luckily, Mrs.
Williamson, whose husband is with the “other army,” and who has a fine farm and
a roomy, old-fashioned, ante-Revolution-built house, surrounded by generous
barns and outbuildings, swarming with negroes of every shade and size, —
luckily, Mrs. Williamson and her six little boys and her aged uncle need our
protection; and, in return, she gives us a shelter for our meals, and so
alleviates the adversity which had reduced our commissariat to starvation. Mr.
Williamson is a major in the Rebel army. His wife is true to him and to
Virginia. The eldest boy, of fifteen years, is a stubborn little traitor. Mrs.
Williamson invited us all to tea on the first night of our arrival. She spread
a most bounteous meal for us, but hardly sweetened it by the bitterness with
which she snarled at our invasion. The general statement that these people are
traitors, and deserve all the horrors of civil war, is easy; but the individual
case, as it comes up under your eye, showing the helpless family in their
dismay at our approach, can hardly fail to excite sympathy. When we came into
New Market on Friday, we met General Banks in high spirits. He complimented our
march, and said the Secretary of War had telegraphed thanks to us, &c.,
&c., that when our movement was perceived, the rear of Jackson's force fled
hastily, &c. My own opinion is, and was from the beginning, that the
movement was all nonsense, and pretty expensive silliness for us.
Jackson was ready to run, and began to do so as soon as we began to
move. But perhaps we hastened him a little. Here we are, eighty miles from our
supplies, all our wagons on the road, our tents and baggage behind, our rations
precarious, and following a mirage into the desert. Well, the Secretary of War
is much obliged to us “for
the brilliant and successful operations of this day.” So we ought to be
happy, and to conclude that glory looks very different to those who see it
close to. Our news now is, that Jackson is hurrying to Richmond as fast as
possible. We are probably Pattersonized, as General Shields calls it, and shall
be too late for any decisive part in what is now expected as the great battle
of Yorktown. Still I do not regard it as impossible that the wheel may so turn
as to give us a little conspicuousness in the next movements. It is our
misfortune not to be in a condition of outfit, transportation, and supply to
enable us to do much. We are working, too, on a frightfully long line of
operations. Still hope.
Aha! the clouds begin to break. I wish you a pleasant Easter Sunday.
One thing at least we may hope for, that before another Easter day we may be at
home again; for this Rebellion will die rapidly when we hit its vitals. They
have not been hit yet, however.
I wish you could look at our regiment under rude shelters of rails and
straw, and dripping in this cold storm. Our shoes and clothing came up
yesterday, and this morning we are giving them out. So we are not wholly
helpless yet.
The first night that we bivouacked here a charge was made on our New
York battery. A desperate cow swept in upon it, and actually knocked down and
trampled on two men before it could be shot. It was a gallant charge! You need
have no anxiety about us. We are safe enough. Our future is uncertain, and we
are wet.
SOURCE: Elizabeth Amelia Dwight, Editor, Life and
Letters of Wilder Dwight: Lieut.-Col. Second Mass. Inf. Vols., p. 234-7
