A Vermonter in New Kent - 1862 - Part II

Continuing a series on the Civil War in New Kent with reports to the The Daily Green Mountain Freeman from their correspondent in the Vermont Brigade during the Peninsula campaign of 1862. 
Language warning.

                                                               Camp near New Kent Court House,
                                                                                                 May 12, 1862. 

Mr. Willard: I shall be obliged to with draw my "good bye" apology with which I hastily closed my letter yesterday. It was all right enough then, but things have changed since. Coming in from picket at daybreak this morning I expected to see "the warriors rise from their lowly cots," and all accoutered for the march renew their pursuit after the Flora Temple chivalry of rebeldom. But, hour after hour passed away, and no orders came. What's in the wind, and why don't we march, were questions at large throughout the camp. No one could explain. Hearing that Norfolk was in our possession and that our gunboats were up the James River, I quickly surmised that perhaps Generalship was doing what "long and rapid marches" were originally intended to accomplish, and I soon learned, from quite a reliable source that we were not arching, because fluctuating are the plans of the enemy. Evacuating Norfolk exposes their flank before Richmond, and why should they do this if a stand is contemplated before that city? Still, we may go out to-day (it is not noon yet). I hope so, for every Vermont soldier is anxious to visit Richmond. And this reminds me of an incident worthy of record in any journal.

In making our advances from day today, it is the practice for one Division to lead the column to-day and another to morrow. The same practice extends to Brigades and Regiments the Brigade that leads the Division to day will be in the rear to-morrow.

Now, it so happens that on the day this pursuit commenced, Sunday, the 4th inst., the Vermont Brigade led the column. It was a fine day for marching, and, excited by the many novel scenes of evacuation, the boys let them selves out and did some tall marching. General Keyes and Staff were alone, usually riding at the head of the column, cavalry skirmishers only being in advance. But every now and then he would find himself somewhere behind.

From information given him by these skirmishers and his aids, he had decided on a halt at a place some three miles in the rear of where we finally halted. But the head of the column had already passed this place. So the old General, exhibiting some little restlessness and good nature at the same time, sings out to one of his mounted orderlies: "Orderly, orderly, come here. If your horse has got bottom enough to catch up with that Vermont Brigade, I want you to overtake them and order a halt, tell'em we are not going to Richmond to-day, or to h-ll either." 

So off posted the orderly with his unique order, which I understand he delivered to General Brooks, verbatim, when the old man turned half round, placed his hand upon the rump of his horse, a great habit with him, by the way, and replied, "The h-ll, we ain't." 

A day or two after this we were making an other march, some other Brigade leading. During the day Gen. Keyes had occasion to ride some distance in advance, nearly up to the line of skirmishers or scouts, where he overtook a squad of advance stragglers. It being no place for stray soldiers the General asked them what Regiment they belonged to. "---- Vermont," was the reply. "What, Brooks' Brigade?" "Yes, Sir." Then, after giving the boys a significant look, he remarked, "Well, if that devilish Brigade ain't first into Richmond, some of the men will be," and on he went, leaving the boys alone in their glory. 

It is somewhat late, but there is another incident that I insist upon relating at tins time, and in my own way, for I tell this story not so much to interest your readers, its to give myself an opportunity of hating and almost cursing our fiendish foe.

The morning after the engagement of the 5th inst., before Williamsburgh(sic), the battle ground was strewn with the dead, dying and wounded, "like leaves in Vallambresa."

The night had been very severe upon all save the dead, as the rain fell constantly and the piercing night winds chilled even those, of us who had the few comforts of a bivouac rest - blankets and browse. How acute, then, must have been the sufferings of those bleeding, exhausted and shelterless victims of their own folly At daybreak, however, we had men on the held, and all that could be done to alleviate their sufferings temporarily, until medical an d hospital comforts could be secured, was promptly and cheerfully done. In the rear of the battle ground was a large tobacco house, a building as comfortable as any shelter can be without fire. The floor of this building was covered thick with corn husks, blankets and overcoats were secured, mostly by donation from our own men, and also coffee and other stimulants given those men to warm, nourish and strengthen them, before our medical corps attended to them professionally. Ail was done for the wounded Carolinians that their nearest friends could do under the circumstances, and surely enough to waken gratitude in Sepoys, Savages or Devils. During the day nearly every wound was dressed, several amputations were made, and the beet nourishment that the hospital department hail at command was furnished.

The next day, the second after the battle, they received even additional attentions, very many being forwarded in our ambulances to the river, and sent by boats to northern hospitals. In this building alone there were one hundred and one wounded men, nine-tenths of them Carolinians. Having nothing else to do, I visited these men, conversed very freely with many of them, and not a few who were repentant, and they made to me what I presume they considered an acknowledgement that they were wrong, that they had been deceived, that our soldiers were not vandals; and one of them told me that our wounded at Manassas met a different fate. Passing along, I was soon in conversation with a young Lieutenant who had been wounded near the knee, and as he fell over upon his hands he received another wound in the thigh, the bullet passing up his back and lodging in his neck. His wounds had been well dressed, his bed furnished with matrass(sic), blankets and pillow, and clean under clothes given him by Lieut. Sawyer of the 2d Vermont. In short, he was comfortable, suffering but little from his wounds; and being very talkative, I remained in conversation with him for sometime. Not many, if any, leading questions were asked or answered, he talking mainly upon the relative manhood of the two armies, saying, of course, very much about Southern blood, how the world over it had ever been victorious. For a sick room, and more especially for a sick man, our conversation was quite spirited,- perhaps pointed would be a better word, -and though most of his remarks were pregnant with taunt, boasting and abuse, and that damnable Southern air, accent and emphasis, that alone is enough to vex and irritate the best natured man in the world, I remained perfectly cool. I knew, as Doesticks* used to characterize one of his friends, that he was a "dam phool," for no man with any talents and education could be anything else and hold a commission under Jeff Davis, finally I said something, but his quick and wicked response made me so angry that I could not remember what I did say. "Why," said he, "I hope this war will last twenty years, for the moment I recover, I will be in it. Don"t you think i am weaned or cured by any kindness. No sir, not me I audit you doubt my sincerity, give me a musket and I'll shoot a man now!" I don't wish to be egotistical, but I certainly would be much obliged to the scholar who will point out to me any remarkable difference between the scriptural portraiture of Job's patience and my own sense on that occasion. I wanted, and who would not want, to say something? But my speech was choked with malice, vengeance and disgust. Yes. I wanted to call him a low, ungrateful, nigger suckled descendant of a once proud and heroic ancestry; and why I didn't do it, or something worse, is more than I shall at this time attempt to explain. I at once left the ungrateful, fiendish wretch, but not without several heart promptings to go back and its politely as politely, hate him to death. Comments, postscripts and doxologies are most respectfully solicited to the real, candid, and not overdrawn picture of a Southern rebel, wretch and devil. That's all.

       Yours &c,     See. See. Ess.

-The Daily Green Mountain Freeman, May 21, 1862



* pseudonym of writer Mortimer Q. Thomson.