[from the diary of Private Charles Hay, Co. H, 23rd Ohio]
Fayetteville, Aug. 16.
This evening we encamp on the
borders of Fayetteville, where last
winter we spent many a day floundering
about in the mud and water, which,
I might remark, is peculiar to Western
Va., at that season of the year, and,
I might also say, like bushwhackers,
apparently indigenous. Thank fortune,
we are spared some of the disagreeable
scenes of last winter. But today was
an excessively severe march upon all.
A march of twenty-four miles on a
day as hot as August generally affords,
is a task which few have any inclin=
=ation to accomplish in twelve hours,
but it was well performed today, but
few straggling, and those falling back
from sheer exhaustion. Last night was
cold and chilly, and tonight promises to
be the same. Such a wide difference
in the temperature of day and night, is
extremely disagreeable at best, but, now
that we are obliged to sleep exposed
at night, it is much more so.
Huddled together in as small a
compass as possible in order to discommode
every one to the greatest extent (so supposed,)
and in as mean and inconvenient a
camp as could be selected, the men
are busily preparing their suppers, or
laying down to snatch a few hours’
repose as best they can. All will soon
be hushed in silent and peaceful
slumber, the blue and overarching
canopy above, dotted here and there with
stars and constellations, being our covering.
What an impressive scene is this, and
what a subject for the poet. How
suggestive of thought and speculation as
to what may be the destinies of those
by whom we are surrounded, and,
what ones, of all these robust, brave men,
may soon sleep the “sleep that knows
no waking,” and render “earth unto earth,
and dust unto dust.” These are solemn
thoughts, and although unpleasant ones,
they will suggest themselves continually,
despite our exertions to the contrary, as
we sit by the bright camp fire and meditate
upon things past and present, and upon the
uncertain future. How fleeting, how
much in doubt is this which is called
life. We abide but temporarily here,
a few more years, and the clods of
the valley will cover us all.
An accident occurred in camp
about sundown this evening, which,
it is singular, was not much more
serious. As it was, a man of Co. A,
was slightly wounded in the shoulder
with a musket-ball. A gun in one
of the stacks went off by some means,
and, by some singular turn of affairs,
did not result in anything serious.
The men were all huddled together
like sheep, as before stated, and, indeed,
we have cause for congratulation that
it did not result more seriously.
[transcript by Mary Roy Dawson Edwards]
MSS 13925
